Hi Mae! I just watched s15 e4 of CM, the one where the BAU spends a random Saturday off, it’s also where Spencer ends up in that rlly oversized Washington DC sweatshirt/tee outfit. He looks sooo adorable, and I was wondering if I could request something where reader sees him in casual comfy clothes like the for the first time and her brain short circuits? (pre or already established relationship it’s up to you) thank you!!!
Gorgeous I don’t think I’d watched s15 since my first watch of the show so I went there just for you (and to see Spencer in the sweatshirt), ty for requesting!
Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 757 words
Possibly the cruelest thing Spencer can do to you on a Saturday morning is to leave you before nine a.m.
It’s for a good cause, or so the less selfish half of you tries to reason. The FBI is having a volunteer event, so half of the bureau has gone to a food pantry to distribute groceries to those who line up. It’s supposed to be community-building. The thing is (the more selfish, petty half of you argues) they’re only really spending time with each other, which they already do all week long, and Spencer is hardly ever in D.C. If there’s any member of the community he should be spending his Saturday with, it’s you.
And you’re being very brave about it.
Without Spencer here to entertain you with facts about sea slugs or the emerging research on light-matter particles or whatever else he’s reading at the moment, the morning drags by. You roll in and out of sleep, only rousing fully when you hear the front door reopen.
You contemplate staying put so that Spencer will have to come join you in bed, but ultimately your eagerness takes you out into the kitchen.
“Hi.” Spencer looks up as you emerge, hair wind-ruffled and holding a small cardboard box. And wearing an overlarge hoodie that says Bread for the City. “I got donuts in case you’re still mad at me.”
You frown, recalling only vaguely clinging to his leg and making somnolent threats as he got out of bed. Your bravery has its limits.
“I could never be mad at you,” you say now.
Spencer’s dimples play hide-and-seek as he pushes the box toward you.
“Thank you.” You grab a donut, staring a bit. Not at the donut. The hoodie is strange on Spencer. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him in anything so casual, though you’ve never thought about it before. Your boyfriend is just someone who owns a lot of sweaters and pressed shirts. “How was it?”
“Good,” Spencer says, selecting a donut for himself. “It’s nice getting to help people in a way that doesn’t involve violence, for once.”
“Mhm.” He looks insanely huggable. Maybe it’s because you know the material of the hoodie would be soft, or…or maybe it’s that it makes him look bulkier, somehow. The effect cannot be explained by science.
Spencer thinks you’re making eyes at him. “What?”
“Nothing. Just, you’re in different clothes than you left in.”
“I am.” A small smile, bemused. “They gave us these hoodies to keep.”
“That’s nice,” you say. You catch yourself biting your lip and stop. “It looks good on you.”
Spencer looks like he might find you amusing, but he hasn’t quite decided yet. His eyes are scrutinizing. “Yeah? You really think so?”
“Mhm.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
You shrug and lick some sugar glaze off the corner of your lips. “Seems that way.”
Spencer blinks in genuine surprise. Which would be precious on a regular day, but now…you have got to get lips on him. Pronto.
He laughs, setting a hand on the small of your back as you sidle around the counter to oh-so-casually kiss him on the cheek. “This is what does it for you?” he teases.
“So far,” you answer earnestly.
The blush that pinkens his cheeks only intensifies the whole thing he’s got going on. Later, you’ll have to get Spencer to re-explain to you how exponents work, because you’re pretty sure that’s what’s happening now. He’s exponenting, his handsomeness compounding onto itself with every tiny thing he does.
“It’s just,” you try to justify your behavior as you kiss the sugar off his lips, “really, really cute. You should wear it all the time.”
“I will, if you like it,” he says, so totally serious. You’re going to implode. “You look really cute, too, by the way. Did you just get out of bed?”
You spot an opportunity and heave a great sigh, heightened for effect. “Yeah. There was no cuddling, so I didn’t have much to do. Speaking of, you owe me at least thirty minutes of that.”
“Of cuddling?”
You nod forlornly.
Spencer’s dimples flash again as he fights a smile. “If you want, I can make up for that time now. We can have our breakfast in bed.” You must look very eager, because he picks up the box of donuts and begins shepherding you back from whence you came. “Just let me put my pajamas back on.”
“Sure, if you want. Just keep the hoodie on, please?”
You had decided to leave work early, something you rarely did, but that day was different. It was your first wedding anniversary, and you wanted to surprise Spencer with a romantic dinner.
Years ago, because of his job, he hardly ever had the chance to enjoy home-cooked meals; he always ended up with something quick or pre-made. Of course, that changed when you met, and something in you knew that part of the reason Spencer asked you to marry him was the sense of home that arose within him every time he tasted one of the dishes you made with such care and love.
On your way home, you stopped by the supermarket, choosing everything carefully: a bottle of wine, fresh strawberries, candles, a cake for dessert, and even flowers to add a special touch to the table. Although Reid wasn’t particularly fond of floral decorations, arguing that they were just dead nature, you knew he would appreciate the gesture. As you packed the bags, you couldn’t help but smile imagining him coming home tired from work and finding everything ready.
Cooking didn’t bother you, even after a long day, because it was a way to show him your affection. At first, Spencer wasn’t used to physical contact, so every home-cooked meal also became a silent bridge between you. You couldn’t believe it had already been a year since that man, with tears held back and overflowing with happiness, pledged his eternal love to you. Many things had changed, but the love remained intact, despite the challenges that arose.
When you were done, you walked lightly, excitement coursing through your body. You imagined his expression as he opened the door—well into the night—and smelled the freshly made dinner, surprise painted on his face as he realized that your silence didn’t mean forgetfulness. You had even bought a few more suggestive little details that could wait until after dinner, provided he was in the mood. The thought made you laugh to yourself, as if keeping a secret about to explode in shared joy.
In front of the door to your shared apartment, you adjusted the bags in your arms and took a deep breath, anticipating the moment. You made a mental list of tasks as you crossed the hallway, slipping off your shoes and leaving them by the door. Some things got left along the way—your coat, for example, ended up draped over the back of the sofa.
You scanned the apartment for the only vase you had, but didn’t find it. It wasn’t until you turned toward the dining table that you spotted it: a bouquet of fresh flowers, in your favorite color, contrasting with the purple bouquet you held in disbelief.
A noise in the kitchen startled you. You accidentally knocked over a stack of books Spencer had left on a glass side table, causing a clatter as they fell to the floor.
The noise was enough to give you away. You barely had time to straighten the bags when Spencer appeared in the kitchen doorway, his apron crooked and a wooden spoon in hand. His expression mirrored yours almost exactly: surprise, disbelief, and a hint of mild frustration.
“What… what are you doing here so early?” he asked, raising his eyebrows as if you had interrupted his secret plan.
“I could ask you the same thing,” you replied, gripping the bouquet. “You’re supposed to be at work.”
The aroma of what he was cooking—was it pasta?—began to fill the air, wrapping you in a warmth that felt almost ridiculous, considering that you were both caught in a kind of romantic stalemate.
For a moment, neither of you moved. It was as if you had discovered each other in a game where both had tried to surprise the other, only to end up surprising yourselves.
“I took the day off work,” he said. “I wanted to surprise you.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, even though you felt your own plan unraveling.
“So basically, we ruined each other’s surprises.”
“Seems like it,” he replied with a barely contained smile, stepping closer to help with the bags. “Although ‘ruin’ isn’t the word I’d use. More like… synchronize.”
The tension gradually melted away as you looked at him, apron crooked, a sauce stain on his sleeve. Maybe there was no surprise in the strict sense, but there was something even better: confirmation that, even without planning it, you always ended up in the same rhythm.
“Happy anniversary, I guess?” you said, laughing softly, letting his arms wrap around you as you buried your face in his chest.
Then you felt a gentle kiss on your temple, full of tenderness and complicity.
“I thought someone might have forgotten.”
“Of course I didn’t. You were supposed to think that. With your eidetic memory, I figured you were just being condescending by not reminding me, so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
“I was tempted to make love to you this morning, but that might have ruined the magic of creating a prelude. Or reminded you of our wedding night, which I consider worse if my intention was to surprise you.”
A soft laugh escaped you, your cheeks warming at the thought that he had been yearning to claim you since the very start of the day, even though you were already his. All that did was add to the atmosphere of anticipation forming around you.
“Did you really take the day off?”
“Yes,” he nodded. He smelled of spices mixed with his usual cologne. “The team didn’t mind. I have like three months of vacation built up, so…”
Although you knew he was probably exaggerating, for a moment you almost believed him. Spencer rarely took days off, so it was a pleasure to have him home at night, knowing that nothing could interrupt you—or even if something came up, he would still be there with you.
“I really would've loved to surprise you,” you said, more disappointed than annoyed.
“I think it’s pretty clear you did,” he replied.
“But that’s not what I mean,” you huffed, lips unconsciously forming a pout. “I wanted you to come home to candles, dinner waiting, and me looking pretty just for you…”
“You’re always pretty."
“But this time I bought a white dress…” you added after the interruption, “to look like a bride again.”
Spencer fell silent for a moment, clearly thrown by the simple image of how you would have looked if the plan had gone through.
Without warning, he leaned in to kiss you, cradling your face gently, and a shiver ran down your spine—one of those you still couldn’t forget even after all these years.
“You’re so warm,” he admitted, letting his voice brush against your lips. “I missed you.”
“You saw me this morning…”
“And I missed you all day,” he repeated, his voice soft and sweet, conveying a sincerity that made you tremble.
You leaned toward him, giving him another slow, intimate kiss that he gladly returned, his hands instinctively brushing yours. Then he spoke again:
“You should go to the bedroom to get ready, as you planned. Let me handle the dinner.”
“But I want to help,” you protested “How about we finish cooking and then get ready together?”
He raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Do you want me to help you put on the dress?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of you taking it off… but first, we need to eat,” you said cheekily, noticing his smile widen and his cheeks flush slightly.
Spencer let out a laugh that mixed prude and amusement, infecting you with his joy.
“Sounds like a perfect plan. And even though it didn’t go as we expected, tonight’s turning out to be quite a pleasant surprise, if I’m honest.”
You smiled, leaning in for one last kiss before pulling away, completely agreeing with what he had just said.
It hits you all at once and you’re out of the booth in a flash, Spencer right behind you. You’ve barely made it to the sidewalk when the drinks betray you—straight onto Spencer’s shoes. The world blurs, and all you can think, mortified, is that you’ve just broken one of the cardinal rules of dating.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)
genre: fluff
content: bau!reader has too much to drink and its up to bf!spencer to get her home. and brief mentions of puke... oh reader...
word count: 3k
note: well personally i don't know if i could ever love someone enough where i would lay on my bed in my 'outside clothes' but good on you spence! once i slipped and fell in a someone's puke and cried all the way home.
a line: They’ve seen Spencer look at a thousand things with fascination—books, theories, puzzles, statistics. But this? This is something else entirely.
It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
- Pat Schneider
The room hangs on your words, the perfect moment of suspense stretched like a tightrope. You let it linger, savoring the pause.
“And they ate every last drop of it!”
The punchline lands, and laughter spills out around the table, loud and easy. You beam. Spencer watches you, his gaze warm, almost reverent. He’s always known you had this gift—how you could spin a story, command a room. If he weren’t so completely in love with you, he might’ve envied it. No amount of books or degrees could teach him your knack for recounting stories with such flair, or the way you whip up quick comebacks that even leave Derek speechless at times.
Spencer’s lucky, and he knows it. His eyes trace the curve of your smile as you sip from your glass, your third—or fourth? He’s lost count. He notices you’re not wincing at its taste anymore and well, you know what they say when the drinks start to taste like water. The fact that you’re tearing up at something Garcia’s showing you—a sloth video, from what he can tell, doesn’t ease his worries in the slightest either. He's not entirely sure what Emily has been ordering for the table but whatever it is, it’s clearly doing its job.
It’s one of those rare nights out, the kind where the team sets work aside and pretends, for a few hours, that the weight of the world isn’t on their shoulders. Rossi had insisted, his treat he said, but Spencer suspects it was just an excuse for the team to watch you two loosen up, to let your guard down. A carefully orchestrated opportunity for the team to see something they hardly ever got to see. They’ve seen you two in the field, sharp and focused, in sync like clockwork. But tonight it's the way you lean into Spencer’s side without realizing it, the way Spencer gently moves your glass out of harm’s way when you gesture too wildly. This is a glimpse of something sacred, something rare.
It’d only been about a month since you and Spencer had made it official. Everyone saw it coming long before you did, but that didn’t stop the teasing once the news broke. They could barely pick their jaws up from off the floor even tonight when Spencer had his hand resting lightly on your waist, steadying you through the crowd as you laughed yourself breathless, stumbling. At work, you both keep it professional, steering clear of anything that might make Hotch raise an eyebrow. But the dim light of the bar is ever so tempting. The bar is full of loud laughter and clinking glasses and you just can’t help but take Spencer's hand into yours, fingers laced without hesitation.
Spencer catches the way Derek’s eyes light up at the sight, the subtle nudge he gives Rossi. He knows they’re going to bring this up later, probably all week.
But he doesn’t move his hand. He doesn’t let go.
The booth is packed tight as you’re all wedged together, shoulders brushing. Everyone’s smiling, unwinding in a way you rarely allow yourselves to, laughter bouncing in overlapping bursts. Spencer sits nursing his water, content to observe. His eyes are drawn back to you over and over, catching on the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh and the animated gestures of you make as you speak.
“C’mon, pretty boy, live a little,” Derek teases, “Just one drink.”
Spencer gives a sheepish smile, waving it off. “I’m fine,” he says, eyes flicking over to you once more.
He can’t keep his eyes off you tonight, it seems. You’re laughing, and It’s unmistakable, the adoration in his gaze, something so un-Spencer-like that makes Derek smile.
He knows Spencer’s not one to drink. You, on the other hand, seem a little too eager, maybe encouraged by Emily’s coaxing, and you’re already on your next drink, cheeks bright and eyes sparkling. You lean into Garcia’s cheers, your glass lifted high. Your laughter is bright and unrestrained, pulling everyone else along with it.
Spencer considers saying something when you're giggling a little more than usual, laughing too hard at a joke that doesn't warrant it. But he knows how you’d take it. You’d wave him off with that familiar insistence, the same as always. It wasn't like you couldn't hold your own, Spencer knows that. You’d held your own at Rossi’s birthday last year just fine, outlasting nearly everyone—well, except Rossi of course. And that’s probably why he’d already taken his leave tonight, not wanting to get caught in the tail end of whatever chaos this night will inevitably bring.
But that was then and now— Well, it’s different now. Now, the role of boyfriend sits heavier on his shoulders, a title he’s all too happy to hold. And tonight, it’s a card he’s all too happy to play. It gives him leverage, an edge that makes him feel like he has a little more room to step in without you pulling the I don’t need anyone to take care of me speech.
Spencer sees his opening as lean back into his side a little too comfortably. “Here,” he murmurs, pressing his glass into your hand. “Drink this.”
He hopes you’re just tipsy enough not to ask too many questions, as long as it’s something from the bar. For a moment, it seems like it works—you sit up, eyeing the glass cautiously, then take it from him with slow deliberation.
Almost there, he thinks.
You peer into the glass, squinting at the clear liquid, then give it a small sniff. Spencer’s heart sinks as your expression shifts.
“This is water,” you say, suspiciously.
“Yes, it is,” he admits.
Your brow furrows, the faintest pout tugging at your lips. “I’m drinking vodka.”
“And now you’re drinking water.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you, and I’d rather not carry you out of here tonight,” he says softly, the faintest flush colouring his cheeks.
You look up at him, unimpressed, but he stays firm. “Just drink the water, sweetheart,” he says quietly, his voice barely cutting through the noise.
He braces himself for your resistance. Instead, you huff, give him a pointed glare, and drink it. He watches as you sip, your nose scrunching at the lack of a bite. Spencer lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
The night winds on, the team louder than usual, swept up in Derek’s overly dramatic retelling of the prank war that once took over the bullpen. But you’re quieter, Spencer notices, the drinks maybe finally settling in a little too fast. Your smile slower, your laughter softer, head resting on his shoulder now and again.
And then, suddenly, you’re not looking so well. It hits you all at once. The queasy welling in your stomach, the cold sweat prickling your skin. You’re out of the booth in a flash, Spencer right behind you as you stumble toward the door, your hand clamped over your mouth.
You’ve barely made it to the sidewalk when the drinks betray you—straight onto Spencer’s shoes. The world blurs, and all you can think, mortified, is that you’ve just broken one of the cardinal rules of dating.
Of all people it had to be Spencer—germ-conscious, always-prepared Spencer—your lovely boyfriend who at this moment you’re not sure you can ever look in the eyes again Spencer.
You don’t have to look up to see the team’s reaction as they round the corner, wide-eyed as they process what just happened. Derek’s mouth falls open in disbelief, Emily stares in shock, and Garcia whispers a dramatic, “Oh, no…”
They’re frozen. Because Spencer—Spencer, who uses hand sanitizer like it’s an extension of his arm, Spencer who’s the first to scrunch his nose at anything remotely messy—has just had his shoes christened in the worst way. You know they’re waiting for Spencer’s reaction, the tense recoil, the carefully contained grimace.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, Spencer pauses, takes a measured breath, and steps closer to you, his hands steady on your shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing as he crouches to meet your gaze. He brushes your hair away from your face, his touch careful and kind.
“Spence—” you mumble, your voice cracking with embarrassment. Your hands fly to cover your face. “I’m so sorry. Your shoes—oh my God, your shoes—”
Spencer shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping as he crouches to steady you. His voice is impossibly gentle, calm in a way that eases the edges of your shame. “It’s fine. They’re just shoes,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your flushed face. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
You nod, eyes shut, clearly mortified but he doesn’t let you dwell on it. He takes your hand, his grip firm but gentle. For a brief moment, Spencer contemplates asking the bartender for a glass of water to rinse off the mess, but he glances at you—your slightly swaying frame, the way your head droops just a little—and decides against it.
Getting you home safely takes precedence over everything else. Shoes can wait. You can’t.
Emily’s mouth falls open slightly as she watches, “Did Reid just…?” she murmurs, half to herself, as Derek gapes beside her. “Didn’t think the kid had it in him,” Derek says, shaking his head, a grin slowly spreading. Garcia sniffs, dramatically dabbing at her eyes. “I knew he loved her, but this? This is another level.” she says letting out a dreamy sigh.
They linger, watching as Spencer guides you steadily toward the car with careful patience. He helps you in, crouching to fasten your seatbelt. You’re still mumbling apologies, your voice thick with embarrassment, but Spencer doesn’t falter. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders even as the mess on his shoes remains. There’s not even a hint of disgust on his face—if anything, he’s focused, caring, murmuring words of reassurance as he tucks his jacket around you. His hand lingers on yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a silent promise that nothing about this has shaken him.
“I’m so sorry, Spence,” you whisper again, your voice small and heavy with guilt. “I ruined your shoes. And your jacket. And—”
“It’s fine. You’re fine. Besides, I was planning to throw them out anyway.”
You shake your head weakly, your tone petulant even through your embarrassment. “Nooo, don’t throw them out because of me.”
His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, what do you suggest I do with them, angel?”
“I’ll wash them,” you declare, your words slow and sleepy.
Spencer raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “You’ll wash them?”
“Mhmm,” you murmur, already halfway to drifting off against the seat.
“How about we get you home first and then worry about the shoes, okay?” he says gently.
“’Kay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as sleep begins to take hold.
Spencer stands, glancing back at the bar where the team is gathered. They’re not even pretending to hide their stares anymore, and he knows he’s going to hear about this for weeks. He raises a hand in a small, sheepish wave before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Derek shakes his head, laughing softly. “He’s gone,” he says, his voice carrying just enough awe to balance the humor. “Kid’s completely gone.”
Emily doesn’t need to ask what he means. Neither does Garcia. Because they’ve seen Spencer look at a thousand things with fascination—books, theories, puzzles, statistics. But this?
This is something else entirely.
The ride home is quiet, save for the occasional slurred apology from you. Spencer reassures you with the same soft patience each time, his hand steady on the wheel and his gaze flickering to you every so often, checking to make sure you’re okay. By the time he gets you home, your protests have faded, replaced by the heavy pull of exhaustion.
His arm remains firm around your waist, steadying you as he helps you inside, careful and methodical in the way he moves. He guides you to the bathroom, where you try to freshen up, fumbling with the faucet and splashing water on your face. Spencer steps in without hesitation and takes over when your movements falter. His touch is featherlight, but there’s no mistaking the care in every movement. The closeness makes your cheeks flush, though whether it’s from lingering embarrassment or something else entirely, you’re too tired to decipher.
“You don’t have to,” you murmur, your words sluggish but sincere.
“Of course I do,” he replies, his voice light but firm. “I want to.”
He guides you to the bedroom with careful steps, his hand steady on the small of your back. Once there, he sets a glass of water on the nightstand, the gentle clink breaking the quiet.
“Drink,” he coaxes softly, his tone patient but firm.
You take the glass without protest, sipping obediently. Spencer watches, a small smile tugging at his lips. He considers making a playful comment about how quickly you’re drinking it now—so much easier than earlier—but he decides against it.
You’ve been through enough tonight, he thinks.
When he finally tucks you into bed, you’re too tired to resist. You mumble something incoherent, your hand brushing his as he leans in. Spencer pauses, his gaze lingering on your face—peaceful now, the traces of the evening’s mishaps melting away. He presses a light kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.
Spencer steps out of the room, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear you if you call out. He lingers in the hallway for a moment, his shoulders sagging slightly now that the night’s adrenaline has begun to wane. He glances down at his shoes—still damp and stained. With a resigned sigh, he makes his way to the kitchen, grabbing a plastic bag. He slips the shoes inside, tying the bag tightly before heading outside. The cold air bites at his skin as he steps toward the dumpster behind his building.
He stands there for a moment, holding the bag. The sight of the shoes, oddly enough, makes him smile. It’s ridiculous, he knows. They’re just shoes. Ruined, stained, completely unsalvageable. But they’re also a reminder of tonight—a reminder of how he’d taken care of you, how you’d let him take care of you.
With a soft thud, the bag lands in the dumpster. Spencer dusts off his hands, turning back toward the building. When Spencer steps back into his apartment, the soft hum of the heater greets him, a gentle reminder of the warmth waiting inside. And there you are, standing in his shirt in the doorway of his bedroom. Spencer thinks it's a sight he'll never get tired of.
There's a pout tugging at your lips. “Where’d you go?” you ask, your voice thick with sleep and just a hint of a whine.
“Had to throw out the shoes angel,” he says as he steps into the kitchen to wash his hands.
Your gasp is exaggerated like he’s just committed an unspeakable betrayal. “I thought I told you I’d wash them!” you exclaim, your voice rising.
“And I thought I tucked you into bed,” Spencer counters, his laugh soft and full of affection. “Why are you out of bed sweetheart?”
You shuffle closer, blinking up at him with drowsy eyes. “Missed you,” you say simply, your earlier outrage regarding the shoes already forgotten. “Wanna cuddle.”
Spencer’s expression softens, but he gestures to his clothes. “I’m dirty,” he reminds you gently, pointing to the coat still hanging off his shoulders and the shoes he’s yet to remove. “Outside clothes, remember?”
“Change then,” you reply stubbornly, tugging at his sleeve as though that’s the simplest solution in the world.
“I need to shower first,” he says, his voice patient as he begins to guide you back toward the bedroom.
“I didn’t shower either,” you argue, leaning heavily into his side as though that somehow strengthens your case.
“Because you’re drunk,” he replies with a small smile.
“Am not,” you insist, though your tone is far from convincing.
“Wanna tell that to my shoes?” Spencer teases, raising a brow.
You ignore him, brushing past his comment with a huff. “You’ll take too long,” you complain, your bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “I’ll miss you.”
“And I’ll miss you too,” he replies, his voice tinged with amusement as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Then cuddle,” you plead, your tone slipping into that sing-song quality you know he can’t resist. “Pleaseee”
Spencer hesitates, the logical part of him warring with the sight of you—soft, vulnerable, and looking at him like he hung the stars. He knows you’re usually the enforcer of the outside-clothes rule, a stickler for order when sober. But right now, you’re anything but sober, and he can’t find it in himself to deny you.
“Pleaseee,” you say again, drawing out the word for emphasis, your eyes wide and imploring.
He sighs, shaking his head with a small smile making a mental note to change the sheets tomorrow. “Alright, alright,” he relents, his voice warm with affection.
You beam, looping your arms around his waist in triumph. “Knew you wouldn’t say no,” you mumble into his chest.
Spencer laughs softly, guiding you back to bed. As you settle against him, burying your face in his chest with a soft, muffled sigh, Spencer feels his heart swell in a way he can’t quite put into words. He’s never been one for mess—for dirt, grime, or anything out of place. Heck, he hadn't even wanted to shake your hand the first time he met you. It’s in his nature to keep things neat, orderly, clean. But now, with you?
His shoes could be ruined, his clothes crumpled, and the night an absolute whirlwind. And still, all he can think about is how peaceful you look now, your eyelids fluttering shut as sleep starts to claim you.
Spencer presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles along your back.
For you and only you, he thinks, he’d make an exception every time.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading!
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Pairing: Spencer Reid x gender neutral reader
Summary: After spending time with each other for the first time, both of you are hesitant about Spencer going back home and about how long the relationship will last
Words: 1230
A/N: This fic is dedicated to @spencestiel-michelle just cause I wanted to <3
The atmosphere in the room was tense. It was 12:37 at night and you had to wake up in less than four hours to get ready for Spencer’s flight back home.
The last week being with Spencer felt like a fairytale. You never thought that you’d meet someone who’d make you feel so head over heels for them and they would feel the same way about you in return. You had all the classic signs of the honeymoon phase, constantly talking and thinking of one another, smiling like a fool for no reason, your heart starting to beat faster with glee every time someone mentioned him. You were done for in the best way possible.
You didn’t experience the usual stages of a newfound relationship though and that was because you and Spencer were dating long distance. Coffee dates were over internet calls and every time you needed a hug from him you had to imagine it inside your head of what it would feel like. After about six months of dating Spencer felt so bad that he couldn’t be there to comfort you when you needed him that he sent you a teddy bear and sprayed it with some of his cologne to make up for the lack of his presence. It wasn’t the real deal, but it was as close to it as you could get.
The first morning waking up with him felt like a fairytale. Your eyes fluttered open and the first thing you felt was Spencer’s hand holding onto your hip, his fingernails nearly digging into your flesh with just how tightly he was holding onto you. His nose was against your head and you felt his breath down to your neck, even with it being nearly as warm as the morning sun you still felt goosebumps go down your spine. He was actually here, a sight you thought you’d only experience in your dreams.
Spencer was adamant about getting as much work done in The BAU as he could, but knowing that you were much more important he asked Hotch if he could have a week off to spend as much time with you as he could. Hotch would take notice of Spencer’s stance, his eyes big and nearly glassy and he swore if Spencer had a tail it would be between his legs, there was only one word he could describe him: smitten.
With nearly hugging the man over being so joyous of being said yes, Spencer was quick to get back to his desk to get the work done for the next week to make sure there weren’t any backlogs by the time he got back. He nearly tripped on his way there and the topic of boy genius meeting with his long distance lover was all the team talked about when he was gone.
A sniffle brought you back from your thoughts. Spencer’s arms were wound over your middle and his nose was buried into your shirt, the scent of your laundry detergent calming his senses. He made a mental note to buy it at the store next time to make sure that whenever he put on freshly washed clothes it would feel like he was getting a hug from you.
Your thumb brushed over his cheek as he cuddled closer to you, your eyes were burning with the tears you were holding back, trying your best to keep a calm composure because you knew you couldn’t hold Spencer back for any longer. You already felt bad for him having to ask time off in order to be here with you knowing how demanding his job could be. He should’ve been out chasing another serial killer and yet he was here in your arms, sleeping his days away. That wasn’t an exaggeration, as soon as you got back from spending time in your town, you’d both crash into bed and be asleep in less than an hour. It could be four o’clock and you’d be snoozing until nine in the evening.
“Maybe I can ask for an extension?”
“Spence, no, you’re not doing that.”
“You don’t want me to stay longer?”
“Of course I do, but your team needs you more and I keep you away from them.”
“They’ll be fine without me, besides,” Spencer sat up and brushed the hair from your face, now clearly being able to see how bloodshot your eyes were, “how often are we able to have moments like these?”
Biting your lip, you looked down and thought about the future of your relationship. You hadn’t talked about the potential of what the future could bring for you both, but you thought about it all the time. Imaging waking up with him and sharing a cup of coffee and going to the supermarket for groceries was something you thought about constantly. The place where it all took place wasn’t something you had considered though and you knew it wasn’t an easy decision.
“Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll be able to keep this up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Spencer, do you honestly expect us to keep flying back and forth between states in order to make this work? To make us work? At some point one of us is going to get tired and will ask the other to move in with them or to break up.”
Spencer looked down as he took in your words. Things were already difficult between you two and it was only going to get more complicated over time. But he wanted this to work, more than anything, and he was willing to put in the work to make this last.
“I like to think that things will work out between us, that we can defy the odds, but the truth is that I can’t predict what the future holds. It is important to be considerate of future events, but we also forget to live in the moment sometimes, to enjoy what we have right now. So please, try to not scare yourself of what could happen because what we currently have at this moment doesn’t reflect your deepest fears at all.”
A tear rolled down your cheek and Spencer was quick to brush it away with his thumb, a light chuckle leaving your lips at how gentle he was being, not only with his actions but also with his words.
You were prone to overthinking the worst possible outcomes and you knew you had to work on it because you didn’t want to end up being the kind of person throughout your whole life who went into things thinking they’re going to inevitably fail, when in reality you aren’t able to predict the outcome at all.
“I really needed to hear that Spence, thanks.”
“Of course, angel.”
“I’m not going to lie, I’d love to have you here for a few more days.”
“Then let me reschedule my flight and tell Hotch you came down with a cold and that I didn’t want to leave you until you felt better.”
“You’d lie for me?”
“That’s the least I’d do for you.”
Punching him in the elbow lightly, both of you laughed as Spencer took a hold of you and pulled you into his embrace, sleep wanting to take over as soon as his body heat surrounded you.
“Let’s lie down for a little more and then I’ll call Hotch.”
Masterlist
Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: spencer gets drunk and confesses his feelings to you. in detail. a lot of detail.
content warnings: spencer is very drunk, mention of nausea and headaches, talks of petnames, spencer is so so in love with reader, one very tiny mention of spencer's mom and dad,
a/n: sacrified my studying to post this in time. if i fail, i'm blaming spencer. anyways!! happy birthday to spencer reid !!! ily !!!
One moment, Spencer had been beside you, and the next, he had simply vanished into the crowded bar.
“Looking after Spencer when he’s drunk is like being responsible for a five-year-old,” you muttered to yourself, weaving through the groups of people. You’d checked the restrooms, the hallway near the jukebox, and even the fire escape. Nothing.
Your frantic search brought you past the main bar, where Hotch was settling the tab. His eyes met yours, and with a subtle tilt of his head, he nodded toward a corner booth. You mouthed a relieved 'thank you' as you made your way towards said booth.
There he was. Spencer was seated at a table with a group of people you were certain he’d never met before tonight, a deck of cards in his hand. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been passionately explaining the material behind the rhinestones on Garcia’s favorite hair clip.
You stepped behind him, placing a gentle hand on the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. “Hi, Spencer,” you said, your voice soft.
He turned to look up at you, and the transformation was instant. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy from the alcohol, but they crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile spread across his face. “Hi,” he breathed, his gaze fixed on you for a precious second before darting back to his cards.
You offered a small, apologetic smile to his new friends. They didn’t look annoyed, per se, but there was a distinct air of resignation about them.
Your eyes flicked down to Spencer’s hand. Ah. Of course. He was holding a straight flush. You’d lost him about thirty minutes ago, which likely meant he’d been unknowingly bankrupting these strangers for the better part of that time.
A young woman across the table caught your eye. Her expression was one of pure desperation. “Please help,” she mouthed, her gaze flicking meaningfully between you and Spencer’s cards, clearly hoping for an insider’s tip.
You gave her a sympathetic little smile and leaned down closer to Spencer, your voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him. “Spencer.”
He looked up again, and his eyes softened, the focus shifting entirely from the game to you. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment. His skin was warm.
“You’re a bit warm. That’s not good,” you chided gently. “How about we get some fresh air?”
Spencer was utterly dazed. What you couldn't possibly know was that his dazed state wasn't solely the product of the alcohol. It was the intoxicating combination of your proximity, your touch carding through his hair and your hand on his back. His long-standing crush was currently fussing over him, and his brain was short-circuiting beautifully.
“Okay,” he mumbled, his agreement pliant. He turned back to the table. “Sorry for not finishing the game.”
A chorus of relieved voices answered in unison. “Oh, no, it’s fine!”
You couldn’t help a small grin as the woman who’d pleaded for help mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”
One of the men, who looked as though he’d lost a significant bet, shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “How could you ever play cards with him?”
You chuckled, slipping your arm around Spencer’s waist to help steady him as he stood. “Oh, trust me,” you said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”
As you began to guide him away, you heard the woman whisper conspiratorially to her friend, “Well, yeah, he’s cute. I’d also be fine with it if I was dating him.”
You paused, glancing back at her in confusion, but in that moment, Spencer stumbled, his full weight leaning into you. You caught him easily, your attention immediately returning to the task at hand. “Okay, easy there, genius,” you said, steering him toward the door and making sure he waved a clumsy goodbye to the team.
You managed to guide a wobbly Spencer out the heavy door of the bar. But the moment you cleared the threshold, his legs seemed to give out entirely. He simply folded, settling directly onto the sidewalk.
“Spencer!” you called out.
He looked up at you, completely unbothered, propping his chin in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. “Hm?”
“Don’t sit on the ground. It’s dirty,” you chided, reaching for his arm.
“I don’t care,” he mumbled, his head already beginning to loll precariously in his palm. “The entire bar was dirty. It doesn’t matter now.”
You sighed, a fond exasperation washing over you. Arguing with a drunk genius was a losing battle. So, you gave in. You carefully lowered yourself to sit beside him on the concrete, ignoring the chill that seeped through your clothes. Gently, you took his arm from his knee and guided his head to rest on your shoulder instead. He leaned into the contact immediately, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled against the curve of your neck.
“I’m cold and warm,” he complained, his voice a mumble against your skin.
You chuckled softly. “You drank a lot, and it’s cold outside,” you explained, carefully shifting to wrap an arm around his back to steady him. You pressed your free hand to his forehead again. He was still too warm. “We should get you home,” you murmured, your voice filled with concern.
“Okay,” he agreed easily, nuzzling even closer.
The smile that touched your lips was involuntary and full of affection. Getting him home, however, was where the real challenge began.
The short walk to your car was exhausting to say the least. You half-carried, half-dragged him, his tall frame leaning heavily on you as he offered slurred commentary on the urban planning of the sidewalk cracks. Getting him into the passenger seat felt like buckling a very large and completely uncoordinated child into a car seat.
The drive was quiet. But the grand finale was the stumble up the stairs to his apartment building. It was… an experience. Each step was a negotiation.
“Just one more, Spencer, come on.”
“These stairs are surprisingly loud,” he slurred, clinging to the banister with one hand and your shoulder with the other.
“That’s because they’re old,” you grunted, heaving him up another step. “And you’re drunk.”
“Correlation is not causation,” he retorted, though the argument lost all its impact when he immediately tripped on the next step.
By some miracle, you finally reached his door. Fishing the keys from his pocket, you unlocked it and guided him inside.
Somehow, with a great deal of coaxing and maneuvering, you managed to guide him into the bathroom. You positioned him to lean against the counter, his hands gripping the edge for support. You stepped into the space between him and the sink, gently nudging his knees apart so you could stand closer. He complied without protest, his dazed eyes fixed on you.
The air was thick with a new kind of tension. To break it, you focused on a simple task. Your fingers went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.
"Why did you wear a tie to the bar?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you slid the fabric from his collar.
Spencer hummed. "I don't know what else to wear."
"You can just wear a cardigan," you suggested, a soft smile playing on your lips as you folded the tie and set it aside on the counter. "You have nice ones."
"Would you like that?" he asked quietly, his head tilting.
"Would I like what?"
"You said that you love my ties," he stated.
"I do," you affirmed, slightly confused but sensing you were treading on delicate ground.
His next words came out in a rush. "I wanna look good for you, so I try to wear ties as much as I can." There was no shame, no blushing self-awareness. It was a devastatingly honest confession poured straight from his heart, facilitated by the alcohol flooding his veins.
"Spencer!" you breathed, your hands stilling as you stared at him in shock.
His face fell instantly, confusion clouding his features. "What? Do you not like them anymore?" he asked, his voice tinged with sadness. "I can wear something else."
"You can wear whatever you want," you managed to say, your mind reeling. A part of you felt a pang of hurt at the thought that his clothing choices weren't entirely his own. "Why would you wear something just because I complimented it?"
"Because I like it when you compliment my ties," he mumbled, his body swaying slightly. You instinctively steadied him by placing your hands on his waist, the contact sending a jolt through you. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before finding yours again. "Or when you touch them to look at the pattern. It makes me feel really warm on the inside when you do."
The air left your lungs. You stared, utterly speechless. In his inebriated state, Spencer Reid had just confessed his crush on you to you. He had no idea of the magnitude of what he'd just revealed.
Needing a moment to process, you quickly grabbed the cup of water you'd set aside earlier. "Here, drink this," you instructed softly, holding the cup to his lips. As he drank, you used your free hand to gently brush the soft curls back from his fever-warm forehead.
You gently wiped the stray water droplets from his chin with your thumb, your touch lingering for a heartbeat. Needing to do something, anything, with your hands, you began to unbutton the top button of his shirt, just to give him a little more air. He sighed in relief.
In the quiet of the bathroom, his voice was small. "Are you mad at me?"
Your eyes snapped back to his. "No," you said softly. "Not at all, Spencer. I could never be mad at you for that." You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his warm skin. "I'm just… worried that you take my words too much to heart."
His response was soft. "I do."
A flicker of that earlier disappointment must have shown in your eyes, because he quickly continued.
"I remember that one time you told me you liked my eyes," he mumbled, his gaze drifting to a spot on the bathroom wall. "And ever since then, I like them more. You were right… they do look nice when the sun hits them."
"Yeah?" you asked, your voice colored with hope.
"Mhm," Spencer nodded, his head lolling slightly before he found your eyes again. "I also like my outfits more. I always hated them." He confessed this with resignation that broke your heart a little. "I didn't know what else to wear. People… people weren't always nice about my clothes. You were the only one who was ever nice to me about them. And you actually meant it." He gave you a tentative smile, one that grew just a fraction when he saw the genuine smile blooming on your own face.
"Well, I do love your outfits," you whispered, your hand moving from his cheek to smooth the collar of his shirt. "They're so uniquely you. It makes you look so handsome."
Spencer blushed, the red somehow deepening beneath the alcohol-induced flush. He ducked his head. "I can't get used to that," he mumbled into his chest.
"Used to what?" you prompted softly, tilting your head to try and catch his downcast eyes.
He finally looked up, his whiskey-colored eyes meeting yours. "Your compliments," he whispered, a confession as potent as any other he'd made tonight.
“Well, get used to them, handsome,” you smiled as you guided the cup back to his lips. He drank obediently, but his eyes never left you, watching you intently over the rim. You held the gaze and it felt strangely intimate.
Once he’d finished, you set the cup aside and turned to grab his toothbrush. The small bathroom cabinet offered two different tubes of toothpaste. You weren't sure which one he liked more.
“Who were you talking to in the bar?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.
“When?” you asked, your hand hesitating between the two options before settling on the mint.
“In the booth. There was a guy… you were laughing with him.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the specificity gave him away.
You looked up from the toothbrush, the paste forgotten in your hand. You gave him your full undivided attention. “I don’t even know who that was, Spencer.”
“You seemed comfortable with him,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the countertop.
You watched him for a long moment, studying the slight downturn of his mouth, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. Understanding began to warm your chest. “Spencer,” you began softly, leaning a hip against the counter to face him fully. “Were you jealous?”
His head lifted, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe,” he finally mumbled. “You touched his arm… like, five times,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave misdeed.
Your heart squeezed. You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Do you want me to touch your arm?”
“No. Yes,” he stammered, frustration creasing his brow. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to touch me. And I know you touch me a lot.” His eyes flickered down to where your hand was resting on his waist, your thumb unconsciously making soothing circles against the fabric of his vest. “You’re doing it right now.”
You followed his gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”
He opened his mouth, trying to articulate the tangled mess of feelings, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The alcohol was a thick fog, making it impossible to find the right words.
You understood. “But you want it to mean something,” you supplied gently, your thumb stilling its motion. “When I touch you, you want it to feel special. You don’t want it to be something I do with just anyone.”
Spencer stared at you, his expression a mixture of relief and wonder that you had somehow untangled the knot he couldn't. “I guess so,” he mumbled.
You understood completely. Your casual friendly touch with that stranger had, in his eyes, devalued the currency of your affection. It made the way you cared for him seem ordinary, when to him, it was everything.
He fell silent for a long moment, processing his own words. Then, he shifted uncomfortably against the counter. "That sounded… oddly possessive," he mumbled, a flicker of clarity breaking through the alcoholic haze. "I didn't mean it like that," he corrected himself worried.
Honestly, you hadn't taken it that way at all, but you stayed quiet.
"I just… like you. A lot."
You took a sharp breath at the directness of the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. But you remained outwardly calm.
"And sometimes," he continued, "I think you like me back. Because of your gentle touches and your really nice compliments." He explained it so sweetly, that a smile inevitably formed on your face. "And Morgan tells me you like me," he added, offering a sheepish smile.
"And then I get hopeful," he whispered, the smile fading, "but then I see you compliment Morgan's shoes, or I see you touch that guy's arm in the bar, and then I just think… how could you like me? That you're just kind like that. That you're just nice to people, and that I'm just… imagining it all." He finished with a tired sigh, rubbing his eye.
You had stayed quiet throughout his entire confession, letting him pour out the insecurities he usually kept locked behind a wall of facts and statistics. Now, you slowly placed the forgotten toothbrush on the counter, bristles up to keep it clean. Your hands came up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking his warm cheeks.
"I do like you," you whispered, the words finally breaking free. "Very much so. And the compliments I give you are genuine, and they are special. They're just for you, Spencer."
Spencer blinked at you, his eyes widening. "You like me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.
"Very much so," you affirmed, your smile softening.
"Oh," he breathed, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "That's good." He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, utterly content with the feeling of your hands on his skin.
You smiled, but the expression became more careful, when Spencer's gaze drifted downward from your eyes. He was staring at your lips, his head tilting as he leaned in slowly.
Gently, you pulled back, just an inch.
He froze, his eyes snapping back to yours, now wide with fear and confusion at the rejection.
"You're drunk," you said softly. You kept your hands on his face, brushing over his cheekbones. "I'm not kissing you when you're drunk."
He processed this, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. But his eyes, full of longing, lingered on your lips a moment longer.
You offered a soft reassuring smile, quickly grabbing the toothbrush to give him a task. Applying a stripe of toothpaste, you held it up for him. To your relief, his motor functions seemed to return for this familiar routine. He took it and began brushing, his eyes never leaving you the entire time.
Under his unwavering gaze, you began to feel warm yourself. You weren't sure if it was the intensity of your conversation or the bright bathroom lighting, but you found yourself fixing your hair behind your ear before shrugging off your thin autumn jacket, letting it rest on the counter beside his tie.
Once he was finished, he slumped against the counter. He looked utterly exhausted.
"Okay," you said softly, reaching out your hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers lacing with yours. "I know you're going to say you're not hungry, but I just want you to eat one thing before bed. I barely saw you eat anything at the bar." You had a feeling you knew why, the mysterious man had introduced himself just as the food arrived, and Spencer had promptly vanished. That's when you had lost him.
"Okay?" you prompted gently.
Spencer nodded, a sleepy smile touching his lips. "Okay," he agreed happily, letting you lead him by the hand to his small kitchen.
There, he simply leaned back against the counter, his hands coming up to rub at his tired eyes again.
"Stop that," you whispered, gently pulling his hands away. "You'll make them redder."
"Sorry," he mumbled as he let his hands drop.
You started rummaging through his cabinets, finally finding a sealed package of cookies. Ripping it open, you handed him one. He took it obediently and began to nibble. Yet, even in his drowsy state, his gaze was a magnet, drifting from your eyes down to your lips once more.
"I can't wait to kiss you," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.
The blunt confession made a fond smile form on your face. "Oh, really?" you asked amused.
He sounded oddly flirty, a side of him so rarely seen, and it sent a wave of warmth through you.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached for another cookie, his movements slow. “The first time I thought of kissing you was when you wore that peach lipgloss.”
You thought for a second, a smile playing on your lips. “Lip oil,” you gently corrected.
“Lip oil. Right,” he repeated, filing the information away with a serious nod. “It smelled really nice. And you looked… really pretty.” The simplicity of the compliment, delivered with such honesty, struck you deeply.
You had been honestly at a loss for words throughout this entire conversation. Giddy joy was bubbling up inside you, making you want to jump on the bed, scream into a pillow in sheer delight, and kick your feet in the air like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush.
“Well,” you said, your voice soft and slightly flustered, “I’ll make sure to wear that lip oil when we kiss.”
His eyes, which had been half-lidded with exhaustion, widened with happiness. “Yeah?” he asked, his entire face lighting up.
“Mhm,” you nodded, your heart swelling as you watched him. The mere idea of genuinely planning your first kiss was exciting him so visibly, that it was almost too much to bear.
He took another happy bite of his cookie, then paused, his brow furrowing in a look of deep concentration. “Am I still drunk?” he asked. “I ate and drank.” Apparently, alcohol also had the temporary side effect of lowering his iq.
You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Yes, Spencer. You’re still very drunk,” you said, your voice fond as you handed him another cookie to keep him occupied.
“Right,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. The logical part of his brain had confirmed the truth, but the hopeful, lovesick part was clearly impatient for the sober morning to arrive.
You smiled softly, watching the flicker of insecurity cross his face as the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a more sobering self-awareness.
"You do want to kiss me too, right?" he asked quietly. "You're not just going to kiss me because I'm being weird right now. And drunk. And saying lots of things I shouldn't be saying?" Spencer spoke slowly. "I really, really don't want you to feel like you have to kiss me or force yourself to do something you don't want to. I get it if you just wanna stick with us confessing to each other." He stared at you intently, his hazel eyes searching yours for the absolute truth.
"Spencer," you said, your voice full of certainty, "I'd love to kiss you, and I'm not doing you a favor. I really want to kiss you."
"Okay," he quieted down, a relieved smile finally gracing his lips again, the worry melting away.
"Can I hug you?" he asked softly after a moment. "I don't think I'm too drunk to not hug you." His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to gauge his own sobriety for such an important task.
You smiled, your heart feeling impossibly full. "Yeah, come here." You held up your arms, and he fell into them. He tried his best to hold his own weight, but his coordination was still lacking, causing him to lean into you more than he probably intended. You didn't mind in the slightest.
"You feeling better?" you asked softly, your fingers gently brushing through his curls. You were talking about the alcohol, the dizziness and the overwhelming nature of the night.
"Yeah," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and content. "Cookies helped."
"That's good, honey," you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as you brushed a hand over his back.
He stood there for a long moment, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. "Are you going to call me that when we're boyfriend girlfriend?" he asked, his tone utterly serious.
You bit your lip, hard, to stop the laugh that was about to come out. You stood there, trying to compose yourself at his adorably formal phrasing. "You mean 'honey'?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly with suppressed amusement.
He nodded, his expression earnest.
"Do you like it?" you asked softly.
"Yes," Spencer mumbled, a faint blush returning to his cheeks.
"Okay," you said, your smile so wide it almost hurt. "Yeah, I can call you that when we're boyfriend girlfriend." You couldn't stop yourself from the fond tease of repeating his chosen label.
Spencer squinted his eyes. "You're making fun of me," he mumbled, though there was no real hurt in his tone.
You giggled out loud as you held onto his waist for balance, both of you swaying slightly. "I'm sorry," you managed between soft laughs. "I just—why did you say 'boyfriend girlfriend'? It's so formal."
Spencer was smiling a bit at the sound of your laughter, but his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Isn't that the term?"
"It just sounds a little funny, that's all," you explained, your giggles subsiding into a warm smile.
Spencer chuckled along. "Okay. Yeah, maybe it does sound a bit odd," he conceded. "Is 'couple' a better term?"
"Yeah, honey, it is," you affirmed, your voice fond.
He felt a new kind of warmth spread through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way you said that word.
"Should I call you an endearment, too?" he asked carefully.
You tilted your head, your smile softening. "I don't know. Do you want to?"
Spencer shrugged, a small shy gesture. "It would be nice," he admitted, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "It'd be my special word for you."
Your heart melted. It was clearly very important to him and you found it incredibly endearing. "Well, do you have any in mind?" you asked softly, finally taking the cookie box from his loose grip and putting it away, noticing he hadn't taken any new pieces.
Spencer stayed quiet, staring into the distance as he thought. After a long moment, he looked back at you, his expression nervous. "Would you like… 'sweetheart'?" he said, the word sounding gentle and sweet on his tongue.
You smiled, touched by the old-fashioned sweetness of it. "Would you like to call me 'sweetheart'?" you asked, wanting to hear his reasoning.
He nodded, a little more sure now. "Yeah. I think so. My aunt's husband used to call her that. And she loved it. She would fluster every time." He didn't mention how his aunt and her husband were the only couple he'd ever seen growing up who genuinely seemed to love each other, a beacon of what a relationship could be amidst the chaos of his own parents. He didn't have the words for that yet, but the memory was a good one.
You smiled fondly. "I would love that," you said, your voice sincere.
"Okay," he whispered.
Spencer seemed happy, and utterly exhausted. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you said quietly, leading him by the hand toward his bedroom. He followed willingly, his fingers laced tightly with yours.
In his room, you grabbed a set of pajamas from a drawer and handed them to him, turning your back to give him privacy to change. Once he mumbled a quiet "done," you turned back to find him swaying slightly on his feet. You guided him into bed, gently maneuvering him onto his side, a precaution against the alcohol still in his system. He complied without protest.
Soon enough, you were standing above him, looking down at his sleepy form with a fond smile. His eyes were closed, his breathing beginning to even out. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" you whispered, not wanting to startle him.
His eyes flew open immediately. "What?"
"I'll come by in the morning. I'll bring you some food for your hangover," you explained, softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.
"You're not staying?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment and surprise.
You looked at him, a little taken aback. "You want me to?"
"Yeah," he nodded. Now that he had you here, he never wanted you to leave.
You watched him, sensing the unspoken thought. Your smile was soft and understanding. "Okay," you whispered. "Well, move aside, sleepyhead."
To your luck, you were wearing clothes comfortable enough to sleep in. You slipped into the bed beside him, turning onto your side to face him. He watched your every movement. Now you were face to face, sharing the same pillow.
"Thank you for taking care of me," Spencer whispered. This time, he was the one to reach forward, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was a careful touch, one he had been too nervous to initiate all night, the hug being the only bravery he'd allowed himself. His palm cupped your cheek, his hand big and warm, almost engulfing the entire side of your face.
"Any time," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "I had fun, you know."
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I mean," you grinned, "it got my long-time crush to confess his feelings to me."
Spencer blushed but still scooted closer. You let him. The two of you watched each other for a long time. But sleep was clearly trying to claim him. His blinks were becoming longer, his breathing deeper. He tried to fight it, wanting to cherish this new reality of being able to simply look at you, but the exhaustion was winning.
As if reading his thoughts, you whispered softly, "Sleep, Spencer. I'll be here in the morning."
Reassured by the promise of a lifetime of mornings to come, he finally let his eyes drift shut, a smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep, your hand still resting gently in his.
When morning came, it arrived with a pounding against the inside of Spencer’s skull. He stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. Any movement, even the subtle shift of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.
He laid there for long minutes, when the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Your hand on his back in the bar. Your hands cradling his face in the bathroom.
The confession about his ties, his eyes, his…feelings.
His mouth fell open in a silent gasp of horror. He sat up abruptly, a move he instantly regretted as the room tilted violently. He looked to the side of the bed.
It was empty.
A cold dread washed over him. He had done it. He had shattered your perfect friendship. But then his eyes landed on the nightstand. Your hair clips were there, placed neatly beside the lamp. You must have taken them out before bed. A spark of hope flickered in his chest.
He carefully swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, draped over the counter next to his tie, was your thin autumn jacket. You were still here.
And then the terror returned, tenfold. He wanted to run. To flee his own apartment and hide from the vulnerability he had so carelessly displayed. But as he stood there, paralyzed by shame, another memory surfaced.
He had been fumbling with his pajama pants, the fabric seeming to conspire against his alcohol-slowed fingers. You had had your back turned to him, giving him privacy, and your voice had been soft.
"Spencer?"
"Hm?"
"Promise me something. Please don't regret a single thing tomorrow."
He’d been too focused on the monumental task of getting dressed to fully process it, mumbling a quick, "Yes, i promise," just to satisfy you.
He took a shaky breath and splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it bringing more snippets of the night back. "I can't wait to kiss you." "It'd be my special word for you." "Sweetheart." Shame heated his skin, but he fought it, clinging to the memory of your promise and his own.
He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. The minty taste was a welcome assault. He could hear sounds coming from his kitchen. You were in his kitchen.
He brushed his teeth for ten full minutes. He scrubbed harshly, wanting to erase every last trace of the night's indiscretions, wanting his breath to be perfect.
Because he remembered, with agonizing specificity, the conversation about kissing. And he was determined to be ready.
Spencer slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen once he was done, hovering in the doorway as he silently watched you. You were at his stove, humming softly as you flipped a golden-brown pancake.
Soon enough, you felt his presence and turned, a warm smile immediately gracing your features. Spencer’s eyes darted instinctively to your lips, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Good morning,” you said, turning off the stove.
“Morning,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and regret. He stood there, awkward and embarrassed, but trying his best to hold his ground.
“How’s the headache?” you asked, your tone sympathetic.
“Bad,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Like, really bad.”
You nodded and moved to the counter, grabbing a glass of water and some vitamins. “Here, take this.”
As you handed them to him, your fingers brushed against his. Spencer froze slightly at the contact, a difference from the way he’d leaned into your touch just hours before. He took the vitamins and swallowed them quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the kitchen, anywhere but at you. Unlike yesterday
“I made you pancakes!” you announced, trying to cut through the tension.
Spencer glanced at the small stack on the plate. “Thank you,” he said with a weak, strained smile. “You really didn’t have to do that. I’m so sorry for… for last night.” He stuttered over the apology, the words heavy with shame.
You gently took the empty glass from his hands and then, before he could retreat, you took his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly.
“Spencer,” you said, his name sounding so sweet coming from you.
“Hm?” he mumbled in response, still looking determinedly at a point over your shoulder.
“What did I tell you yesterday?” you prompted, your voice patient.
He looked away, his jaw tightening. He remained silent, the weight of his embarrassment seeming to press him into the floor.
“Spencer,” you said again.
He finally relented, the words a defeated mumble. “Not to regret what I said.”
“Exactly!” you said, your voice brimming with warmth. You released his hands, only to bring your own up to gently frame his face, guiding his gaze until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.
His worried hazel eyes finally locked with yours. And what he saw there wasn’t pity or regret. He saw your happy eyes, shining with affection. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve.
“So, will you please listen to me?” you asked, your voice soft.
Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his embarrassment still lingering, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, the sound full of relief. “I’ll try my best.”
He saw you open your arms slightly and he let himself fall into the hug, his own arms wrapping around you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes. “God,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t believe I said all of that.”
You held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “Honestly, it progressed our relationship in ways it hadn't in the past few years.”
Spencer let out a genuine chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Guess so,” he conceded, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes immediately darted down to your lips, and a knowing grin spread across your face.
“Peach lip oil,” he whispered as he noticed you were waiting for him to acknowledge it.
“Yup,” you confirmed, your grin widening. “Had it in my bag. Thought I could put it to good use.”
A deep blush colored his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Right. Yeah,” he breathed, his gaze locked on yours.
Your hands slid down his chest, smoothing the soft wool of his cardigan. “So,” you began, your own voice dropping to a slightly flustered whisper. “You’re sober.”
Spencer nodded, watching you. “Completely.”
“If you’d like,” you said, your heart hammering against your ribs, “you can kiss me now.”
A slow, wondrous smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that very much.”
His hands came up to frame your face, his touch infinitely more sure than it had been last night. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as his eyes flickered down to your glistening lips and back up. He smiled fondly, and then, gathering his courage, he finally pressed his lips to yours.
It was nice. More than nice. It was soft, and warm. A happy hum vibrated in his throat, and you echoed it with one of your own. The kiss broke several times, because neither of you could stop smiling. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, both of you simply smiling.
"I've wanted to do that for two years," Spencer breathed.
You felt your heart swell, your smile widening. "Yeah," you whispered back. "Me too."
A look of pure wonder crossed his face, and he leaned in to capture your lips once more in a sweet affirming kiss. When he pulled back again, his expression was slightly dazed. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.
You shook your head slowly, your hands coming up to cradle his jaw. "No, honey," you whispered. "You're not."
The term of affection had an immediate and delightful effect. A charming blush spread from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. You couldn't help the wide grin that spread across your face.
"Yeah," he mumbled, a blissful smile finally breaking through his flustered state. "Definitely not dreaming."
Overwhelmed by happiness, he pulled you tightly into his arms, burying his face in your hair. You held him just as close, feeling the last of his tension melt away.
His embarrassment was completely forgotten, washed away by the simple joy of the moment. All the awkwardness and worry of the night before had led him here and it was worth every single second.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: in which spencer decides to break up with you, and you ask for just one more day together before he does.
content warnings: lots of tears ( as expected ), mention of spencer's dad, spencer and reader still love each other, lots of mentions of spencer's trauma in prison, no happy ending
a/n: hai! i have been in a very angsty mood, so forgive me for this.
The hate you held for early mornings was a fundamental part of your being. They were a rude interruption of peace. Most days, Spencer had to gently coax you out of bed with soft words and the promise of coffee.
But not today.
Today, consciousness found you on its own, your eyes opening to the soft light seeping through the blinds. You turned your head on the pillow. Spencer was already awake, his eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling. Feeling your movement, he turned his head and offered you a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was a ghost of his usual morning expression, a mere muscle memory of happiness.
You didn't say a word. Instead, you shifted across the sheets to press yourself against his side, stealing his warmth while you still had the right to.
A soft, almost pained sigh escaped him, and his arms enveloped you without hesitation. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in, while his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you against his chest. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head, his long fingers gently brushing through your tangled strands before he pressed a soft kiss to your crown.
“Good morning,” he whispered, his voice showing that he'd had a sleepless night.
You squeezed your eyes shut, nuzzling into the hollow of his neck. “There’s nothing good about this morning,” you whispered back, the words bitter on your tongue. You knew it was a cruel thing to say, but the pain in your chest was a festering thing, demanding to be heard.
It was just so hard. There had been difficulties in your relationship for a while now. Conversations that died before they started, the way he’d sometimes look at you with both love and guilt.
And then yesterday, he’d said the words. “I think we should break up.”
You had known with certainty that he didn’t want to. This was not a man who had fallen out of love. The sheer love in his eyes was too prominent to be a lie. Spencer had just been relentlessly beating himself up ever since prison, convinced he was a burden.
That he was making you suffer through his nightmares, his flinches at slamming doors, the way he still had to mentally prepare himself to do laundry because the scent of industrial cleaner sent him back to a cold cell. He saw a lifetime of these difficult moments stretching before him and he wanted to spare you.
You had pleaded. You had cried, your tears leaving dark spots on his sweater. But, he had been determined, his own eyes shining as he brushed your tears away with his thumbs, kissing your damp cheeks as if to memorize the feel of them.
In a moment of last-ditch bargaining, you had told him you wanted one last thing.
“Anything,” he had replied, his voice cracking, because in that moment, he truly meant it. He would have given you the moon.
“One last day,” you had managed to choke out. “A day where we aren’t broken up. And the second the clock strikes midnight tonight, you can say we are.”
He had agreed. Reluctantly, his expression pained, but he had agreed. He knew he owed you that much. He was breaking your heart for what he believed were selfless reasons and this one final perfect day was the only amends he could think to make.
So here you were, wrapped in his arms in the quiet morning, playing house, pretending this wasn't a goodbye.
Spencer didn’t reply to your bitter words. Instead, he pressed another soft kiss to your crown, a silent apology pressed into your hair. He then laid his cheek against the top of your head. Your scent, the softness of your hair against his skin, the way your body molded perfectly against his. He was memorizing it all, because he knew he was going to miss this more than anything else in the world.
A shaky sigh escaped him, and somehow, you felt a small, ugly ounce of pride that he was just as shattered as you were. You knew, he was doing this for you, but some moments felt like he was doing it to you.
The guilt crept in and you immediately chastised yourself. You didn’t want him to be any more miserable than he already was.
Seeking absolution, you pressed a quick kiss to the hollow of his collarbone, feeling the delicate architecture of bone beneath his skin. In response, his hand swept over your back, a gesture so familiar it made your throat tight. Emboldened by his reaction, you snuck another kiss, this time to his throat.
The silence stretched, until Spencer finally broke it, his voice carefully neutral. “What do you wanna eat for breakfast?”
Your eyes were still closed. “Whatever you want,” you whispered, but the words came out choked with the tears you were desperately trying to hold back.
You felt him shift, his head tilting to look down at you. You didn’t need to see his face to know the expression he wore. Guilt and concern. He was searching for the right words, but you already knew what he was about to say. He couldn’t bear this day if it was just going to be watching you grieve.
“I’m trying, Spencer,” you whispered. You squeezed your eyes tighter, as if to physically hold the tears in. “I really am trying very hard.”
The tension in his body eased slightly, replaced by defeat. “I know you are,” he whispered after a long pause, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry.”
He pulled you even tighter into his arms, as if he could absorb your pain through sheer proximity.
After a while, you took a shaky breath and pulled back, sitting up in the tangle of sheets. “Okay,” you said, your voice steadier now. “We can have breakfast. I’m okay now.” You smoothed your hair back from your face, a small attempt at normalcy.
Spencer remained lying down, his head on the pillow, just watching you. His gaze was full of a love so profound it was indistinguishable from pain. “Pancakes?” he asked softly.
Your fingers found his hand where it was on the mattress between you. You began to trace the lines of his palm. He let you, his hand relaxing, his thumb brushing a circle on the back of your wrist as he waited for your verbal answer. He could see you were still grappling with the reality of the day, your mind drifting in and out of the moment.
But then you lifted your head, and you gave him a smile. It was a wobbly thing, but it was genuine. “Yes. Pancakes.”
The domestic routine that followed was bittersweet. Once you had both brushed your teeth, you migrated to the kitchen. You weren't sure if you were clinging to him, or he to you. You settled on the kitchen counter. Every time he passed by, your hand would reach out, brushing his arm, his back, his hip. Just making sure he was still here.
And he did the same.
He burned the first three pancakes, because he kept abandoning the skillet to stand between your legs, his hands coming up to cradle your face or brush through your sleep-tousled hair. He would just look at you, wordlessly, for long moments, and you let him. Partly because you were still drowsy. You started to sway slightly, almost falling asleep sitting up.
Each time, he would lean in and press a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, waking you up with a smile. He knew you would be furious with yourself if you slept through any of your precious time.
When the pancakes were finally finished, you stayed on the counter, eating them straight from the plate, your legs swinging lightly.
After a while, Spencer mumbled around a bite of his own, his voice hesitant. “You sure this isn’t worse for you?”
He felt like he was administering a slow-acting poison, drawing out the agony. He knew you had proposed this last day, but he was the one who had put you in the position of having to ask for it.
You sighed, swallowing your bite. You set your fork down and looked at him. “No. It’s not.” To emphasize your point, you interlocked your ankles behind his waist, pulling him closer. Your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, your thumbs softly brushing the fabric of his t-shirt. “At least it gives me time to do things with intention. Spend the morning with you, go to bed with you tonight, eat with you, kiss you—” You leaned forward and kissed him then, a soft, flour-dusted kiss that made him smile sadly against your lips. “—just do all the things I’ll never get to do again.”
Spencer nodded, his hands settling on your thighs, his touch a brand you wished was permanent. He looked down at you, his eyes swimming with a conflict you knew all too well.
“And also,” you added, your voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I’m holding onto the hope that you’ll change your mind.”
Spencer stared at you.
“It’s just a tiny hope,” you whispered, as if saying it too loudly might scare it away.
“I—” Spencer started. He had a pained expression on his face.
But you stopped him, your fingers gently pressing against his lips. “I know,” you whispered, the words a soft surrender. You didn’t need to hear him voice the rejection . “But thinking like that… it will make the day a little easier for me.”
He studied your face, reading the plea in your eyes, and nodded in understanding. He would grant you this. He would grant you everything. “Okay,” he whispered.
He let his head lull forward, resting his cheek heavily on your shoulder. It was a gesture of utter exhaustion and trust. You brought your hand up, your fingers combing gently through the soft, chestnut waves of his hair.
“What do you wanna do next?” he asked softly, his voice muffled against your skin. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you so close you had to brace your hands on his shoulders to keep from tipping off the counter.
“Can we go to the park?” you asked, your voice small. “Get coffee, and then just… walk around.”
Spencer lifted his head, a ghost of his old, playful smile touching his lips. “A specific park?” he teased, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.
You mirrored his faint smile. “Hmm. Maybe.”
“The park where we had our first kiss?” he asked, his tone teasing but his eyes unbearably soft.
“Possibly,” you grinned.
Spencer understood what you were truly asking for. This wasn't just a stroll. This was your way of making peace. You were being mature and seeking closure. If you walked through that park, you wouldn't just remember the memory of your first kiss and associate it with him breaking your heart. You would also remember coming here with him on this last day, and you would remember that he loved you so desperately he was trying to set you free. You were trying to overwrite the future pain with a final, loving memory. It would be a testament to his love and his struggle.
You were doing it for him, so that in the future, when you thought of Spencer Reid, you would remember that he tried his best.
The sheer force of his love for you crashed over him then, so powerful it stole his breath. For a single, dizzying second, looking at you in his arms, he truly believed, that he wouldn't go through with it. That he could never let you go.
But then your hand came up, your fingers gently wrapping around his wrist where it rested on your thigh. Your touch was tender, but it was his own skin you were touching.
His mind immediately supplied the memory of the scar that was under his sleeve. He threw the hopeful thought away, locking it down deep.
“Okay,” he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, a seal on his decision. “Let’s get dressed.”
It was cold outside but you were grateful for the excuse to press yourself into Spencer’s warm side. The walk to the coffee shop was quiet as your intertwined fingers swung between you.
The coffee shop was your place. It was a small, family-run bakery with peeling paint on the window frames. The elderly woman behind the counter, whose name you’d learned was Dorothy, looked up as the bell above the door chimed. Her face lit up.
“Oh, hi you two,” she greeted, her voice warm as she immediately began preparing your usual orders without needing to be asked. “You’re here early.”
You simply leaned your head against Spencer’s shoulder, offering Dorothy a soft, tired smile as Spencer started a conversation with her. You closed your eyes, just focusing on the feel of Spencer’s hand gently brushing down your arm and through your hair.
Dorothy finished your drinks, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she took in the sight of you nestled against Spencer. “I hope my services,” she said, already wrapping a pastry in a small bag and handing it to you, “and my free pastries, will get me a front seat at your wedding one day.”
The air left Spencer’s lungs. He had been in the process of pulling out his wallet, but his movements froze. His fingers brushed against the Polaroid tucked inside. A picture of the two of you at Morgan’s wedding. That very day you had spent hours playfully arguing over your own future wedding.
And now, here was Dorothy, unknowingly twisting the knife of that lost future.
Spencer recovered with a weak smile. “Yeah. Of course,” he managed, his voice tight. He handed her a bill, telling her to keep the change. The desire to escape the kindly-meant assumption was suddenly overwhelming.
You thanked her quietly, before turning to leave.
Outside, Spencer noticed your silence. You didn't take a single sip of your drink until you were seated on the cold bench in the park. You stared straight ahead, your coffee cooling between your hands.
“Guess we’re never getting your weird anemones,” you mumbled, your voice flat.
The flowers. He had been so insistent, launching into a five-minute fact-filled monologue about their symbolism, making you laugh even as you argued for classic roses.
Spencer looked at you. He had expected tears. And he did find them, but just a single, perfect one tracing a path down your chilled cheek. It was the quiet grief that broke his heart more.
He smiled, a weak mirror of your own sorrow, and pulled you closer, tucking you into his chest. He pressed his lips to your hair. “Guess not,” he whispered into the silence, the two words holding the weight of a thousand shattered dreams.
You stayed like that for a long while. Eventually, he shifted, the rustle of the paper bag breaking the silence. He opened it and offered it to you. You took it, your fingers tearing the warm pastry neatly in two before handing him his share.
You sat up, turning your body towards his so you could watch his face. He gave you a small smile and that’s when you started talking. Normally. As if it were any other lazy Saturday morning.
You asked him about the lecture he was scheduled to teach next week, and his eyes lit up. He asked you about your upcoming performance review at work, and you launched into a detailed rundown of your projects. For a few precious minutes, it was perfect. He spilled random, fascinating facts about the sparrows hopping near your feet, and you listened, amazed as always. You told him about a new book you were dying to read, and he nodded, excitedly telling you you'd love it.
And all the while, a silent parallel conversation was happening. With every shared future plan, you both tried desperately not to think about the impending finality.
You would never find out how his lecture was received by the students. He would never know if you aced your review and got the promotion you’d worked so hard for. The cheerful chirping of the sparrows would forever be tied to this moment. And you knew that you would never get to tell him whether you loved the book, or if he was right about the ending.
It was all so bittersweet.
At one point, as he was explaining the migratory pattern of a particular bird, you saw his eyes glisten, a single tear escaping to trace a path down his cheek. He didn't pause. He didn't wipe it away. He just kept rambling.
And you didn't comment. You simply listened, memorizing the sound of his voice, the shape of his words, and the loving courage it took for him to give you this one last, perfect piece of normal.
Once the coffee was gone and the last crumbs of the pastry had been brushed away, silence settled between you. You simply watched him, studying the familiar lines of his profile as he gazed out at the trees. A shiver from the cold ran through you, but you were too preoccupied to even notice.
But he noticed. Spencer always noticed.
Without a word, he took the scarf from his own neck, before he looped it gently around yours. The fabric was still warm from his skin and carried the comforting scent of his laundry detergent and his cologne. You sat perfectly still, letting him care for you one last time.
As his hands finished adjusting the scarf, they lingered near your jaw. You seized the opportunity, leaning forward to bridge the small gap between you, pressing your lips to his.
His response was immediate. His hands came up to frame your face as he returned the kiss. The autumn air, which moments before had raised goosebumps on your skin, seemed to melt away, replaced by the warmth that started where your mouths met and spread through your entire body.
It was funny, in a tragic way, how it mirrored your first kiss on this very bench. Then, Spencer had been terribly nervous, pulling back after barely five seconds to stammer, "Is this okay? Are you— is this alright?" Of course it had been more than alright.
This time, there was no hesitation. Hundreds of past kisses had long since erased any doubt. Yet, there was a profound difference.
Your previous kisses were so often punctuated by smiles. A giggle against his lips, a happy sigh that broke the contact or a shared grin in the middle of it all. This kiss held none of that joy. It was entirely serious, full of everything you were losing. It was a kiss of goodbye, poured into the language of hello.
Spencer was the one to pull back, just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.
"I love you," he whispered.
It sounded like a plea, as if he were trying to brand the truth of it onto your soul. He didn't wait for a reply, leaning in to capture your lips in another long deep kiss, as if afraid of what you might say.
When you finally had the breath to speak, you whispered your answer against his mouth. "I love you more."
You felt the faintest tremor run through him. Spencer knew, with every fiber of his being, that sentence could never be true.
He was certain, that he would always love you more than anyone ever could. It was the very reason he was letting you go.
You were sure the kiss lasted for ages. But you would never complain, and neither would he.
When you finally pulled back, Spencer’s hands didn't leave your face. Instead, they gently smoothed your hair, which his fingers had tangled in their intensity. He brushed the strands back with tenderness, tucking them carefully over the scarf he’d just given you. You offered him a soft, watery smile, your gaze drifting to his red kiss-bitten lips.
“Bookstore?” he asked, his voice quiet.
It was where you’d gone after your first date. You nodded, and he stood, pulling you up from the bench with him. But before you could take a step, he pulled you into a silent hug, his arms locked around you as if trying to fuse your souls together. Then, wordlessly, he pulled back and laced his fingers through yours, picked up the empty coffee cups and pastry bag, and disposed of them.
The bookshop was warm and smelled of old paper and cinnamon. And for a while, Spencer wouldn’t stop talking. It was a familiar sound as he pulled volumes from the shelves, piling them up. But beneath the enthusiasm, there was a territorial edge to it.
He felt a pang of guilt, but he couldn't help it. The more books he could recommend, the more he could saturate your future reading list with his presence. He wanted to be the ghost in your library, the first person you thought of when you saw a certain classic or a niche non-fiction title. He knew it was a cruel and selfish impulse, but he couldn't help it.
As he watched you glance at the synopsis of a novel he’d handed you, a new, more sickening thought took root. He realized that while you were seeking closure by revisiting these sacred spots, there was a parallel terrifying risk.
What if, one day, you overwrote these memories with someone new?
Dread coiled in his stomach. He pictured a faceless man standing where he was now. Someone else who would receive the loving look you were currently giving him. Someone else whose hand you would hold as you browsed the poetry section. Someone else who would feel that specific flutter in his chest just from watching you, who would feel like he could hold up the entire sky simply because you existed and chose to stand by his side.
The pain of that was so visceral, his knees almost buckled. He realized how profoundly selfish he was being. He could still have this. He could. You were right there, leaning your head against his upper arm. You were here.
But isn't this exactly what he wanted? For you to find someone better? Someone whole, who didn't carry the ghosts of prison, who wouldn't flinch at a slammed door or disappear into a silent, thousand-yard stare?
The contradiction was tearing him in two. His selfish love that screamed to keep you and his selfless love that begged him to let you go for your own good. He stood frozen in the aisle. The weight of the book in his hand feeling like the weight of the world.
He wanted to cry. The urge was a physical pressure behind his eyes. It was a need to just sink to the dark brown floorboards and sob. It was the terrifying image of a future without you, so painful it threatened to buckle his knees.
You looked up at him, and you saw it immediately. You didn't know the specific thought that had triggered it, but you knew the cause.
You offered him a weak, understanding smile. “We’ll be fine,” you whispered.
Four simple words. They held no false promises, no specifics about a future he was determined to sacrifice. They were just reassurance. Assuring him that it would work out. Somehow.
Spencer stared at you, his brilliant mind struggling to compute the simple truth in your statement. But slowly, he nodded. You nodded back.
His gaze dropped to your hands, still entwined with his, and he noticed the faint tremor in your fingers. He didn't say anything. He couldn't possibly know that you were trapped in the same cruel, parallel thought. The fear that one day, his vast knowledge and tender enthusiasm would be poured out for someone else.
What you also couldn't know was that Spencer wasn't planning on that. In fact, he wasn't planning on ever having anyone besides you. In his heart, he knew you were the love of his life. The idea of another person felt like a betrayal of a fundamental law of the universe. No one could ever fill the space you occupied in his heart.
No one could make it flutter with such pure joy and break it with such profound sorrow, all at once.
You squeezed his hand and he brought your joined hands up to his face. He closed his eyes, pressing a long, desperate kiss to your knuckles.
The walk home was quiet. Spencer’s arms were filled with bags. You had lost a small fortune in that store, but the delight of exchanging titles had been wonderful. He had insisted on paying for it all. As always.
With his hands full, you couldn't hold them, so you clung to his upper arm instead. The air had gotten colder and by the time you reached your apartment building, you were almost shaking.
Despite the need to go up to your warm apartement, you stopped at the bottom of the staircase. You didn't take the first step. You just stood there, staring at the path upward.
Spencer paused beside you, shifting the heavy bags in his hands. "You okay?" he asked, his voice soft.
You didn't answer. You didn't need to. He followed your gaze to the steps and understood instantly. This was a threshold. This would be the last time you walked up these stairs together, toward a home you shared.
So he stayed there with you, despite the bag handles cutting into his palms. His own eyes traced the path, memorizing the sight of you here. He was taking it in, too.
After a long moment, you turned and offered him a weak smile. "Come on," you whispered, the words barely audible.
You took the first step, and your heart seemed to grow heavier with each one. A counterweight to your ascending body. On the third step, your foot caught. In an instant, his arm was there, steadying you as the heavy bags swung wildly with the sudden movement.
When you finally arrived at your apartment door and stepped inside, Spencer simply dropped the bags. He turned and pulled you into his arms, hugging you so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse your broken pieces back together, if only for these last few hours.
The day slipped through your fingers like sand. Before you knew it, lunch had been eaten, and the afternoon had melted away into a marathon of the same cheesy movies you’d fallen in love to during those first weeks of dating. You had laughed at the same parts, smiled at the same silly dialogues, and when a particularly tender moment hit too close to home, you teared up.
Now, it was fully dark outside.
The only light in the living room came from the television. You were lying in Spencer’s arms on the couch, his back against the cushions and your head nestled on his chest. Your fingers traced patterns over the soft cotton of his shirt, while his own hand moved in deliberate motions across your back.
“I have no clue what that one said,” you murmured.
He traced the same series of letters on your back again.
“Silly?” you guessed.
Spencer let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. “No.”
He spelled the word on your back once more.
“Spencer, just tell me,” you sighed.
He grinned, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your forehead. “It’s ‘sweet’,” he confessed.
“Oh,” you said, as he traced it one last time for confirmation. “Right, that makes sense.” You let out a defeated sigh, having lost this silent game at least ten times now.
He smiled. He had been using words that described you for every round - brilliant, kind, beautiful, sweet - slowly, subtly giving you a reminder. One last way to tell you how wonderful you were.
You scooted closer, if that was even possible, and the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. You focused on the warmth of his chest. You wondered, not for the first time, if his constant warmth was a physical manifestation of his love. A heat generated by the sheer force of his feelings for you and yours for him.
He rested his cheek against the top of your head, closing his eyes. You smelled like vanilla, a scent that had become his favorite the day he met you. Before you, it was just a flavor. Now, it was the aroma of home and you.
He felt you shift, tension entering your body. Spencer could always tell when something was weighing on your mind. “You okay?” he asked softly.
The question had long since stopped being about your general state. He knew you weren't ‘okay’ in the grand scheme of things. It had become a more specific, moment-to-moment check-in. Are you okay right now, in this exact second?
You scooted even closer, your leg thrown over his hips in a desperate attempt to erase any space between you.
“Did you change your mind?” you whispered into the quiet of the room.
Spencer stayed perfectly still. The only movement was his hand, which never stopped its gentle journey through your hair. His silence was an answer in itself.
“No, honey,” he whispered, after a while.
He didn’t use that particular pet name often. His mother on her good days would use it, when she would explain why his father was no longer here. She had used it to soften the blow of a hard truth and now, so did he.
“Okay,” you whispered back, the word a small surrender.
For a moment, it was quiet. You heard a car loudly drive through the streets. Then, sudden panic surged through him. His father, someone he’d spent a lifetime trying to convince himself he was different from, loomed large.
Was he not doing the same thing? Was he not walking away from someone he loved?
The logic was flawed, his father had abandoned an ill wife and a vulnerable child. He was leaving a strong, healthy woman to protect her, but the emotional resonance was a poison in his veins. The fear that he was perpetuating a cycle of abandonment, that he was fundamentally the same, was paralyzing.
He lifted his cheek from the top of your head, his hands coming up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wide and glistening in the dim light.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words cracking. “I really am.” A tear escaped, tracing a path down his temple before disappearing into his hairline. He hadn't even felt it fall. “So, so, so sorry.”
You reached up, your thumb gently brushing away the next tear before it could fall. “I know, Spencer,” you whispered, your own voice thick.
“I’m not leaving because—because I can’t handle us.” he rushed out, desperate for you to understand the terrifying landscape inside his mind. “I just— I…”
He wanted to articulate the monstrous, shameful circle of his love. He wanted to say that he loved you so much it was a physical pain in his chest. He wanted to describe the specific, corrosive shame that flooded him when he woke from a nightmare to find you already awake, your eyes tired and full of concern because of him. In those moments, the guilt was so immense he felt he could die from it right there.
He wanted to explain that sometimes, the sheer, unearned magnitude of your love for him was so blinding it was painful to look at you. He saw the proof of it in your red-rimmed eyes, mirroring his own exhaustion. He wanted to confess that on the days when the quiet inside him grew too loud, he wanted to yell at himself to just be normal, to rip open his own mouth and force out a laugh, to forget the phantom scent of a specifc industrial cleaner, the echo of slamming steel doors.
But the trauma was a weight chained to his ankles, so heavy some days he could barely move. And the most terrifying part was that there was no expiration date.
This wasn't a flu he would recover from. These feelings wouldn't haunt him every second of every day, but they would also never be gone forever.
He couldn't sentence you to a future dictated by unpredictable triggers. His love for you was the one thing he could still control and so he was using it to set you free. In the most heartbreaking way possible.
“I know, Spencer,” you whispered, your own tears finally breaking free. You watched him, your gaze seeing past the tears, straight into the beautiful soul of the man you loved. You knew him, perhaps better than he knew himself in this moment.
“You’re nothing like him,” you whispered into the silence between you. “You are the most amazing, sweet, and caring man I know.” You lifted a hand, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. “Who I know is just trying to protect me.”
Spencer’s breath hitched, a grateful sound. He needed that. He needed the absolution of you understanding his motive, of seeing the twisted act of protection beneath the act of abandonment.
“I really do love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” you whispered back. “I love you, too.”
This time, you replaced 'more' with 'too'. Maybe you finally understood how immense his love really was.
Spencer stared at you with tearful eyes. You were saying all the right things. You weren't fixing the wounds he carried. They were too deep, too complex for a simple fix. But you were soothing them, like applying a balm to dry skin, like tucking a soft blanket around a shivering body, like offering a piece of chocolate to a weary soul.
The pain wasn't gone, but in your arms, with your words, it was taken out of his mind, held at bay by a tenderness he feared he'd never feel again.
He pulled you closer then, burying his face in the curve of your neck. He simply let his tears silently fall, soaking into your hair and your sweater. You held him through it. You let him cry, your fingers combing through his soft hair, your lips pressing feather-light kisses to his temple, his forehead, his tear-stained cheek, any patch of skin you could reach.
After a while, his eyes drifted to the clock on the wall. It was very late.
Spencer slowly sat up. The space where he had been lying felt instantly cold. He didn't look at you, his gaze fixed on a loose thread on the couch.
“Is it okay if Garcia comes by sometime to get my things?” he asked quietly.
You sat up, too, wrapping your arms around yourself. If he came himself, he was sure it would destroy him. He would fall to his knees on this very spot, and his composure would shatter into a million irreparable pieces.
And he knew that if he sent Penelope, she would be a wonderful comfort for you, armed with hugs, terrible reality TV shows, and good snacks. He knew she could make you laugh through the tears.
You nodded. “Yeah,” you managed, the sound barely audible. “That’s okay.”
Spencer stood and walked to the door. He sat on the small bench to put on his shoes, taking an excruciatingly long time to tie the laces, as if delaying this moment could somehow delay the future. When he finally looked up, his breath caught.
You were standing a few feet away, and in the faint light from the hallway, he could see the silent tears streaming down your face.
He stood up instantly, crossing the short distance to brush them away with his thumbs, his touch infinitely gentle. It was then that you found your voice.
“Spencer,” you whispered.
“Hm?” he prompted softly, pulled from the daze of simply memorizing your face.
“When you have a good day,” you began, your voice trembling but clear, “I want you to enjoy it.”
The request seemed random, but to him, it made perfect sense. You were looking into the future he had chosen and giving him one last instruction.
“I don’t want you to regret ending this, if you have a good day, or week, or month, or even a year” you continued. It hurt to talk about such a vast expanse of time stretching out without him in it. “… just enjoy it. Don’t think about how you don’t deserve it because we’re over.”
We are over. The words were in the present tense. The clock had struck midnight, and the spell was broken.
“Okay?” you whispered, your hands coming up to hold his wrists, which were still framing your face. You waited, your gaze holding his, until he gave a slow nod.
“And Spencer,” you added, your voice dropping to a whisper, filled with proud love. “I hope you know you’re a great professor.” God knows he’d spent half of your last weeks together pacing your living room, a nervous wreck over his first days as a professor. “And I hope you get to fulfill your dreams of teaching students about all the wonderful things you know.”
That was the final blow. Spencer’s composure cracked and he let the tears fall freely, tracing the same paths yours had taken. He couldn't believe he was letting someone like you go, someone who, even in the ashes of your relationship, could offer him such profound grace and such unwavering belief.
In that moment, the weight of his loss felt infinite.
“I love you,” you whispered. “And that will never, ever change.”
Spencer stared at you, his expression one of pure, heartbroken disbelief.
“Even after this,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tears. “Even if years pass.” You took a shaky breath, putting words to a truth you had always felt in your soul. “Knowing you means loving you.”
That was the very essence of your love for Spencer Reid. You were fundamentally incapable of knowing him and not feeling an overwhelming, explosive love for him.
“And I’ll never not know you,” you whispered, the logic inescapable and beautiful in its tragedy. “Which means I’ll always love you.”
A small sound escaped him. The first audible sob amidst his silent tears. It was the sound of a man completely and utterly broken open.
“Take care of yourself, Spencer,” you whispered, your voice filled with a final plea. “And be happy. Let yourself be happy.”
Spencer. You knew, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that this was the last time you would ever say his name aloud to him. And God, it tasted so sweet on your lips, like a flavor of home and heartbreak that nothing else would ever replicate.
“I love you,” he whispered back, for what felt like the thousandth time that day, yet it carried the weight of the very first.
You smiled through your tears, a curve of your lips that he committed to memory. He let himself stare, his gaze drinking in every detail of your face for what felt like hours. Then, slowly, his hands fell from your face, and you let your own hands drop from his wrists.
He didn't speak as he gathered his coat and his worn satchel. He just stared at you, standing there in the center of your apartment, knowing with a certainty that shook him to his core that this was the last time he would ever feel this much love in his life. Or, at the very least, be loved like this, so completely, so unconditionally. He knew he would never let himself be loved like this again.
You held his gaze, granting him this last long look. Before either of you were ready, he was at the door, his back to you, his hand on the knob.
That’s when the words you had been fighting back finally broke free. You couldn't let him leave without them.
“I love you too,” you whispered, so quietly, you weren't sure he heard you.
He heard you. He heard the genuine truth in it and the profound strength it took to say it as you were letting him go, as you were honoring his painful, misguided, but deeply loving choice to protect you.
He didn't turn around. He didn't look back. He simply opened the door and stepped through it, closing it behind him with a final click.
im honestly sitting here. alone. in my apartment. currently bawling my eyes out. i've been crying for the past 10 mins. im actually not okay right now. im physically ill. i made chocolate covered strawberries and i want to vomit. my night is ruin and i dont know what to do anymore with my life. jesus christ this ruined me. im not okay™️. yeah it was an amazing fic but at what cost???
Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter.
warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools
wc: 7.6k
You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.
Spencer is still asleep beside you.
You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.
You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.
The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.
In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.
You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.
Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.
But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.
The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.
You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.
Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.
You go still.
A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.
He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.
And god, that does something to you.
You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.
The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.
Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.
He is here. He is yours.
The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.
You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.
It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.
His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.
Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.
Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.
His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.
There is morning, and then there is night.
There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.
His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.
"I don’t know how to turn it off."
It takes you a moment to realize what he means.
He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.
"Spencer."
Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.
"Come to bed."
He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
"I can’t."
A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.
"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"
"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.
A pause.
Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.
Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"
And there it is.
The knife twisting.
You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.
The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.
You just want him to rest.
To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.
But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.
So instead, you say nothing.
"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.
Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.
Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.
Morning. Again.
Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.
Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.
His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.
You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.
Time lurches.
His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.
"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."
Morning.
Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.
You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.
Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.
You want to wake up to this every morning.
But the truth is, you don’t.
You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.
And you love him anyway.
Maybe because of it.
Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.
Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.
Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.
You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.
The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.
You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.
You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.
But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.
“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”
“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.
He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”
You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.
“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”
Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”
You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.
Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.
Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.
The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.
Spencer is slow to let you go.
Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.
But then his stomach growls. Loudly.
You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”
Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”
You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”
He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”
Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.
“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.
He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”
“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.
You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.
Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.
When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”
“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.
Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”
You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”
He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”
Your breath catches.
He says it so easily.
No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.
You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.
“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”
You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.
“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”
And so you say it again, just for him.
Just because he likes hearing it.
“I love you.” Spencer smiles.
After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.
You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.
Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.
Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.
Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.
“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.
“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.
Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.
You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.
There’s nothing rushed about it.
Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.
Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.
And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.
His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.
Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.
You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.
His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.
Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.
He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.
“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.
You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.
Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.
You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.
His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.
Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.
He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do.
And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.
His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.
“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.
He answers you with a kiss.
Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.
You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.
“Again,” he whispers.
So you kiss him again. And again. And again.
Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.
His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.
“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.
You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”
And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.
Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.
Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.
And you let him.
Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.
Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.
Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.
“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.
Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”
You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.
His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.
And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.
You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”
“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”
You don’t let him finish.
You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.
When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—
Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.
Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.
Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.
And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.
You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.
Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.
“I love you,” he whispers.
And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.
"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.
"I know, I know."
It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.
It should be impossible, the way you fit together.
Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.
Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.
He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.
It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.
It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.
"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.
And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.
When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.
As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.
Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.
Whole. Uninterrupted.
Until—
A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.
Spencer stills.
You blink.
And then—
Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.
Spencer bursts into laughter.
It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.
“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.
Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.
“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”
You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.
You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.
"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.
You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.
He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.
"No, I don't really like scrambled."
Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.
"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."
"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."
The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.
And then—
You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.
Your stomach grumbles again.
Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”
You throw a dish towel at him.
||||
There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.
He’s gone.
Not forever. Neer forever.
But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.
The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.
His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.
A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.
A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.
The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.
You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.
You knew this would happen.
It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.
You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.
Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.
Spencer: I miss you.
The breath in your chest stutters.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.
You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.
Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.
You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.
Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.
You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.
It’s not the same.
But for now, it will have to be enough.
||||
The door unlocks with a quiet click.
You don’t move right away.
You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.
Footsteps. Familiar, careful.
“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.
You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.
You are in his arms.
He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.
The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.
“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.
Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”
You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.
“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.
“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.
His lips twitch. “Liar.”
You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.
“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.
So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”
His breath stumbles and he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.
It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.
You don’t ask him about the case.
Not yet.
Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.
“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.
“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”
You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”
Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."
“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”
Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”
“Would you?”
“I’d be an educational ghost.”
You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”
Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.
You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.
Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.
One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.
You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”
Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."
It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.
You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”
He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”
You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”
Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”
You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”
Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”
Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.
You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”
Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”
“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”
“That’s one word for it.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”
Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.
He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”
Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”
Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”
You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”
“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”
“You didn’t have to watch it!”
Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”
You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.
Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”
You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”
Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”
“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”
“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”
He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”
“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.
Spencer just stares at you.
You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”
Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.
"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.
"I would never say that-"
"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."
"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."
"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."
He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.
After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.
“You make coming home easy.”
Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”
Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”
You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.
It’s the perfect time to strike.
You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.
Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”
“Putting something on to help you unwind.”
His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”
You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”
Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.
The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.
You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.
The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.
A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:
"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"
Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”
You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”
Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”
You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”
He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:
"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."
Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.
“A dog?” he scoffs.
You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”
He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”
You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”
Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."
You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”
“I do not—”
A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.
Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.
“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.
You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.
“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.
“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.
He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.
“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”
And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.
Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.
You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.
You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.
Premise: Brilliant sunshine!reader gets heat stroke on a case. Your best friend, Spencer Reid, is predictably worried about you. What he doesn't expect is to be forced to come to terms with his feelings for you.
Word count: approx. 3,200
TW: Brief mention of vomit and, perhaps, hospitals
(Y/N/N): Your nickname
Author's Note: Super excited to introduce brilliant sunshine!reader (aka, super smart sunshine!reader) onto my fanfic writing scene! Definitely willing to write more of her in the future if anyone is interested. Hope you enjoy!
“Does anybody have more water?”
“Where is the damn ambulance?”
Perhaps your job classically conditioned you to respond to Hotch’s “I’m seriously not fucking around” tone because your eyes crack open.
Someone put weights on your eyelids and cranked the sun to extra-bright. The harsh rays burned your retinas and washed everything in a white blur. Did someone set off a flash bang?
“(Y/N)? Can you hear me?” Miraculously, out of the screeching white, you made out JJ’s halo of blonde hair.
“JJ?” You groaned. Even though you could barely see, it felt like the whole world was spinning,
“Hotch, she’s coming around!” You recognized Morgan’s voice. “Welcome back to the world of the living, honey. We’re happy to see you.”
Your heart rate spiked. You never died. Did you die?
“Yes, we still need a medic!” Hotch barked.
You winced. “Wha?” Suddenly, your mouth couldn’t handle a one-syllable world. Even more alarming, your brain, the same brain that kept up with Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid, couldn’t understand what the hell was going on.
“What I do?” You whined.
“He’s not yelling at you, honey,” JJ said like a kindergarten teacher. “You’re just a little out of it right now.”
“Is she conscious?” Another voice entered. Your head spun. “I brought more water.”
You moaned to suppress a gag. Your eyelids drooped, and you relished in the break from the light.
“Hey, smarty pants, stay with us.” Morgan pat your cheek. “Let Emily get some water in you.” You couldn’t force your eyes open more if you tried.
Your friend Emily. That’s who the voice belonged to.
Suddenly, JJ pulled your hair from your face, Morgan lifted your head, and Emily forced a water bottle to your lips simultaneously. The blinding glare seared your eyes and your head spun. You wanted to sob and maybe vomit.
Your chest hitched with a shallow inhale. “Stop.” You whined.
“(Y/N), it’s okay. Take a deep breath.” JJ said.
“No!” You exclaimed.
“Honey–” Morgan tried.
You thrashed against his hold, but your exhausted muscles couldn’t throw Morgan’s gentlest grip.
“Maybe we should let her go.” Emily said.
“She needs water.” JJ countered.
“She’s disoriented.” Hotch cut in. “Let her get her bearings first, but don’t let her close her eyes.”
Gingerly, Morgan lay your body back on the grass. Your head swam, and your vision rippled as if you could see the heat waves in the California air. You tried to take a deep breath but choked.
You sputtered. Every inhale led to a series of dry coughs. In your delirium, you thought of Spencer. Your Spencer. Where the hell was he? Did he not love you anymore?
Suddenly, Hotch loomed over you. His tall frame blocked out the brutality of the sun’s glare, which eased your headache and nausea but not your cough. His eyebrows were so deeply furrowed they formed a trench of wrinkles across his forehead. “Check her airway.”
Suddenly, you stared into JJ’s blue eyes. Other hands tried to manipulate your body. You jerked.
“(Y/N), relax.”
“Honey, please–”
“Turn her on her side!” Morgan’s cut off by Reid, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard.
***
Spencer Reid has survived many traumatic situations.
He's cared for his schizophrenic mother. He’s been kidnapped. He recovered from a drug addiction. And those are just a few items from his dissertation-length “PTSD-Causing Experiences” list.
But many of his worst traumas were a by-product of being a profiler– a job which allowed him to utilize his intellect to help others. He was willing to accrue trauma like Pokemon cards in exchange for applying his genetic gifts to create a safer world.
Reid could have framed your heat exhaustion as another scare in the line of duty. But when Reid saw you, his brilliant girl, on the ground, his heart fell through his feet.
Then, he saw how his the team responded to your medical emergency.
When he witnessed you coughing and writhing on your back as the team leered over with water, he thought he might explode.
You could be asphyxiating, and the team could be letting you choke while forcing more fluid down your throat.
He shivered as he sprinted down the steps of the local precinct and onto the grassy field where you lay.
“Turn her on her side!” He yelled as diagnoses and courses of action fled through his mind on hyperspeed.
“We’re trying, she—”
“Spence?” You choked out through a coughing fit. He’s surprised his ears caught it.
Reid knelt next to you. “Let’s get you into recovery position.” He said, his voice suddenly soft as clouds. Reid gingerly pushed you onto your left side. “Off your back, there we go.” He bent your right leg and slid it in front of your body to prevent you from rolling onto your stomach if you lost consciousness.
“Did she faint?” Reid asked the team. He couldn’t take his eyes from your face.
“We think so. She was dizzy, so she laid on the ground. Then she was unresponsive for at least 40 seconds,” Emily said.
Spencer pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Predictably, you were feverishly hot. “She’s burning up. Has someone called an ambulance?”
“Allegedly.” Hotch said, an edge to his voice.
“We have, sir. They’re on their way.” A local police officer responded, exasperated.
Spencer’s eye twitched. “How long has she been down?” You whined, and he stroked your cheekbone with his thumb.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He whispered.
“In total, 15 minutes.” Hotch supplied. “Emily, pour some more water on her.”
“This was for her to drink.”
“Use one bottle to pour on her face and neck.” Spencer said. “I ran and got Gatorade. She should start with sips of that when she can swallow. Heat stroke can also be caused by salt depletion.”
Spencer was conversing with a local officer over the safety protocols in the area when a pair of policemen walked into the precinct, gossiping about the FBI agent who “folded fast in the southern Cali heat.”
Spencer’s jaw had clenched. Maybe one of his team members was ill since they put in most of the grunt work to catch the unsub. He would’ve been more annoyed if not for the worry gnawing at his brain. What if they were talking about (Y/N)? She looked a little shaky right after her chase with the unsub, but Spencer didn’t get a chance to ask his friend if she was alright. And, stupidly enough, he forgot to text her to check if she drank any water post-case. Quickly, Reid excused himself, grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge, and rushed to the field where your limp body trembled on the grass.
“I’m going to pour some water on you, honey," Emily said. You flinched as the frigid water hit your hairline.
“Breathe, relax.” Spencer said, shielding your nose. The last thing you needed was some accidental waterboarding.
Seconds after the water drenched your forehead, your whole body relaxed into the grass. “That felt good.” You smiled weakly.
Spencer stroked your arm. “Let’s sit you up in a minute, okay? You should try some Gatorade before the EMTs get here.”
“EMTs? I’m fine.” You whined.
Spencer didn’t think it was possible for his eyebrows to crease further.
“You’re not fine.” Gentler, he said, “and it’s okay not to be fine, sunlight.”
“But, I’m alive.” You tried to roll onto your stomach, but your bent leg kept you safe on your back.
Some on the team members chuckled, but Spencer didn’t find your delirium humorous. “I know you’re alive, sweetie. But you’re way too hot. I think you’re a little confused right now.”
“I’m just…” You winced. “I’m alive.”
The knot in Spencer’s chest tightened ten-fold. This could be heat stroke. At the very least, you had heat exhaustion. You were dehydrated. You were delirious.
Best case scenario: you were ill for a few days. Worst case scenario: You had vital organ damage.
Just as he’s about to call 911 himself, JJ interrupted him. “Look–ambulance lights. Help is on the way, honey.”
“You hear that, (Y/N)? You’re gonna be fine.” Morgan said. If only Spencer felt that confident.
“Spence…” You blocked your eyes from the light with your limp right hand. “I’m scared. I don’t feel well.”
“Oh, (Y/N), I know.” He cupped your shoulder and hoped you could feel his love for you through his palm. That sent a jolt down his spine. He wasn’t supposed to comfortably think those thoughts about you.
You were sick. This wasn’t the time. He leaned over your body. He gave you plenty of breathing room, but his torso was parallel to your hip so his eyes could meet your watering ones. “Hey, take a breath for me, Smartie.”
Your nickname for him slipped from his tongue so easily it spooked him. Suddenly, he noticed his thumb stroking over your cotton t-shirt. He should stop. The whole team was watching. He was being was too intimate; he'd face stupid quips from Morgan for days. He kept stroking anyway.
He observed your chest rise and fall. Your breaths were shaky but deeper. He relaxed a tad. Vital oxygen was reaching your bloodstream.
“(Y/N), can we try something?” Spencer asked.
“Yes. Maybe. What is it?”
The knot in his chest loosened. You responded immediately and with more than two words; you were becoming more lucid.
“Can you sit up and have some sips of Gatorade? I got your favorite flavor. At least, if your favorite flavor hasn’t changed from three years ago.” It most likely hadn’t. Once your opinion settled, it was frustratingly hard to erode your verdict.
“I can’t…I don’t know.”
“I know sitting up is hard. I’ll help you. And I’ll prop you against my chest. I’ll hold your weight when you can’t.”
“KK, Spence.” Your childlike tone tugged at his heart strings.
Spencer and Morgan lifted your limp body from the ground. They manhandled you into a sitting position with your head propped on Spencer’s shoulder and your body tucked between his thighs.
One of his arms stabilized you while the other raised a cold bottle of orange Gatorade to your lips.
After nine sips of Gatorade, you spoke again.
“Orange.” You took another sip. "My favorite.”
He smiled into your hair. “When have I ever lied to you, (Y/N/N)?”
***
Spencer nearly created a crater in the linoleum floor of the ER waiting room with his bouncing heel by the time the doctor came back with an update.
“She had a mild case of heat stroke. We currently have her on fluids, and she’ll need lots of rest for at least the next week.” Doctor Bahamani concluded.
“No signs of metabolic dysfunction? Any respiratory distress?” Reid checked.
Doctor Bahamani smiled knowingly. “She’s going to be just fine, Doctor Reid.”
“Can I see her?” Spencer asked.
“Yes. Only two at a time, please.”
Spencer didn’t care who volunteered with him. He moved without thinking. An outpouring of gratitude for his eidetic memory flooded him. Through the thickest brain fog, he could trust his recollection of the hospital to bring him to the correct hospital room.
The security staff practically had to drag him away from your bedside after the ambulance ride. They might have thrown him out of the ER if not for the flash of his FBI badge.
Something nagged at him as he sped past the nursing station.
You were going to be fine. The ER doctor confirmed it. Yet his heart was still pounding and he could barely refrain from running. Even more odd, he wasn’t ashamed of his irrational behavior.
So what if a doctor deemed you were okay? It was you. And he saw you groggier and more out of it than you'd ever been. And who knows how thorough the doctors were with their examination? It was completely reasonable to worry for one of his closest friends.
He just couldn't believe you were alright until he checked you over with his own hands and his own eyes.
***
When you grinned at him from your cot, Spencer wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry.
Tears glazed your eyes. But, your gorgeous smile was back.
“Spencer?” You asked, brow raised and head cocked.
He’d been staring too long. He looked like an idiot, lamely standing in the doorway as if he were the one with heat stroke.
“Straighten your head. Your neck is probably tight.”
You smiled, but this time it was tight-lipped and painful-looking. “You’re too worried.”
He watched saline drip down your IV. “Of course I’m worried, (Y/N). You got heat stroke.” With a deep breath as a shot of courage, he sat in the chair by the head of your bed.
There was nothing odd about sitting with his best friend at the hospital.
His chest twisted at “best friend” and his resolve collapsed. He couldn’t deny it anymore.
He liked you. He really, really liked you. He actually might even–
“Luckily, I got out pretty unscathed.” You snapped Spencer out of his spiral. “A little dehydrated. Achy. Might feel sick for a few days.”
“Or weeks.” Spencer corrected.
“Trying to look on the bright side here, Doctor.” You smirked and Spencer swore his right ventricle tightened.
Then, your nose scrunched and Spencer's wiped clean of any concern about his cardiac health.
“What hurts?”
“Just a little achy, Spencer. I’m alright.”
He shot you a look. He knew all your excuses. He knew you went to self-harming lengths to not worry people.
“You’re not alright.” He reached for the red nurse-call button.
Your eyes widened in surprise. “Okay…my body aches, Spence. And the IV burns. But they’ve already told me that’s normal. No need to take nurses away from an emergency.”
The nurses at the station desk didn’t appear to be rushing around for anyone, but Spencer feared this wouldn’t behoove his case.
“They can give you pain medication, if you want.”
You hesitated, and immediately Spencer pressed the button. When you smiled weakly instead of bickering, his worry grew tenfold but not without a rush of heat flooding his entire body.
In Morgan's words, he’s down bad.
“How are you doing, sunshine?” As if he’d been summoned, Morgan appeared in the doorway.
Spencer stepped back from your cot. The part of him riled from Morgan’s “sunshine” moniker wants to shove his hand into yours. Spencer thought he hid his annoyance well, but something about Morgan's smirk told him otherwise.
“Um…”
Morgan’s smirk fell. “You feel that bad, huh?”
You chuckled sadly. “Do I look that shitty or am I an open book today?”
“You never look shitty,” Spencer said. A tsunami of blood rushed to his face.
“Anyway,” Morgan said, “Do you want anything, Beauty Queen? I can grab you some jello.”
“Jello sounds nice.” You said, and something in your voice was so vulnerable and naive Spencer wanted to wrap you in his arms as tight as he could. Which was illogical. That would only hurt you further.
He shook his head as if that would remove the thoughts from his mind. “I’m gonna see if I can check up on your labs at the nurse’s station. I’ll make sure they’re giving you the good drugs.” He smiled.
You laughed– a genuine laugh– and Spencer’s heart soared. “Thanks, Spence.”
“I’ll go grab your jello,” Morgan said.
“Hold on, you should stay with her just in case she needs anything," Spencer said.
“I’ll be fine, Spence.” You said, but Spencer was not prepared to take "no" for an answer.
“If you boys wants to run her some errands, I’ll stay.” Emily stood in the doorway. “JJ is coming soon too– she just got a phone call from a very frantic Penelope.”
Your nose crinkled. “Oh no.” You groaned, but you were smiling.
“Oh, yes. Be prepared for some mother henning," Emily said.
“Garcia can’t be any more mother henning than Reid," Morgan said.
Before his face could turn redder than a baboon’s bottom, Spencer fled.
He’s only two yards from the nursing station when Morgan intercepted him at the end of the hall.
“So, you’re going to make your move, right?”
Spencer's body temperature plummeted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He tried to shoulder past Morgan, but he was no match for his grip strength. “Reid, c’mon. You like (Y/N).”
Part of him wanted to laugh. “Like” seemed too simple of a word to describe the symphony of feelings (Y/N) started in him. “It’s…” He’s too tongue-tied to lie. “It’s complicated.”
You’re brilliant. You’re beautiful. You’re brimming with empathy. You’re everything Spencer could want. And it scared the shit out of him. Because that meant there’s even more to lose. And if he lost you, there would be no one to blame but himself. It was better for his psyche to not go there with you– to step back from the line rather than risk what would happen if he failed to make it work in the end.
And what if you got hurt? What is you fell in the line of duty? Or worse, what if someone targeted you because of your romantic tie to him? Spencer's already experienced the pain of losing a soulmate-- a concept he wasn't even sure he believed in-- once. He wasn't not sure if he could survive it a second time.
There was too much unpredictability in his life. He chose a dangerous profession. He was gifted a ticking time-bomb of dangerous genes. He’d never forgive himself if he inflicted onto you the pain he’s been through; losing loved ones, whether through death or mental illness.
Morgan's expression turned sympathetic. “Reid, you should give it a shot. Our lives our hectic. And if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.”
Spencer blinked to block tears from welling. “I just want her to be happy, too.”
“And who says you don't make her happy?”
“His idiotic genius brain.” Rossi appeared from around the corner.
Spencer froze. “You heard?” His face flushed yet again.
“Just the tail end. But Reid…” He trailed off.
Morgan took the hint. “I’m going to get (Y/N) some jello. With my charm, I could negotiate for some whipped cream.”
“Don’t get whipped cream on it. She’s lactose sensitive,” Spencer said.
Morgan's stupid smirk reappeared. “Gotcha, Reid.”
Rossi took Morgan's place. Once Morgan was out of sight, he began his speech. “You love her. Don’t get in your own way.” Rossi put his hand on Reid’s shoulder. “And (Y/N) is an incredibly intelligent woman. Don’t insult her intelligence by thinking she can’t decide who is or is not worth taking a risk. And for what it’s worth…a man like you is worth the risk.”
Rossi left Reid staring at his back.
For the longest time, Reid convinced himself he refrained from asking you out to protect you from himself and his hefty baggage. And that’s not completely untrue.
But suddenly, he realized he was primarily trying to protect himself from exposing his vulnerabilities to you this whole time. There’s never been a person whose opinion affected him like yours. There's never been a life he's wanted to protect more except perhaps...Maeve.
But just like it’s up to you to decide who’s worth the risk, it’s up to him to decide as well.
And if today taught him anything, shit happens. And if you slip through his fingers, he doesn't want it to because he wasn't brave enough to make a first move.
And being your person was more than worth the risk of rejection.
Author's Note: Thank you to so much to everyone who stuck around through my hiatus! I appreciate every single one of you! You're super cool :)
Happy to be back! Inbox is open to chat about writing and take requests! Please check pinned "Blurb Requests" post before requesting! (Will update the post as my boundaries update!)
Have an awesome day or night, wherever you are in this crazy world. I am incredibly thankful you spent part of your precious life reading something I penned.
A/N: everyone say thank you to mod ghost for keeping up the pace while I’m in frantic schoolwork mode as part of con crunch <3 I should be back to the regular schedule now, thank you everybody for reading! - mod angel
Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader
Summary: When Spencer returns from his first long case away from you, he wants to revel in every moment he has with you.
~~~
Spencer almost always came back from a case looking drained, but this time was worse than normal.
The team had been away for over a week. Every day when you called Spencer to check in with him, he sounded miserable. He couldn’t tell you specifics of the case, but it must’ve been bad.
When he finally came home, it was the middle of the night. You had been on the couch, anticipating his return, when you eventually fell asleep. When the light to your apartment flickered on, though, you awoke almost immediately. “Spence…?” you called out, sitting up.
His messenger bag hit the floor with a thud as you stood up to face him, his expression instantly softening when he saw you. He strode over to you as you started moving towards him, meeting you in the middle and pulling you into a tight hug.
You just stood there in each other’s arms for a few moments, with Spencer hugging you so tight he could rival a boa constrictor. You started rubbing his back soothingly, feeling his tension in the way he was holding you.
“I missed you so much,” he murmured, burying his face in your hair. He was starting to relax under your touch as you continued your comforting movements.
“I missed you too, baby,” you whispered back, your hands moving to stroke his hair. “I’m really glad you’re home.”
“Me too,” he replied softly, pulling away slightly to look at you, his hand moving to cup your cheek. “This week was really hard for a lot of reasons, but the biggest reason was that I wasn’t able to see you.”
You gave him a soft smile, your hand reaching up to meet his where it rested on your face. “I’m here now,” you whispered, standing on your tiptoes to capture his lips in a tender kiss.
His hands moved down to your waist, pulling you closer so you were pressed flush against him. You linked your fingers behind his neck as you stumbled backwards towards the couch, pulling him on top of you and hugging him close.
Spencer’s hands started roaming down your body, in an innocent way. He felt your body like he wanted to remember every part of it, his hands moving up your arms, along your neck, your jaw… relishing every little touch. He finally stopped to rest his hand on your chest, right over your heart.
You looked up at him, feeling this intense fondness for him. You moved your hands so they rested against his, closing your eyes as you felt your heart beat against his palm. You felt him lean down, his hair tickling your cheek. “I love you,” he whispered softly.
You let out a content sigh, nuzzling your cheek against his. “Love you too,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around him again. “Maybe I’ll just hold you here and never let you go so you can’t be away from me that long ever again.”
He chuckled warmly, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I just might let you,” he replied, holding you impossibly close to him. “I want to just stay here forever.”
You lay there on the couch for a while, catching up on everything that happened while you were apart. It wasn’t too long before Spencer started yawning, the fatigue of being away from home for so long finally setting in. You cuddled up under the covers in your bed much like you did on the couch, tangled up in each other like you’d never be apart again.
Warnings - language, kissing, not proofread (lmk if i missed any!)
Summary - The feelings between you and Spencer were mutual, but when would he finally confess just how much he loved you? What would it take for him to finally spill?
Category - hurt/comfort, fluff
Word Count - 3.7k
A/N - ahhhhhhh i kinda love the title lmao, thank you @reidsacademia for helping me decide lmaooo
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——————————————
You loved him.
He loved you.
It was a simple fact that everyone knew… except you and him.
So many stolen glances were exchanged and shy smiles were received. It was a sickeningly sweet sight, the both of you tiptoeing around each other in order to keep the sleeping giant of doubt and insecurity asleep.
You knew that you were playing a dangerous game the day you met him, his infectious laughs and breathtaking smile were a poison you willingly took— unafraid of the consequences you’d have to face. It was a fitting price just to be able to call him your best friend.
You knew you were a goner.
How could you resist his goofy grin or handsomely tousled hair? Ignore his perfectly sculpted face or insufferable humor you couldn’t get enough of?
Whatever part of you was drawn to him was unrelenting, insistent on making your drop and fall for the genius— much to your stubborn chagrin. You gave in, consumed by your feelings for him as it blossomed and grew to entrap your heart in a cage of rose vines.
He, on the other hand, tried his best to brush off the way his jaw dropped the moment you walked into a room or the way he’d fumble around like a buffoon when you spoke to him. He was unconvinced that his feelings were anything but platonic, though he was quickly proven wrong after he found out that you were trying to date years ago.
His state of denial shattered as his true feelings shined through his roughly stubborn exterior, the jealousy taking control and sending him spiraling as he mourned the loss of his chance with you. Weeks after your very public statement that you would no longer be dating at all, his hopes fell.
It was a constant state of back and forth with the both of you, every chance you had together was brought up at the wrong time. A constant state of push and pull, a tipping scale, an unbalanced yin and yang.
Despite his extensive knowledge of reading people, he was often the one who was easily read. Everyone knew he was utterly in love with you, his heart wrapped around your finger without any resistance.
You were, however obvious he was, ignorant and skeptical of Penelope’s gossiping. Spencer was a horrible liar, but that didn’t mean he liked you back. The only way you were convinced otherwise was when Penelope hacked the camera located in the roundtable room, the live feed showed every single man in the unit sitting around the table with Spencer right in the middle.
His face was cutely contorted into a worried expression, lips pursed slightly as he spoke about wanting to confess his feelings for you. You immediately glanced over to Garcia who was sitting there prideful with an ‘I told you so’ look on her face— a smile of your own beginning to form. The two of you continued to watch, giggling from time to time as every single one of them tried to give Spencer a little word of advice and tips on how to follow through with his plans.
It was sweet and heartwarming watching him trying so hard when he was overtaken with a tomato-red blush on his cheeks.
You waited and waited as days turned into weeks and weeks into months. You eventually grew tired of your place as a sitting duck. Patience was a virtue, but it was never yours to keep.
Months after watching that security camera footage, you decided that you’d blurt it out yourself— get it over with so you could finally be with him. Rip the bandaid off to expose the wound caused by your overwhelming love for the man who held your heart in the palm of his clumsy hands.
Your attempt to speed up your ‘getting together’ were severely stunted when Derek caught you rehearsing what you were going to say when Spencer finally got back to his desk. He promptly stopped and prevented you from stealing Spencer’s ‘thunder’, making you promise that you wouldn’t say anything until after he spilled his feelings to you.
It was an odd request since Spencer didn’t seem like the type to care, but you honored it regardless of how doubtful you really were.
Everyday you wished Derek had never found you pacing in an empty BAU office. All you wanted to do was tell him but you were bound by your promise to sustain the fragile ego Derek claimed he had.
It was an endless game of ‘Will he? Won’t he?’ you had no interest in partaking in, rather you were forced into it.
Every single attempt Spencer made to ask you out had failed miserably, but it never left you without a smile on your face on how hard he tried. His two prior tries to tell you how he felt seemed promising, a little get-together at his apartment and dinner at a restaurant recommended by Rossi. Both ended in a rather surprising way as a power outage caused by a storm raged concluded the first and an uproar of injuries caused by an oil fire wrapped up the second.
Either way, you were just thankful that you had a chance to spend time with him— watching him fumble around and stutter his way through conversations with you. The blushes caused by the accidental brush of your hand on his or the bottles of wine he knocked over in his flustered state kept you going.
And that was why you were able to wait.
As much as you wanted him to tell you, there would be no meaning behind it if moments you cherished with every will in your soul didn’t exist.
There was no rush, no need for push come to shove.
You knew he was yours.
—————————————-
He waited outside your apartment building, waiting for you to come down.
It was the day he was going to do it, the time for him to reveal it all without a single regret. He wanted it to be perfect just like you were, a work of art waiting to be put up at the Louvre.
“Spencer,” you yelled from your balcony, looking down at him as he smiled back up, “I’ll be right down.”
He nodded, waiting quietly with the bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand. He was nervous, every single hair on his body stood up frightened. It was an odd feeling since he never cared too much about what others thought of him, but being with you was different.
Every degree and title he’s ever wanted in his life paled in comparison to you. You’d put a smile on his face when the clouds in his brain kept him from feeling anything but sad. It was your beautiful personality and genuine interest in him that drew him to you— his light in the midst of his foggy haze.
He didn’t want you.
He needed you.
“Hey,” you spoke from behind him.
Startled, he turned around too quickly and hit you with the bundle of flowers in his hand. “I- I’m so sorry,” he chuckled nervously, putting his free arm around your waist to keep you from falling.
Your smile almost blinded him with a haze of longing, the pounding of his poor heart heard all the way in his ears.
“It’s alright, Spence. They’re just flowers, it’s not like you hit me with bricks,” you laughed, hoping that your joke would help lighten the awkward tension around you.
“Right,” he said, “Um, here. We should get going.”
He handed you the flowers before offering his hand for you to take. The feeling of your hand in his felt like the ground beneath him shook, the magnetic force of your hearts snapping together challenging the one in the core of the earth.
The two of you got in the car and the sound of light music echoed from the radio in between you.
“Where are we going?” You looked over at him, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.
“It’s a surprise,” he said, giving you a smile before turning his attention back to driving.
He put on a façade of confidence but under the surface he was breaking. Such a nerve-racking task that he was determined to do easily began to gnaw away at his determination. He felt as though he could tip at any moment, wobbling from side to side as he walked the tightrope over a pool of failure and cowardice.
His incessant thoughts were washed away as your fingers brushed against his tender skin, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
He smiled, convinced that if he looked over to you he wouldn’t be able to look away. Sometimes he was convinced that you were a mind reader, knowing exactly what he needed and when.
Everytime his will faltered, you were always there to remind him why he was taking on such a deadly feat… for you.
Suddenly all his inner quests he overcame with Hercules on his shoulder weren’t so burdening or daunting, it was all worth it for his very own godly status of finally being able to give you all of his heart.
The hearts in your eyes dissipated as you took a look at the road. You yelled, “Spencer!”
He slammed on the brakes and panted while a raccoon padded across the road leisurely.
“I almost killed it,” he spoke, stunned at the unexpected appearance of the animal.
“But you didn’t,” you laughed, “It’s going to be okay.”
He nodded, continuing to drive as soon as the raccoon made it to the other side of the road safely. Relieved, Spencer drove to the little park he planned to take you to.
It was his second time driving there after going there the first time to set everything up for you. It took around three hours of work alone and weeks of planning to find the perfect day to take you out— taking the time to ensure perfect skies and blooming flowers.
You deserved everything and he was going to give it to you.
Spencer parked after driving for twenty minutes, opening the door for you and leading you to the little gazebo hidden in an area surrounded by floral trees.
“Here,” he offered you his hand, “It’s a little bit of a walk.”
You took it, nudging him slightly as you walked through the grass. “I don’t mind, it just means more you time for me,” you teased.
He blushed, squeezing your hands without thinking and biting his lip in a bashfully enamored way. You giggled and looked around, noticing the clouds in the sky. You laid your head on his shoulder while you walked, feeling the intense beating of his heart as the vibrations bounced off of every part of him.
With the spur of confidence gained by your gesture, he dropped your hand and wrapped his around your waist. You tensed under his touch and immediately relaxed when you felt his warmth surging through your body.
You had never felt so comforted or loved. Spencer was different compared to all the other men you even considered dating, let alone fell for. The effect he had on you was indescribable, he managed to make you feel energized, loved, noticed, and confident all at once. He was a new, exciting adventure with unexpected twists and turns you didn’t have a problem exploring.
You began to stumble a bit, apparently walking on soft grass in heels wasn’t the best idea— then again, you had no idea where you were going.
“Are you okay?” He stopped and looked at you, concern written all over his face.
You shook your head, trying to walk past him to no avail. “I’m fine, Spencer.”
“You’re not,” he reasoned, “You’re limping.” He gasped slightly when he saw the red and swollen state of your ankle, your heels rubbing against your skin.
You followed his gaze, waving your hands to draw his attention somewhere else. “I’m fine, Spencer. It really doesn’t hurt and-”
He brushed off all your excuses and picked you up, eliciting a small yelp from you as your arms wrapped around his neck instinctively.
“I’m not letting you walk when you’re in uncomfortable shoes. Why did you even wear them,” he asked as he continued walking.
“I wanted to look good for you,” you mentioned nonchalantly.
He furrowed his brow, pulling you closer to him without thinking. “You don’t need to do that. Besides, you are always beautiful to me,” he shrugged, “There’s nothing you could do to make me think otherwise.”
You shied into his touch. “Th- thanks um, you too,” you stuttered slightly.
The smile on his face was short-lived, washed away by the little droplets of rain that fell from the sky. Soon enough, the little drops graduated into full-fledged water bombs falling from the sky.
“Fuck,” he yelled, as he scrunched his nose at the feeling of the water seeping into his clothes.
Why was it when he finally overcame everything that held him back, the world decided to take out all its anger on him and his plans? Mother nature couldn’t have come at a worse time, tarnishing his shiny fantasy of a perfect confession with the tears of the sky.
Everything in his life had never gone as he had planned, all he wanted was to give you the perfect day. There was never a right time, everything spinning out of control right before his eyes. It was dizzying and heartbreaking to see him so downtrodden for something you knew was uncontrollable.
You reached over to your feet and slipped off your shoes before wiggling out of his touch.
“What are you-”
You grabbed his hand and carried your shoes in the other. “Lead the way,” you said, waiting for him to start in the direction he wanted to go in.
He began walking, the rain falling even heavier than before. You laughed, running with his hand in yours as you forced him to pick up speed.
“Run!”
He chuckled as he raced after you, his mood dragged up from the mud and the dirt around it washed away by the purifying drops of rain. The two of you ran together, pushing through bushes and trees to get to the little structure a good ways away from you.
Spencer had never felt more freed, released from his chains that required him to have everything perfectly placed and planned. Sure, you were sopping wet with clothes that were ruined with each heavy step you took, but none of that mattered to him.
All that mattered was that he was absolutely ruined with you.
You looked back to see him running with his face turned upwards towards the sky, letting the heavenly liquid hit his face and flood the worry in his mind.
“First one there wins,” you yelled back to him, continuing to run with increasing speed.
Your voice snapped him out of his trance. “Hey! No fair! You were already ahead.”
You laughed, not daring to look back ignoring your inevitable defeat. He sprinted ahead of you and had almost reached the little gazebo when he slipped on a little puddle right in front of you. You tumbled over him clumsily, his arms reaching for you as the both of you rolled around in the soaked grass.
You looked into his eyes right when you stopped moving, your body flush up against his while you both laid on the ground. Your faces were barely apart, your breaths visible in the air around you.
You pressed your lips against his, a visceral reaction to being as close as you were to him. Your eyes fluttered closed with his hands wrapping around your body to hold you to him. You melted in his touch and became putty in his hands.
He could have sworn that he had never been so close to heaven, the feeling of the rain hitting his body and the way your lips moved against his cleared every muddy thought he ever had. The water around you acted as a conductor, your energy and sparks traveling through it to stun his body. Every movement against you was both coordinated and unplanned— a natural rhythm that fit so perfectly together almost as if the very first kiss you shared had been practiced and rehearsed for years.
You placed your hand to his face, the water trickling from your hair onto both your faces. The world around you stopped spinning, the rain stopping it’s perpetual falling— the only thing on your mind was Spencer.
The only thing on his mind was you.
The feel of your lips, the feel of your body in his hands.
The sparkes he felt with you on top of him.
The imprint you had on his heart grew deeper everyday, the mark you left in his mind was unerasable. You were a permanent blemish in his mundane colored soul, stained with your irresistible smile and warm voice. It was impossible for him to believe that the world was against him when you were right there with him.
He lifted his head to deepen your kiss, one of his hands moving to cup your cheek and swipe the hair out of your face. He cleared the way for you to continue to attack him with your hungry kiss and greedy hands on his hair. He laughed against your lips and let you take control of him just as you did his heart.
You pulled away, panting with your forehead resting on his. He regained his energy and gave you one last kiss that made you lose all control of the function in your body.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“It wasn’t supposed to rain,” he said pitifully, “It was supposed to be perfect and now it’s not.”
“Not everything has to be perfect, Spence,” you used your hand to wipe away the little mark of mud on his gorgeous face, “See, everything around us is in shambles but that? That kiss was the closest thing to perfect if you ask me.”
He laughed, “That kiss was perfect and I um I-”
He paused and looked into your eyes with fear, but his anxieties were quelled by the beautiful sparkle that shined from yours.
“I love you,” he said with ease, sliding past the unbending gates that were his lips.
You smiled, rubbing your thumb against his cheek. “I love you too. I have for so long.”
He took you in for another kiss, just as earth-shattering and reality-breaking as the first— if not more. Your lips met in a cataclysmic way, your feelings breaking through the dam. You had never felt more alive, awoken and unlocked with something as simple as a kiss.
His lips glided against yours, his hands pulling your face closer into his with a thirst that had remained unquenched for years. His barren desert was finally rained upon with the satisfaction of being able to be yours the way he had always dreamed about.
You broke free from his addicting grasp, breathing heavily. “We should get under the um, the… the thing,” you fumbled over your words, unable to think with his hands gripping you the way they were.
“Gazebo?” He laughed.
“Yeah, the gazebo.”
He nodded, waiting for you to get up. He followed right behind you as the both of you head onto each other in fear of falling and hitting your heads on the marble that wasn’t as forgiving as the mushy field.
You laughed, looking at what looked like a crime scene right in front of you. The picnic basket had been broken into by what appeared to be raccoons or other wild animals hiding out in the trees, little paw prints led to the field.
“Looks like someone found your surprise,” you joked.
He laughed, “I suppose so. I don’t think it was very smart of me to leave the food unattended for so long.”
“Well…” you walked in front of him and ran your hand through his hair, adoration in your eyes, “We were a little busy.”
“You’re not wrong,” he conceded.
You rested your head against his chest and wrapped your arms around his torso as he reciprocated the embrace. “Looks like third time’s the charm, huh?”
“I’ve tried more than three times that I think I've lost count.”
Your head left it’s comfortable place over his heart, raised in surprise. “You…lost count?”
“I’ve tried since I first knew I loved you,” he admitted sheepishly.
“And when was that?”
“The moment I met you.”
You scoffed playfully, giving him a slight smack on his arm as he chuckled at your humor. He wrapped himself around you from behind while the two of you looked towards the mess laid out before you.
“We’ll have to make do with what we have until the rain lets up,” you spoke, reaching down to see what the forest wildlife left for the two of you to snack on.
“What do we have?” He crouched down with you, peeking into the woven basket.
The only things left inside were a couple of pieces of garlic bread, an unopened jar of strawberry jam, and six apples.
“Well-” you giggled, “It sure is an interesting spread we have.”
“I’m just happy that we have something… and that I have you.”
The overwhelming love you had for him thundered in your chest, electrifying your whole body. “You’ve always had me, Spence.”
“And you’ve always had me,” he smiled, reaching over to give you yet another kiss you knew you really wouldn’t be able to escape.
Spencer realized that nothing was against him, nothing but him. He always thought that being happy was an impossible feat, but he never stopped to consider why it was impossible.
Nothing was impossible, he was just missing something…
And that something was you.
—————————————-
***BONUS SCENE***
—
You paced around the empty office, mumbling to yourself what you decided to say to him in the car. It was almost as if everything you so intricately planned out had been knocked over by an uncoordinated oaf that was your nervousness. You were starting to understand why he needed so many people to explain how to do something so nerve-racking, something so confidence-stripping.
You were startled, jumping back slightly as the door popped open with a click.
“Derek!” You chuckled nervously, “Wh- what are you doing here?”
“Hotch sent me to check up on you, said you were acting weird today,” he walked further into the room and shut the door, “You okay?”
“Oh me? Yah,” you put on a terrifying smile as the lies tumbled out of your mouth, “I’m fine.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than you are trying to convince me,” he laughed.
You sighed, sitting on top of the dusty desk as he sat across from you on the small couch. Your heart was racing, every thought and insecurity running through your mind.
What if he didn’t want you?
What if he miraculously changed his mind and that was why he hadn’t said anything?
“Hey, hey. You’re spiraling.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
He chuckled, “I can see it in your face. What’s going on?”
“I-” you breathed out heavily, exhaling the whirlwind of worries and inhaling a new breath of fresh, clarifying air, “I’m trying to tell Spencer that I love him today.”
“You can’t do that,” he stood up and shut the blinds of the office quickly before walking back over to you.
“What?”
“Reid’s been trying to tell you for months, you can’t just walk in there and steal his thunder.”
“But I- I’ve been waiting for months, ever since you had that little training session,” you admitted, clapping your hands to your mouth soon after the words left you.
He raised his eyebrows. “How did you… Oh, she hacked into the cameras again,” he chuckled.
You nodded, “I’ve been waiting, Derek, for so so long. I just want to tell him, but wh- what if he lost interest and that’s why he hasn’t done anything?”
“I can assure you,” he laughed quietly, putting an arm on your shoulder comfortingly, “That man has not lost one ounce of love for you. He still drools when you walk into the room and he still talks about you like you’re the only person in the world.”
“H- he talks about me?” Your heart fluttered at the thought of Spencer rambling about you, something that you should’ve seen coming— all he does is talk and talk about the things he loved the most.
Science.
Books.
You.
“Yes, but you have to let him do it. He’s been obsessing over telling you at the perfect moment and you know how he is,” he nudged you, leading you out and walking you back to the bullpen after opening the door, “Just let him take his time. No one's gonna scoop him up and take him from you, he’s not going anywhere.”
“If he does I’m blaming you,” you joked, poking him playfully before heading back to your desk.
Maybe it was time for you to learn a little patience, to wait for him while he prepared himself for his, arguably, most treacherous feat.
“Hey.”
You turned around at the sound of his voice, smiling as he placed a cup of coffee down on your desk.
“I went to get you a cup, I thought you could use it,” he whispered shyly, sitting across from you at his own workstation with a sheepish grin on his face.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, watching you take a sip before blushing— a bashful pink staining his cheeks. You smiled, looking to Derek and meeting his eyes before turning your attention back to your work.
He was right, Spencer wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
A/N: this one was written as a comfort for myself but it perfectly fit the prompt so i’m happy to post this today 😊(also it’s a couple days late but i know there’s a lot of spencer girlies who are swifties so happy Life of a Showgirl release to all that celebrate; i’ve been listening to Opalite a lot) - mod angel
Pairing: Spencer Reid x GN!Reader
Summary: Spencer suggests a nice way to deal with sleepless nights.
You were sitting on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest, just staring out into space. Another morning where you couldn’t fall back asleep.
You rubbed your eyes. You had only fallen asleep for a couple hours. The most frustrating part was that you were still tired, your brain just refused to shut off and let you sleep.
You didn’t know how long you had been sitting there before Spencer walked out into the living room, spotting you on the couch. He gave you a soft smile. “Hey there,” he whispered, walking over to the couch and sitting down next to you.
“Hi…” you replied, your voice slightly muffled as your head rested on your knees.
“Can’t sleep?” He asked quietly, putting an arm around you.
You shook your head, leaning against his shoulder. “I hope I didn’t wake you…” you said quietly, looking up at him. You tried to be as quiet as possible when you slipped out of bed because you knew Spencer was a light sleeper.
“Not necessarily,” he replied softly, pulling you a bit closer against him, his other hand starting to soothingly run through your hair. “I woke up to go to the bathroom and noticed you weren’t next to me, so I figured I’d check up on you.”
You smiled at him, feeling your body relax as you stayed there in his arms. He always knew how to comfort you. “Sorry…” you whispered.
“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled back at you, ruffling your hair. “If you can’t sleep, I was thinking we could go for a walk.”
You thought for a moment before figuring it was worth a shot. What else were you doing other than sitting here and sulking? “Yeah, alright,” you shrugged.
He gave you a little pat on the head before taking your hand and standing up with you. “C’mon, put on some comfy walking clothes. And don’t forget a sweater, it’s been getting cold.”
You smiled and followed Spencer, who was ever the pragmatist. When he let go of your hand, you started rifling through some drawers, changing into some sweatpants and a light sweater. You turned around to see Spencer pulling on one of his cardigans. “Ready?” He asked, holding his hand out.
You smiled as you took his hand, making your way to your front door, locking it behind you as you stepped out into the cool morning. It wasn’t quite daybreak yet as you walked out of your apartment, arm-in-arm with Spencer.
You two talked about anything and everything that came to your mind. He told you about work and his coworkers, but kept it light. He didn’t want to startle you with any of the rough cases he’d been dealing with lately; you’d never want to sleep after hearing that.
You told him about some books you were reading and discussed some tv shows you were watching together. He made sure not to spoil the books that he had, of course, already read. He made that mistake once and still felt really guilty about it.
You’d walked a decent distance away from your apartment when you started yawning, your conversation getting interrupted a few times as you finally felt tiredness starting to set in.
He chuckled warmly, gently stroking your arm with his hand. “Shall we head back? I think we’re ready to try sleeping again.”
You just nodded as you both turned around and started walking back towards your apartment. He kept a tight hold on you, seeming to think you might fall asleep as you were walking. As much as you wished you were, you weren’t that tired.
He held the door open for you when you got back to your apartment before leading you back to your bedroom. You both changed back into your pajamas, slipping back into bed. Spencer immediately pulled you in so you were laying against him, tucked snugly in his arms under the covers.
Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt your body finally slowing down, feeling calm in Spencer’s embrace. You let out a content sigh, glad to finally feel sleep calling you again.
You felt him place a gentle kiss on your forehead as he whispered softly to you. “Goodnight, love.”
“Goodnight… love you…” you mumbled, faintly hearing Spencer say “I love you, too” as you finally felt sleep taking over again.
hi! i have this little idea for a fic where pining reader breaks the heel of her shoe and pining spencer voluntarily carries them back to their apartment. i’m seeing bashful, cutesy, awkwardly charming spencer treating reader like a (reluctant) princess in the middle of the street all the way up to her apartment door. i’d be so grateful for your expertise in writing this 😙x
princess — spencer reid
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: spencer picks reader up, one tiny mention of a snapped ankle ( reader is fine i promise )
a/n: hai hai !!! i had so much fun writing this.
You smiled at Spencer as he held the door open for you. “Thank you.” The chill air met your skin, and you sighed in relief.
Spencer smiled beside you, a mirror of your own relief. “It was loud in there,” he mumbled, staring at the empty street.
“Yeah,” you sighed, your breath curling in the cold night air. The FBI gala had been loud and crowded, fun in its own way, but overwhelming all the same. You’d enjoyed yourself, but it had been a lot. Spencer looked just as relieved as you to have escaped the bustling atmosphere. For a moment, the two of you simply stood there.
After a couple of minutes, you turned your head to look at him. “Wanna walk home?” you asked. You definitely weren’t ready to sit still in a cab just yet. And luckily, both your apartments were close to the gala, so walking sounded nice.
Spencer nodded almost immediately, his eyes meeting yours. “Yeah. I could use the fresh air.”
You smiled. “Yeah, me too.”
Spencer moved first, descending a step before he paused and turned back, his hand extended toward you. He’d noticed your heels, elegant but undoubtedly treacherous on the uneven steps. Your heart gave a little flutter as you placed your hand in his.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. You tried desperately not to focus on the feel of his skin against yours, how soft it was or how completely it enveloped yours.
He guided you down each step. Only when your feet were on the steady pavement did he reluctantly let go, his fingers slipping away leaving a ghost of their warmth behind.
“These shoes are horrible,” you complained with a groan, falling into step beside him as you began the walk toward your neighboring apartments. “I got them recently and I definitely didn’t break them in properly.”
Spencer’s eyes flicked to your feet. “Breaking in new shoes is important to achieve a custom fit, which prevents discomfort, friction, and potential overuse injuries like blisters and strained tendons,” he explained in his usual rambling tone.
You chuckled softly, bumping your shoulder gently against his arm. “Well, I’m pretty sure i’m going to have blisters the size of quarters by the time I get home.”
Spencer was about to reply, a statistic about the average rate of pedestrian injuries due to faulty footwear no doubt, when your foot skidded on a loose piece of pavement. You gasped, your hand reaching out to grip his forearm.
The movement was accompanied by a loud crack.
For one terrifying second, Spencer’s heart lurched into his throat, immediately thinking you'd snapped your ankle. But then you straightened up, staring down at your foot with a look of pure disbelief.
“Well, there it goes,” you mumbled. You bent down, your fingers closing around the strap of your shoe, now dangling uselessly with its heel snapped clean off.
Spencer had to press his lips together to suppress a grin. He failed, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
“Don’t laugh,” you warned, looking up at him, but your own smile betrayed you.
“It’s like the shoe heard you talking badly about it and decided to stage a protest,” he grinned.
You let out a genuine laugh as you touched the plastic of the broken heel. “Yeah, there's no fixing that,” you chuckled, shaking your head.
Spencer’s smile remained, but his brain was already kicking into overdrive. The pavement was full of dirt, litter, and who-knew-what pathogens. You now had one shoe. The temperature had dropped several degrees since you left the gala. The solution presented itself and before his brain caught up, the words spilled out.
“You can’t walk like this,” he stated.
Your head, which had been bent over examining your shoe, snapped up. “What?” you asked.
A faint blush crept up Spencer’s neck. “I can carry you home. You could get a serious infection if you walk barefoot.” The words came out rushed.
You just stared at him, your mouth slightly agape. The mere idea of Spencer Reid, your brilliant, adorable, long-time crush, sweeping you off your feet, quite literally, was enough to make you feel dizzy.
Spencer stared back, waiting.
You stared at him, still wide-eyed. A part of you was worried this was some kind of fever dream. “I can walk, really,” you insisted, though the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.
Spencer gestured again to the grimy pavement. “The statistical probability of contracting an infection from urban soil is significantly high,” he mumbled, his voice soft. “Plus, you could easily cut your foot on a piece of glass or debris. I don’t want that.” He shifted his weight, his hands flexing slightly at his sides as if already anticipating the task. “It’s a much more efficient and safer solution. I really don’t want you to get sick or hurt.”
( And, if he was being completely honest with himself, he really, really wanted to hold you. )
You bit your lip as you glanced down at the ruined shoe.
“I won’t drop you,” Spencer added, a gentle tease meant to lighten the atmosphere. The promise made you giggle and the sound immediately brought a shy smile to his own face.
You looked up, meeting his earnest hazel eyes. “You’re sure?”
Spencer nodded quickly. “Yes. Absolutely.”
You took a deep breath, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Okay,” you mumbled, the word a surrender to both logic and a secret, desperate hope.
You bent down, grabbing the broken shoe and slipping it back onto your foot. It sat at a useless angle, the heel dangling by a thread of leather. Spencer watched the entire process in silence. He was preparing himself for the imminent, terrifying, wonderful fact that he was about to hold you, your entire body, in his arms.
You stood up, giving him a small, nervous nod.
He bent his knees slightly, one arm sliding securely under your knees while the other wrapped firmly around your back, his hand splayed against your shoulder blade. In one surprisingly smooth motion, he lifted you up against his chest. You let out a small gasp, your stomach swooping as your feet left the ground. A faint, proud smile touched Spencer’s lips at the sound. Instinctively, your arms flew up and locked around his neck. You were hyper-aware of every point of contact like the solid muscle of his chest against your side and the rapid beat of his heart.
“Am I too heavy?” you asked quietly.
Spencer shook his head, making a slight adjustment to shift your weight more perfectly into his embrace. “Not at all,” he murmured.
He was far less concerned with your weight, which was negligible to him, and more so with the fact that he felt like he might pass out from the sensation of your arms interlaced around his neck, your cheek so close to his.
He started walking and you tightened your hold just a fraction, burying your smile against his shoulder to suppress the happy, disbelieving squeal that threatened to escape.
“Thank you,” you mumbled, your lips close to the skin of his neck.
Spencer had to consciously force his eyes to stay open, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold skating down his spine at the feel of your warm breath against him.
He smiled, risking a glance down at you, but the overwhelming intimacy of the moment made him look away again almost immediately. He couldn't hold that gaze for long, not with you so close, not with his heart thudding so loudly he was sure you could hear it. “Nothing to thank me for,” he said softly, his voice a little tight.
You adjusted your arms around his neck, settling in. After a few moments of comfortable silence, you grew bolder, letting your head relax fully against his shoulder. Spencer’s smile deepened.
He was holding you. Just an hour ago, he’d nearly short-circuited at the gala when your fingers brushed his as you handed him a glass of soda. Now, he was carrying you home through the quiet streets, and you were laying your head on his shoulder as if it belonged there.
Meanwhile, you were just as delighted. He was so warm, and he held you with such care, being mindful not to grip too tightly, which made you feel safe enough to sink into him completely.
“Did you see Rossi downing like ten drinks?” you mumbled, your words vibrating softly against his shoulder.
Spencer huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I saw him ordering three more when we left,” he said, his attention split between your conversation and carefully navigating the uneven pavement.
You smiled, and Spencer felt another, more pronounced shiver run through him when your fingers crept up, gently combing through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You were certainly going to take advantage of this situation. If you were already in his arms, what was the harm in finally touching the hair you’d always admired?
“I really liked your hair tonight,” you mumbled, your voice drowsy as you continued to brush through the soft strands.
Spencer’s breath hitched. His steps faltered for just a second before he recovered, holding you a little tighter. The simple, tender touch felt more intimate than anything he could have imagined.
Spencer shivered. “Don’t,” he mumbled, the word strained.
“What?” you asked, pulling back slightly to look at his face, your fingers stilling in his hair.
He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, a faint red flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll… I’ll drop you,” he admitted, voice quiet.
You grinned, the pieces clicking into place. “Why? Does it feel nice?” you teased softly, your smile widening as his blush deepened.
Spencer didn’t answer. His brain-to-mouth filter had completely short-circuited. “We’re almost here,” he mumbled instead, quickening his pace just a fraction toward your apartment building.
You chuckled, resting your head back on his shoulder. “Saved by the door.”
The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence for the remaining steps. “You’re really making me feel like a princess here,” you mumbled against the warm fabric of his jacket, your breath ghosting over his skin once more.
Spencer smiled softly, the words slipping out before he could even think to stop them. “Well, you look like one.”
He barely registered what he’d said until you raised your head again, your eyes sparkling with a happiness. You beamed at him. “Thank you, Spencer.”
True to his word, he didn't set you down at the building's entrance. He carried you through the lobby and up the single flight of stairs to your apartment door. Only when you were safely on your own welcome mat did he gently lower you, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment to ensure you were steady.
As soon as your feet touched the ground, his arms felt strangely, profoundly empty. He would have carried you around the entire city if it had been an option.
You smiled up at him, smoothing down your dress. “Do your arms hurt?” you joked, though it was a serious question.
“No. Not at all,” Spencer replied with a genuine, if slightly dazed, smile. If anything, they felt hollow and oddly light.
“That was really nice of you, Spencer,” you said, your voice softening.
Spencer simply smiled back, taking the moment to admire you in the hallway light. With your hair slightly mussed and your cheeks flushed from the cold, or maybe from being carried, you still looked as lovely as you had at the gala, if not more so.
You turned to your door, opening your purse to fish for your key. After a moment of searching, you found it and slid it into the lock. You were distracting yourself from your next move, which is why you focused so intently on the simple act of opening the door. Spencer stood awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The moment felt like it was ending too soon.
“Well, I’ll… I’ll see you at work,” he said, the words feeling inadequate. He wrung his hands slightly as you finally pushed the door open, and he couldn’t help but glance inside, catching a glimpse of your cozy living room and the hallway leading deeper into your home. It felt incredibly personal, and it made his heart ache with a strange longing.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” he finally managed to get out, the words rushing together in his haste to say them before he lost his nerve.
You finally turned to fully meet his eyes, and he noticed a flicker of a nervous glint in your gaze. Your smile was a little weak around the edges. “And you looked very handsome,” you replied, your voice just above a whisper.
And before he could process the compliment, before he could even form a response, you reached up. Time seemed to slow down as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, handsome,” you mumbled against his skin.
One of your hands remained on his other cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone in a gesture so tender it made his knees feel weak. You then stepped back, balancing on the heels of your one good and one broken shoe.
Spencer stared at you with wide, stunned eyes, his entire being focused on the warm, tingling spot on his cheek where your lips had been. “Oh—you’re—you’re welcome,” he breathed out, the words barely audible.
He felt dizzy, his mind completely blank of everything except the memory of that kiss.
He took an unsteady step backward, needing to put a fraction of space between you before he did something utterly foolish, like confess everything he was feeling right there in the hallway. “Well, I’ll see you—on on—Monday,” he stammered.
You smiled. “See you then, my knight in shining armor,” you joked, a flustered expression forming on your face.
Spencer blushed prettily in return, but he managed to find his voice. “See you then, princess.” The pet name, shot back with such confidence, left you just as flustered as he was.
With a final, dazed smile, he turned and walked down the hall, his hand coming up almost unconsciously to touch the spot on his cheek, a man forever changed by a single, broken heel.
A/N: hello lovelies! i told you we’d be back for flufftober :) I’ve been working through some brain fog but I think I’m getting through it. hope you enjoy! - mod angel
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Summary: Work gets in the way of your anniversary plans, so you and Spencer decide to make your own.
~~~
You didn’t even think you were going to have any time to celebrate your anniversary. Another case had run long and you were coming home with only a few hours left of the day.
You sighed as you looked out the window of the jet, trying to find comfort in the view of the clouds outside. After a few minutes, you were brought back to reality when you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned around to see Spencer holding out a cup of tea. You took it and thanked him as he sat next to you.
“Hey, cheer up,” he said, slipping an arm around you. “At least we’ll be home for our anniversary.”
“Barely,” you sighed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “We missed our dinner reservation and everything’s going to be closed. I’m not even going to be able to wear that new dress I bought…”
He listened sympathetically, running a soothing hand through your hair. “Well, why not?”
You look over at him, furrowing your brows. “What? You think something will still be open?”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he replied sincerely. “We could make a night of it, and then go out tomorrow.” He smiled at you, running a thumb over your cheek. “What do you say?”
You smiled back at him, taking his hand and lacing your fingers together. “Well, that sounds nice… better than nothing at least.”
He chuckled warmly, giving your hand a squeeze. “It’s a date, then.”
You spent the rest of the jet ride discussing what to do when you got home: trying to remember the food you had in the fridge, thinking of a movie you could watch together… it wasn’t exactly the night you had originally planned, but it was starting to sound like a nice way to spend the evening.
…
Back at your apartment, you both changed into the clothes you had laid out for the night, meeting in your living room. When Spencer saw you, he gave you a big smile. You smiled back, twirling around for him, eventually ending up in his arms.
“Beautiful,” he whispered in your ear, caressing your cheek. “I know this isn’t what we had planned but, if I can be selfish for a moment?” He started, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “I’m a little glad I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”
You let out a shy giggle, pulling him in for a sweet kiss. You felt his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You felt your body heating up as the kiss lasted a few moments, eventually pulling away with a flushed face. “Alright, let’s start dinner before we forget about it and don’t eat all night.”
He let out a dramatic groan, letting you lead him into the kitchen. “I would be fine, I’ve got plenty to eat,” he murmured suggestively in your ear.
You giggle, swatting him playfully. “Cheeky little thing. Dinner first.”
You didn’t have the supplies for a five-star meal, so you settled for some chicken and vegetables, drinking soda instead of champagne.
You put on some soft, slow music as you ate, trying the best you could to capture the romantic evening you originally planned. Honestly? It had turned out better than you had expected. It was nice to have a quiet dinner together.
When you were done eating, Spencer reached across the table to grab your hand. “Hey… dance with me?” He asked softly.
You closed your eyes for a moment as you let the romantic music fill your ears, thinking his request over before opening your eyes and smiling at him. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. Come here.” He stood up, taking your hand and standing you up with him. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you close as your hands went to his shoulders.
You started slowly swaying to the music, your head resting on his shoulder as you held him close enough to feel your hearts beating together.
He pressed a kiss to your temple, his chin resting on top of your head, dipping down to whisper in your ear. “I love you.”
You opened your eyes to meet his gaze, putting a gentle hand on his face. “I love you too,” you whispered. “Love you so much.”
He leaned in and your lips met in a long, loving kiss. You let out a dreamy sigh, your hands tangling in his hair. The kiss was slow and sweet; you didn’t feel any need to rush as you got lost in the moment just feeling the intimacy between the two of you.
You let kisses turn into enticing whispers, your dancing turning into slow, sensual movements in the bedroom. Your clothes became scattered along the floor as you spent the rest of the night tangled up in the sheets and in each other, hushed words spoken just for the two of you to hear.
At the end of the night, still feeling the peaceful bliss of the evening, you laid in each other’s arms. Spencer looked at you as if you were the most perfect thing in the whole world, smiling as his fingers absentmindedly ran up and down your bare arm. “Happy anniversary, love,” he whispered, kissing your forehead.
Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his lips on your face. You let out a content sigh, not quite able to find the words to express the love you felt in this moment. So you settled for a simple, “Happy anniversary. I love you.”
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