summary: Spencer thought he was in a long-term relationship— turns out, he forgot to tell her.
warnings: none, babe. this is pure fluff <3
“Come on, man,” Derek said, arms folded as he stared Spencer down across the break room table. “You can’t just read a thousand relationship books and think that’s the same as the real thing.”
Spencer looked up from the folder in his lap, utterly unbothered. “Thirty-nine books. And they’re peer-reviewed studies. It’s not about anecdotes, it’s about data.”
Penelope leaned over her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Oh boy. He’s going full empirical. This should be good.”
“It’s not that I think I understand relationships,” Spencer continued, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I recognize functional dynamics when I see them. And I happen to know what one looks like.”
Derek snorted. “Yeah? Like what, The Notebook?”
“No,” Spencer said. “Like me and Y/N.”
There was a beat of silence.
Y/N, seated two chairs down with a half-drunk coffee in her hand, turned very slowly. “I’m sorry, what now?”
Spencer blinked at her like she’d asked if water was wet. “What?”
“What do you mean ‘you and me’?”
He frowned, confused. “I mean us. Our dynamic. It’s a prime example of a healthy relationship.”
Garcia dropped her muffin.
Derek leaned in like he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. “Go on.”
Spencer tilted his head at Y/N. “You seriously didn’t know?”
She blinked. “Know what exactly?”
“That we’re in a relationship. Or— at least something adjacent to one. I assumed we were both aware of that.”
Y/N stared at him.
Spencer, sensing the disbelief, leaned back in his chair and began to list things off like he was briefing a case. “We text every night before bed. You bring me coffee the way I like it— three sugars, not stirred— almost every day, without asking. I’ve picked you up from the airport twice. You’ve stayed over at my apartment more than once, and you steal my hoodies.”
“That’s just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly at Garcia, who was frozen mid-bite.
Spencer wasn’t done.
“We hold hands when we walk across busy streets. You braid my hair when I’m stressed. I read you poetry once and you cried, which I took as a positive emotional response and not distress.”
Y/N slowly set her coffee down. “Okay.”
“I’ve memorized your Chipotle order,” Spencer added, like that sealed it.
“Okay.”
Spencer leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “We literally hold hands all the time.”
“…Okay, yeah, I see where I went wrong.”
Derek lost it.
Garcia was fanning herself with a napkin, whispering “my stars” under her breath.
Y/N looked like she was debating the moral and logistical weight of throwing herself into the nearest garbage can.
Spencer, meanwhile, just looked vaguely betrayed. “How did you not know?”
She gave him a look. “Because you never said it out loud?”
“I thought it was implied!”
Derek clapped once, loud. “Oh, I live for this.”
Garcia blinked. “Cool, so I’ve been third-wheeling a relationship that wasn’t even technically happening. Love that for me.”
Y/N turned back to Spencer, who was still trying to solve the mystery of how she missed this.
“Are you mad?” she asked.
“No,” he said, after a beat. “Just… surprised. I really thought we were on the same page.”
“Well.” She exhaled, slow and a little amused. “We are now.”
Spencer tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re officially dating?”
Y/N shrugged. “Statistically speaking?”
That got the smallest smile out of him.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
a/n: first spencer fic can i get a whoop whoop (i hope this is good, oh god)
an extremely self indulgent brooklyn 99 and criminal minds crossover
pairing: spencer reid x reader (with a tiny bit of almost jake peralta x reader for funsies)
words: 3.0k
warnings: none, this is fluff and comedy <3
summary: Spencer Reid’s grip on sanity? Loose. (Y/n)’s patience? Tested. Jake Peralta? Accidentally in the middle of a romcom finale with no snacks. There’s banter, jealousy, a tasered vending machine, and one (1) emergency love confession.
a/n: crossover episode my beloved; this was extremely fun to write lolllllll, hope you like it <3
Spencer was already three tangents deep into the geographic profile, talking fast, hands moving like the words were trying to escape faster than his brain could handle. (Y/n) had learned years ago to just let him go. He’d loop back around eventually. Usually.
“The spacing of the disposal sites suggests he’s sticking to a routine. All within a tight radius— three miles or so. That kind of pattern almost always means it’s familiar territory. Could be work, could be home base. Most likely night shifts, given the dump times— between 2:10 and 3:30 a.m. Which means fewer witnesses, less traffic—”
“Or he just likes moonlight and solitude,” (Y/n) said absently, scribbling something in her notebook. “Creepy guys tend to romanticize the weirdest stuff.”
Spencer didn’t look up. “That’s… statistically consistent with other narcissistic or compulsive offenders, actually.”
She glanced over at him. “You know you could just say ‘you’re right.’ It won’t kill you.”
He did look at her then, quick, with the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’m not sure I’ve tested that hypothesis thoroughly enough to risk it.”
She snorted. “Tragic. I thought you loved me.”
Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “I do. But not enough to sacrifice academic integrity.”
“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Wounded. Devastated. Utterly betrayed.”
“Noted,” he murmured, turning back to his screen with an annoyingly smug look.
Derek leaned forward from his seat across the aisle. “Are y’all gonna do this the whole flight?”
JJ didn’t even look up from her file. “They’re gonna do this the whole case.”
“I’m sitting right here,” (Y/n) called over.
“And yet, you keep doing this,” Emily muttered, sipping her coffee. “Every case. Without fail.”
Spencer turned his tablet toward (Y/n), pretending not to hear them. “There are five possible buildings inside the comfort zone. Abandoned commercial spaces, all accessible. No cameras.”
She leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “That one. Tucked behind the construction site. No visibility from the road.”
He nodded. “I had that ranked third.”
“I outrank your list.”
“You outrank logic?”
“I outrank you, Reid.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Bold claim for someone who once tripped over their own shoelaces during a takedown.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you.”
“Absolutely not.”
(Y/n) sighed, grabbing her coffee and slumping back in her seat. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming.”
Spencer, without looking up, murmured, “You’re lucky I find you charming.”
And just like that, she paused.
It wasn’t even the words— it was the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t meant to land the way it did.
Her fingers stilled on the coffee cup. Just for a second. Then she shook her head, eyes narrowing. “You trying to throw me off before we hit the ground? Because that’s a dirty tactic, Reid.”
He smiled, faint. “If I wanted to throw you off, I’d bring up that time you accidentally used your taser on the vending machine.”
“That was one time.”
“I still have the video.”
Derek threw up his hands. “Okay, I need noise-canceling headphones or a fire alarm. One or the other.”
“Let them have their foreplay,” Rossi grumbled from behind his paper. “Just as long as it doesn’t slow down the case.”
(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but she didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little.
And Spencer? He didn’t say anything else.
But his knee brushed against hers under the table.
And he didn’t move it.
——————————————————————————————————
The precinct was pure, barely-contained chaos. Phones ringing, printers jamming, someone yelling “I said decaf!” from the breakroom. (Y/n) stepped in behind the team, her eyes scanning the flurry with the kind of calm that only came from years of being thrown headfirst into crime scenes that smelled like old pizza and adrenaline.
Then— like he was summoned by the gods of caffeine and chaos— a voice cut through the noise.
“FBI? Oh thank god. Tell me you’re the FBI. If one more lieutenant hands me a case file on raccoon-related vandalism, I’m going to start speaking in riddles.”
The guy had two coffees in one hand, a folder under his arm, and the kind of face that said yes, I’m sleep-deprived, but I’ve made it part of my personality now.
“Detective Jake Peralta,” he added, stepping forward and immediately handing one of the coffees off to a passing officer. “You must be the reinforcements. Welcome to our deeply unfortunate circus.”
(Y/n) stepped forward with a polite smile. “Agent (Y/l/n), BAU.”
Jake looked at her and forgot what vowels were.
“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Wow.” He blinked. “Hi. Sorry. That was… a very professional reaction to a federal agent. I’m super normal.”
(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, amused. “Totally. You look extremely normal.”
Jake pointed at her like he was confirming her existence for himself. “And funny. She’s funny, too. Great. Just awesome.”
Spencer, two steps behind her, tilted his head the tiniest bit. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Emily, walking next to him, noticed immediately.
“So,” Jake said, already spinning on his heel and motioning them toward the evidence board, “we’ve got three victims, matching M.O., a dump site triangle, and a ton of questions. I’d love to walk you through it. Bonus: I also know where the best snacks are hidden in this precinct. Critical intel.”
“Let me guess,” (Y/n) said, falling into step beside him, “you keep gummy bears in a murder folder?”
Jake gave her a wide-eyed, deeply serious nod. “Listen, I can’t solve murder with low blood sugar. That’s just biology. Forensics and fruit snacks— two pillars of modern justice.”
She actually laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “That’s what you’re going with? Fruit snacks and felony charges?”
“Look,” he said, glancing at her with a grin, “some people have badges, some have instincts— I have a snack drawer and a vibe.”
(Y/n) shot him a look. “And a lot of confidence, apparently.”
“It’s the only thing holding me together.”
Spencer, still watching from behind, clenched his jaw and stared very intently at the murder board— as if sheer willpower would make Jake Peralta spontaneously combust.
Derek leaned over slightly. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” Spencer said. Way too quickly.
“Uh-huh.”
(Y/n) looked over her shoulder, smiling. “Spencer, you coming?”
Spencer blinked. “Right behind you.”
Emily raised an eyebrow as he passed, giving him that look— the one that meant I know, and I’m about to say it out loud.
He walked faster.
Behind them, Emily whispered to JJ, “We have now entered full-blown Jealous Spencer territory.”
JJ winced sympathetically. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
——————————————————————————————————
The dump site was taped off, abandoned and eerie in the late afternoon light. A narrow alley backed by cracked concrete walls, discarded furniture, and silence— except for the occasional buzz of Spencer’s pen clicking in his pocket. Repeatedly.
Jake and (Y/n) were walking ahead of the rest of the group, ducking under the tape, their steps crunching through gravel.
“Okay,” Jake said, scanning the alley. “I know it’s not exactly a five-star view, but I promise this is the cleanest murder site we’ve had all week. That’s a weird sentence.”
(Y/n) laughed. “It’s fine. We spend half our lives in parking lots and basements. Honestly, this is kind of charming.”
Jake pointed at a tipped-over dumpster. “Ah, yes. Classic small-town ambiance.”
She crouched near a drainpipe, tilting her head. “He’s dumping at night. No cameras. But the dumpster’s too obvious— too accessible. He’s not just hiding the bodies, he’s watching them.”
Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s… both creepy and very insightful. You do this a lot?”
She looked up at him, playful. “Solve murders? Yeah. Flirt at them? Not usually.”
He smirked, a little lopsided. “Hey, I haven’t even started flirting yet. That was just me being charming.”
“Oh, just charming?” she teased.
Jake leaned against the wall, watching her. “Let me know when you’re ready for the full Peralta experience. It includes sarcasm, emotional baggage, and an impressive knowledge of Die Hard trivia.”
(Y/n) stood, brushing off her knees. “That’s a lot to take in on a first crime scene.”
He grinned. “So you’re saying there’ll be a second?”
A beat. Just a pause. She didn’t answer right away.
Spencer, across the lot with Derek and Emily, had stopped mid-sentence, his entire expression shifted from mildly focused to openly horrified.
“She’s laughing,” he said flatly.
Emily glanced up from her notes. “Yeah, that tends to happen when people are enjoying themselves.”
“With him.”
“Oh no,” Derek muttered. “We’ve lost him.”
The rest of the team returned to the SUV, but Emily stayed behind, as if she knew this wasn't done yet.
“She’s laughing at his jokes,” Spencer repeated, eyes still locked on the two figures across the alley.
“She laughs at yours,” Emily said.
“That’s different. She knows mine are objectively not funny.”
“Okay, you know what?” Emily snapped her folder shut. “We’re doing this now. Let’s go, Genius.”
Spencer blinked as she grabbed his elbow and dragged him toward the SUV.
“What? No— I’m working.”
“You’re spiraling,” she corrected. “And doing it in a crime scene, which is new.”
Behind them, (Y/n) was still talking to Jake, standing closer now, arms crossed and leaning in like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.
Spencer’s voice dropped. “Emily, I’m fine.”
“You’re jealous,” she said, eyes sharp. “And for a guy who can read microexpressions from thirty feet away, you are shockingly bad at clocking your own.”
“I don’t get jealous,” he said, almost insulted.
She gave him a look.
“…Okay, I am jealous,” he admitted under his breath. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”
Emily leaned against the SUV, watching Spencer like she was trying to figure out whether she needed to slap sense into him or hug him. Maybe both. Probably both.
He was pacing. Not frantically, just… tightly. Hands in his pockets, jaw tense, doing that thing where his eyes tracked the ground like the answers were written there.
“I mean, it’s fine,” he said finally, like he was trying to convince the air. “She’s allowed to laugh at someone else’s jokes. I’m not— entitled to anything.”
Emily stayed quiet.
He glanced back at the alley where (Y/n) was standing with Jake. She was leaning on one foot, comfortable. She looked happy. And it gutted him.
“It’s just— he’s charming,” Spencer muttered. “And funny. And he’s got that whole casual swagger thing going on. I mean, who even has swagger in 2025? Apparently, Jake does. And she’s… she’s smiling.”
“You’re allowed to be upset,” Emily said, her voice soft, even.
Spencer didn’t answer. His hands were twitching in his pockets now.
“I’ve had… crushes,” he said finally, like it was painful to admit even that much. “A few. Not a lot. But some. And usually they’re easy to understand. You think someone’s cute. You like their voice. You want them to notice you.”
He shook his head.
“This isn’t that.”
Emily just watched him.
“I notice everything,” he went on, his voice quieter now. “Not because I’m profiling her. Not because I’m analyzing anything. I just… do. I know when she’s about to make a bad joke because she gets this look— like she’s proud of it already. I know she only pretends to like black coffee when we’re around local PD because she thinks it makes her look tougher.”
A pause. His voice dipped even lower.
“I know the sound of her laugh when it’s real. I know when she’s tired, even if she’s smiling. I know when she’s faking being okay. And I know when she’s actually okay. And I know that right now…” He looked up, eyes fixed on her across the lot, where she and Jake were still talking, still laughing.
“…She’s really okay. With him.”
Emily stepped closer, gentle. “Spence.”
He didn’t look at her.
“I think about her all the time,” he said, like he was just realizing it out loud. “Not in a way I… planned. Just— suddenly I’m at a bookstore and wondering if she’d like the cover of something. Or I hear a song and I can’t tell if I like it until I know if she would. It’s— constant.”
He laughed once, breathy and humorless. “And statistically, I know crushes fade. The brain adjusts. The novelty goes away. But this? This has been over a year. Maybe longer.”
Emily tilted her head. “And?”
Spencer blinked.
“…And I think I’m in love with her.”
A pause. Then—
“Oh,” he breathed. “Shit.”
Emily smiled, just barely. “Took you long enough.”
He ran both hands over his face. “I don’t— what am I supposed to do with that?”
“You tell her,” she said gently.
“What? No, I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Emily, she's quite possibly the closest friend I have. What if it ruins everything?”
Emily didn’t answer for a second. She just looked at him— really looked at him— and said, “Spencer. You're already miserable. At least ruin it with some dignity, damn it.”
He looked back at (Y/n). She was saying goodbye to Jake now, walking back toward the team, tucking her hair behind her ear like she always did when she was distracted. She looked like home.
Emily nodded. “Yeah. You are. Oh, and for the record, I thought I was your closest friend, and honestly, I feel so attacked right now."
"You'll live."
"Hey!" retorted Emily, followed by a smack to his arm.
——————————————————————————————————
The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the precinct lot. The case was wrapped, files turned in, media dodged. (Y/n) was leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, sipping from her now-cold coffee like it was still doing something.
Jake jogged up to her, slowing as he approached. Not suave. Just… trying.
“Hey,” he said, offering a lopsided smile. “So, weird question for the end of a triple homicide, but— any chance I could take you to dinner sometime?”
(Y/n) blinked. “Oh.”
She smiled, a little surprised. “Jake, you’re— great. I had fun working with you.”
Jake’s grin faltered just enough to be human. “But…?”
“But—”
“Wait!”
Both of them turned.
Spencer was standing about ten feet away, looking like he had sprinted here but didn’t want to show it. His hair was windswept, his shirt slightly crooked, and his expression somewhere between resolute and deeply alarmed.
(Y/n) blinked. “Spencer?”
Jake glanced between them. “Should I…? I can come back.”
“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, stepping forward. “You’re fine. I mean— not fine, you’re not staying. I mean, yes, you’re staying right now, I just—”
He looked at (Y/n), all the air gone from his lungs.
“I need to say something.”
(Y/n) tilted her head, cautious now. “Okay…”
Spencer glanced at Jake. Then at her. Then back at Jake.
“This is going to be weird with him here,” he muttered.
“I can pretend to be a lamp,” Jake offered, backing up slightly. “I’m excellent at furniture-based camouflage.”
“Jake,” (Y/n) said, half-laughing, “you don’t have to—”
“I really think I do,” he said, hands raised. “There’s a lot of emotion in the air and I don’t want to get hit by it.”
Spencer ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said softly. “I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we had too much to lose. That maybe I was just… projecting.”
He swallowed. “But then I watched someone else get to make you laugh. I watched you lean in, and talk like he already belonged in your world. And I realized— I’ve been pretending that I didn’t already live there.”
(Y/n)’s breath caught.
Spencer took another step closer. “I know the way you look when you’re solving a puzzle you don’t know you’ve solved yet. I know how you take your coffee differently when you’re pretending you’re fine. I know that you hum when you’re reading case files, and that you’ll always find a way to make the worst days seem funny, just to keep us all going.”
He paused, voice low. “I notice everything about you. Not because I’m profiling you. Just… because it’s you.”
Jake mouthed oh my god to himself, backing up another step.
(Y/n) stared at Spencer, wide-eyed. “You— you’ve never said any of this.”
“I didn’t know how,” Spencer admitted. “But I’m in love with you. And it took me way too long to say it. So if you’re going to say no— please do it fast, before I combust.”
Silence.
Then—
“Spencer,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “You’re an idiot.”
His face fell— until she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.
It was fast. Then slow. Then somewhere in between. Like they’d been waiting for years but were still trying to catch up.
Jake, standing off to the side, made a quiet choking sound.
“I am so intruding,” he muttered. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’m gonna walk into the woods and never come back. I’ll start a new life. Join a wolf pack. Change my name. Just... yeah.”
They didn’t hear him.
(Y/n) pulled back just slightly, forehead still resting against Spencer’s.
“You’re in love with me?”
He nodded, breathless. “Deeply. Disastrously.”
She let out a laugh— half relief, half disbelief— as her forehead rested against his. “Oh, thank God. It was killing me thinking it might just be me.”
Jake was halfway to the sidewalk when Spencer called out— without looking—
“Thank you for not asking her out.”
Jake froze. “I did. You just… intercepted mid-sentence.”
Spencer blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
Jake clapped once. “Well, that was the best romcom finale I’ve ever witnessed. I’m gonna go cry in my car.”
He turned again, walking toward his car like a man who had just lost a bet to fate.
God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this from Rosa.
warnings: slow burn, reader and spencer are oblivious idiots in love (reader more so)
summary: Spencer and (Y/n) navigate the slow unraveling of their friendship as buried feelings, a drunken confession, and a forgotten note at the BAU push them toward something more. A quiet shift becomes impossible to ignore.
a/n: tried something new this time, this story contains six parts (all are in the same chapter here lol dw), each part of the story corresponding to a different aspect of the slowburn, we have how spencer caught feelings, how reader did, missed chances, confessions, etc, hope you like it!
Part 1: The Shift
It started on a Tuesday.
Which, honestly, was fitting— Tuesdays were always the worst. The kind that dragged like molasses, heavy and colorless, where even the fluorescent lights at Quantico felt dimmer than usual.
(Y/n) had come in late. She was drenched from the rain, hair sticking to her cheek, shoes squeaking against the tile. She mumbled something about the metro breaking down and then tripping over a puddle. Spencer had glanced up briefly from his file, half-expecting her to be irritated or miserable.
She wasn’t.
She was laughing.
Not politely. Not reserved. Full-body, head-thrown-back laughter as she peeled off her coat, dropped her soaked bag, and nearly slipped again trying to kick her boots off. JJ tried to help and nearly got hit in the face by a flying heel. It was chaos.
And she was just— Radiant.
Spencer blinked.
It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed her. That would’ve been months ago, probably. She was hard not to notice— sharp-eyed, quicker with a comeback than most, warm in a way he didn't often see in this line of work. But this was different. This was the first time he saw her.
Really saw her.
The way she always filled a room without trying. The way her smile made other people instinctively smile back. The way she was a little clumsy and didn’t care, the way she tried to hide how much she cared about cases even when it tore her up inside. He had known all those things in the abstract, the way you know a fact— like gravity, or the freezing point of water.
But right then?
It hit him like impact trauma.
He watched her laugh until tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, watched the way she looked at everyone else with such unguarded fondness, and he wondered— When did I stop thinking of her as just a teammate?
Because now he couldn’t stop.
Now he was noticing things. Little things.
Like how she always chewed on the end of her pen when she was reading. Like how she hummed under her breath when she was focused. Like how she always saved the last donut in the box for Garcia, even when she didn’t say anything.
Or how, that same morning, soaked and messy and late, she still handed Spencer his usual coffee— black, two sugars, extra hot.
“I figured you’d forget to take a break,” she said simply. “You get like that on paperwork days.”
He blinked at the cup. Then at her.
“You think about that?”
She shrugged. “I think about you.”
Just like that. No hesitation. No implication. Just honesty, handed over with a cup of coffee.
And Spencer— Spencer felt his pulse skip a beat. Because he thought about her, too.
Just… not like that.
Not until now.
Not until her smile did something to his chest he couldn’t quite name.
He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, a little too quickly, and took the cup with hands that were suddenly too warm.
She had already moved on, rifling through her files, feet still damp, hair a mess, completely unaware that the axis of his entire day had just tilted beneath her rain-soaked boots.
And Spencer sat back in his chair, sipped his coffee, and realized with horrifying clarity—
Oh.
This might be a problem.
——————————————————————————————————
Part 2: The Fall
It wasn’t sudden.
She’d known Spencer for a while. They worked together. Traveled together. Spent more time with each other than most married couples did. She knew his coffee order, his go-to obscure facts, his nervous tics, the way he tugged his sleeves when he was thinking too hard.
He was Spencer. Reliable, brilliant, slightly feral around whiteboards. Hers, in that quiet, unspoken way you claim someone who always saves you a seat.
But then one morning, something… shifted.
It was during a briefing, of all places. She was half-asleep, balancing a coffee on her knee and trying to keep up with Garcia’s rapid-fire details, when she glanced over and saw him— brow furrowed, lips slightly parted, fingers moving absently as he mentally sorted data like a magician laying out a trick deck.
He looked beautiful.
And that was annoying.
Because he’d always looked like that— messy curls, soft eyes, the kind of face you don’t forget. But she’d never noticed it like this. Not in a “why is my stomach doing weird things and why is my brain short-circuiting” kind of way.
He caught her looking and smiled, small and distracted.
Her stomach flipped.
Oh no.
That smile. That goddamn smile.
He smiled like the sun rising through fog— tentative, shy, like he didn’t know he was allowed to. It was the kind of smile you wanted to tuck away somewhere safe.
She looked away too quickly, cheeks warm.
Nope. Not going there. He’s your friend. Your genius, gentle, too-good-for-this-world friend. This is just hormones. Sleep deprivation. Maybe the coffee’s too strong.
Except it wasn’t just that.
It was the way he started rambling about parasite reproduction on the flight to Phoenix, and she hadn’t even rolled her eyes— she’d just… listened. Genuinely. Because he was passionate and awkward and unapologetic, and God, when was the last time someone cared about something that much?
It was the way he always noticed when she was having a bad day. The way he never made a big deal out of it— just slid a granola bar across the table or quietly rerouted her paperwork when she was too tired to see straight.
It was the way he said her name. Soft. Like it mattered.
It was the way he laughed once, sharp and unfiltered, when she tripped and called herself a “danger to national security,” and how he kept smiling for ten whole minutes after.
It was all of that. And more.
And it pissed her off.
Because she hadn’t signed up for this. She hadn’t meant to like him. She wasn’t even sure she did like him like that. Maybe she was just imagining it. Romanticizing friendship.
Except she wasn’t imagining how her heart jumped when his hand brushed hers. Or how she remembered everything he’d ever said to her, even the throwaway facts. Or how she’d started wearing the perfume he once said reminded him of “a field in late spring, just after it rains.”
She was screwed. She was falling for Spencer Reid.
And worst of all— He didn’t seem to notice.
——————————————————————————————————
Part 3: Fate's cruel joke
Spencer
Spencer didn’t mean to look.
He really didn’t. He’d walked into the coffee shop near Quantico for a quick refill and some mental quiet. But the universe— cruel, dramatic, always five steps ahead— had other plans.
There she was.
Seated near the window, hair lit golden by the morning sun, fingers curled around a paper cup.
And not alone.
The man across from her was tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking in a “probably played varsity something” kind of way. His hand brushed hers casually as he passed her a pastry. She laughed. Not politely. Not restrained. That full, unguarded laugh Spencer used to think was reserved just for—
Oh.
Spencer’s feet rooted to the floor. He watched— helpless, invisible— as she leaned in closer. Her expression was soft. Comfortable. Familiar. She looked... happy.
It knocked the air out of him.
He turned and walked out without his coffee.
The weight in his chest didn’t hit him all at once. It bled in slow, like a pressure system closing in. And he couldn’t explain it—not even to himself. Not at first.
He told himself he was just surprised. Caught off guard. It was normal. People dated. She had every right to. She was beautiful, kind, smart, the kind of person who made other people feel like they mattered.
Of course someone would want her.
Of course she’d want someone, too.
Later that week, they were elbow-deep in paperwork, one case closed and another already looming. The bullpen was unusually quiet. Even Garcia’s playlists had taken the day off.
Spencer was at his desk, flipping a pen between his fingers, eyes fixed on the page in front of him but reading none of it. Across the room, (Y/n) was laughing softly with JJ over something on her phone— shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at her mouth like it lived there now.
Spencer looked away.
A few minutes later, Morgan sank into the chair across from him, sliding a file folder across the table like it was just another update.
“You alright?” Morgan asked, voice quiet.
Spencer didn’t look up. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Morgan gave it a beat. “Let me rephrase that. What’s bothering you?”
Spencer hesitated, tapping the pen against the corner of the file. He sighed, finally putting it down, and leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean… it’s not that I’m upset. She’s happy. That’s a good thing.”
Morgan watched him closely but didn’t speak.
“It’s just… new,” Spencer said. “This feeling. I don’t really know how to name it yet. It’s not jealousy. At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve never really felt jealous before. It’s more like—” He paused, searching. “Like something doesn’t sit right. Not because he’s wrong for her, but because… I don’t know where I fit anymore.”
Morgan didn’t press. Just nodded slowly.
“She’s still your friend, man.”
“I know. I know that,” Spencer said. “It’s just… different now. I didn’t expect it to be.”
There was a pause.
“Reid,” Morgan said gently, “I’m not here to tell you what you’re feeling. That’s your own puzzle to solve. But whatever it is—it’s valid.”
Spencer nodded slowly, his gaze distant.
Morgan continued, “And for what it’s worth, it’s okay if it is jealousy. Or grief. Or fear. Sometimes those things tangle up when we care about someone more than we realize.”
Spencer stayed quiet.
Morgan stood, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m not going to meddle. But I’ve seen the way you look at her when you think no one’s watching.”
Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet his, something unreadable passing between them.
Morgan offered a faint, understanding smile. “You’ve got feelings for her. That’s not a crime.”
“I can’t talk to her about it,” Spencer said softly. “Not right now. She’s happy.”
Morgan nodded. “Alright. Then just… be there. The way you always are. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is, man. You don’t have to do anything yet. But you do have to feel it.”
Spencer looked down at his hands. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”
And outside, across the room, her laughter echoed again— effortless, warm, distant in a way he’d never quite felt before.
It didn’t hurt. Not exactly.
But it ached.
Reader
The moment she realized she couldn’t keep doing this, she was halfway through a dinner she wasn’t even really tasting.
The man across from her— Nate, nice, funny, not Spencer— was telling a story about a sting operation gone wrong in White Collar, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.
Spencer would’ve laughed at that detail.
He’d have interrupted with some wild statistic about entrapment cases or ethical loopholes, and they would’ve spiraled into one of their weird back-and-forth debates that no one else enjoyed but them.
She missed that. God, she missed him.
Nate smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re doing it again,” he said gently.
She blinked. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me all weird,” he said. “Like you wish I were someone else.”
Her throat went dry. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said, and weirdly, he meant it. “You’re not trying to be cruel. But… I think you’re in love with someone else.”
“I—” she started. But then stopped. “I didn’t mean to be.”
“Yeah,” Nate said, soft. “We never do.”
There was a silence that stretched between them, long, not bitter, but full.
“I’m still glad I got to know you,” he added after a beat.
“Me too,” she whispered.
She didn’t sleep that night. She barely sat still. She just kept replaying things in her head— conversations, touches, jokes that stuck to her ribs. Everything Spencer. All at once.
The way he smiled when she made a dumb pun. The way he noticed when she was too tired to speak and filled the silence for her. The way his eyes always flicked to her first in the middle of a case, as if to ask you okay?
She had to tell him. She would tell him.
So she did what anyone would do in a full-blown romcom panic: she got dressed, grabbed her keys, and all but ran out the door.
But fate, as ever, had a crueler script.
She found him outside a bookstore downtown. He was laughing. Not his usual soft chuckle— the rare, full kind that showed his teeth and squinted his eyes.
And she wasn’t the one making him laugh.
The woman standing with him was beautiful. Effortless. She had one hand on his arm, the other holding an iced coffee. She leaned in when she spoke, laughed like she meant it, and when Spencer nodded at something she said, it was with a softness that knocked the wind out of (Y/n)'s chest.
She stopped in her tracks.
He looked… content.
The moment crystallized into something heavy.
Because what was she doing? Running through the city in the hopes of changing something that maybe wasn’t meant to change?
Spencer deserved someone who wouldn’t hesitate. Someone who could love him loudly and surely, not someone who'd spent months burying feelings out of fear.
She turned on her heel, words still crowding her throat, never spoken.
She didn’t see Spencer glance up, scanning the street, eyes narrowing faintly like he thought he saw someone in the crowd.
And then the moment passed.
——————————————————————————————————
Part 4: Limbo
There was no dramatic fallout. No confrontation. No big emotional speech.
Just a quiet agreement made without words: this is fine.
This is enough.
And maybe it was, for a while.
They went back to being friends. Or at least, a version of it. The kind with polite check-ins and scheduled banter, the kind where every glance carried a weight neither of them acknowledged. No one else seemed to notice the shift. They still laughed at each other’s jokes. Still sat beside one another on the jet. Still passed each other files with fingers that never quite touched.
But it wasn’t the same.
Not really.
Spencer smiled too quickly now, and it never quite reached his eyes. He’d started excusing himself more often, slipping away under the guise of paperwork or old case reviews. Sometimes he’d leave before she even noticed he was gone.
And (Y/n)— she’d become careful.
Measured.
Her words were gentler, less pointed, her jokes shorter. She never touched his arm when she laughed anymore. Never lingered at his desk just to see what he was working on. She still brought him coffee sometimes, but now it was just coffee— no notes, no inside jokes scrawled on the side in sharpie. Just a cup, placed quietly beside his files.
No one else questioned it. If anything, they seemed relieved things had settled. Whatever undercurrent had rippled beneath their friendship before had apparently smoothed out into still waters.
But still waters could be deceiving.
Because underneath the surface, it churned.
Spencer noticed everything. The slight dip in her voice when she said good morning. The way her smile faltered for half a second too long whenever their eyes met. The way she never mentioned the guy from the coffee shop again— Nate, or something— and how she never said why.
And (Y/n)? She was haunted by almosts.
Almost told him. Almost called. Almost reached for his hand when they sat side by side in a too-quiet stakeout. Almost said his name like it meant something.
But she never did.
Because maybe he was happy now. Maybe that girl from the bookstore meant something. Maybe (Y/n) had missed her moment. Maybe she was just his friend, and maybe that would have to be enough.
So they stayed in that in-between. Not lovers. Not just friends.
Just two people orbiting each other, close enough to feel the pull, but too scared to crash.
And the worst part?
Neither of them knew the other felt the exact same way.
Not yet.
——————————————————————————————————
Part 5: Liquid courage
It had been a long week.
The kind where the hours blurred into bloodstains and autopsy reports, where sleep came in two-hour bursts and meals were just granola bars crushed into coffee lids. By the time the team stumbled into O'Keefe's Pub on Friday night, they looked like the before picture in a stress commercial.
But after a couple drinks and Penelope’s insistence on a round of shots “for emotional exfoliation,” the weight started to lift.
Somehow— because life had a sense of humor— everyone else filtered out by midnight. JJ’s babysitter had called. Morgan was texting a girl. Emily bailed early with the promise of takeout and bad reality TV. Even Garcia left, citing a single word reason that needed no elaboration— Kevin.
And that left Spencer and (Y/n).
Alone. In a bar. Buzzed. Warm with the kind of alcohol that made the lights seem softer and the world less sharp around the edges.
(Y/n) was mid-rant about how buffalo wings were “the most overrated bar food in the history of civilization” when Spencer leaned back in his seat, eyes still half-drowsy but smiling.
“You wanna get out of here?”
She paused. “Is that code for something?”
He rolled his eyes, grinning. “I mean, just… get out. Walk. Anywhere that doesn’t smell like spilled beer and disappointment.”
She laughed. “Only if there’s food involved.”
“There’s always food involved with you.”
“Yeah, and?”
Spencer stood, wobbling just slightly as he offered her a hand. “Come on, chaos. Let’s go see if the world’s still awake.”
They wandered aimlessly, shoes thudding against the pavement, their shadows long under the streetlamps. The city felt gentler at night— hushed and slow, like it was exhaling after holding its breath all day.
They stopped to buy street fries from a food truck, the kind that were probably illegal in three states but tasted like heaven when you were tipsy and sleep-deprived. (Y/n) insisted on drowning hers in hot sauce. Spencer winced.
“You’re going to regret that in like twenty minutes.”
“And yet, I live on the edge.”
“You cried eating mild salsa last month.”
“That was emotional crying,” she said primly, licking sauce off her thumb. “It had depth.”
He laughed— really laughed— and she felt it all the way in her ribs.
They passed a fountain and dared each other to jump in. They didn’t, but she did splash him, and he yelped like a cartoon character and threatened to have her arrested for crimes against humanity.
At one point, they passed a bakery with the lights still on. The sign in the window read Baking at Midnight: Back Soon. (Y/n) pressed her nose to the glass dramatically.
“They’re mocking us,” she said. “This is targeted harassment.”
Spencer smirked. “You had street fries and a cocktail with three umbrellas. I think you’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
They kept walking. Past sleepy storefronts and quiet bus stops and the occasional dog walker who looked at them like they were unhinged. They probably were.
But it felt easy. Safe. Familiar in a way they hadn’t been in a long time.
Eventually, they landed on a park bench just off the river, fries long gone, the night stretching out like a secret between them.
Silence settled, not heavy— just there. Companionable.
And then Spencer said, softly, “I missed this.”
(Y/n) turned to him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean— this. Us. Whatever this is.”
She nodded, slowly. “Yeah… me too.”
Spencer let out a quiet breath. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the edge of his jacket. His knee bounced once, and then stilled.
“What happened to us?” he asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Just looked out over the water, watching the way the streetlights shimmered against it, like the night was made of little floating pieces of gold.
Then she sighed. “Alright, what I’m about to say is going to make both of us extremely uncomfortable, so I apologize in advance,” she began, hands tucked between her knees. “But if I don’t get it out of my system, I might explode. Like, physically combust. You’ll have to scrape me off this bench with a spatula. This is definitely the alcohol talking and I am absolutely going to regret this in the morning— if I even remember it, which is questionable at best, honestly.”
Spencer blinked, both amused and alarmed. “...What?”
She barreled on. “So if I start rambling, please stop me. Actually, no, don’t stop me. I have to say it. But also maybe do stop me. You know what, never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Spencer blinked again. “You haven’t said anything.”
“Oh. Right.” She swallowed, then blurted, “I like you.”
He froze.
“I mean— like, like you. More than friends. I like you in a way that’s really inconvenient for both of us, and I’m so sorry because I know you were just being a good friend and I was supposed to be cool about it, but then you kept being you, and I couldn’t help it.”
He stared at her, stunned into silence.
“And I know you’re not really into the whole feelings thing and you don’t like change and this is probably making you incredibly anxious and I swear I didn’t plan this, I’m just drunk and dumb and emotionally compromised.”
“(Y/n)—”
“And it’s not just that I like you, it’s how I like you. I like the way you get really animated when you talk about something you love, even if no one else understands a word of it. I like the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking too hard. I like how you always know when I need a break before I do. I like how you never make me feel like I'm too much.”
Spencer’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.
“I like how your voice changes when you're reading out loud. I like how you never remember your umbrella but always remember mine. I like how you smell like books and peppermint. I like—” She broke off, covering her face with both hands. “God. I like you so much it’s embarrassing.”
There was a long pause.
Then, gently— “Hey. Breathe.”
She peeked through her fingers.
Spencer’s expression was soft. A little overwhelmed, a little stunned, but not in a bad way.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “You don’t have to apologize for feeling something.”
“Even if it’s wildly inconvenient?”
He gave a tiny smile. “Especially then.”
She let out a breath, shaky. “Okay. Cool. Awesome. So. Now what?”
Spencer looked down at his hands. Then at her. Then back again.
“I like you too, you know?” he said, almost in a whisper. “I have for a long time.”
She blinked. “Wait, what?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen either. It just… did. One day I looked up and you were laughing about something— something completely ridiculous, probably— and I realized I hadn’t stopped thinking about you since.”
“Oh,” she said, very softly.
“And I thought it was just… admiration. Or friendship, you know? But it wasn’t. Not even close. I like the way your eyes light up when you're excited. I like how you always pretend not to be scared during horror movies but grip the popcorn bowl like it owes you money. I like how you leave me little notes in the margins of case files just to make me laugh.”
She was staring at him, eyes wide and glassy.
“I like you, (Y/n). In all the ways I’m not supposed to. And I didn’t say anything because… because I thought I’d ruin what we had.”
“You didn’t,” she said immediately.
Spencer smiled, just a little. “You didn’t either.”
There was a beat. A breath.
She exhaled, a mix between a laugh and a sob. “God, we’re such idiots.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But at least we’re honest idiots now.”
She sniffed. “So… now what?”
“Now…” he hesitated, smile deepening, “we admit we’re both way too drunk and the chances of remembering any of this tomorrow are pretty slim.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, slumping back against the bench.
He chuckled. “But— just in case we do want to remember… I have an idea.”
She turned to him again, cautious. “Go on.”
“We each write a note. Something simple. ‘I meant it.’ Or ‘I didn’t.’ Whatever. Doesn’t matter. We hide it in each other’s desks at the BAU. And if we find it when we’re sober… we’ll know.”
She stared at him. “That’s… that’s genius.”
He beamed a little. “I have my moments.”
“This, this is why I like you.”
That stopped him cold for a second— she didn’t notice.
She stood up, wobbling slightly. “Alright, Doc. Let’s go break into a federal building.”
He laughed and followed her into the night.
They made it to Quantico in one piece. Miraculously.
The bullpen was dark, lit only by the soft blue glow of emergency lights. The place was deserted, eerily quiet— except for the whispered shushing and badly stifled giggles echoing from two very drunk federal agents.
“Shhh,” (Y/n) hissed, tiptoeing down the hallway like a cartoon burglar.
“We’re literally allowed to be here,” Spencer whispered back. “We have clearance. We work here.”
“Yeah but it’s more fun if it feels illegal.”
Spencer blinked. “That… doesn’t track.”
“You don’t track.”
“That doesn’t even mean anything—”
“Shhh!”
They burst into silent laughter and tripped over each other on their way to the bullpen.
(Y/n) nearly crashed into his desk, catching herself just in time. “Okay,” she breathed, sobering a little. “Notes. Where’s the paper? Where does Hotch keep the secret government paper stash?”
Spencer reached into his own desk and pulled out a yellow legal pad like it was contraband. “We’re writing this on the record,” he said dramatically.
They sat side-by-side, giggling and shoving at each other’s elbows, each scribbling furiously like they were signing a peace treaty that could expire at dawn.
“What are you writing?” she asked, squinting over his shoulder.
“No peeking!” he said, shielding it with his hand. “That defeats the whole purpose.”
She rolled her eyes and refocused on hers. “Fine. No take-backs.”
They folded their notes— sloppily, unevenly, with way too much tape because they kept forgetting which drawer the stapler was in— and swapped places.
(Y/n) tucked hers in the back of his top drawer, between a pack of gum and a copy of Statistical Models in Behavioral Science. Spencer wedged his under her desk calendar, hidden behind a sticky note that said “remind JJ to never pick lunch again.”
“There,” she said. “It’s done. The pact is sealed.”
Spencer turned to her, lips parted like he was about to say something else— something probably profound or sweet or hopelessly analytical.
But then she swayed slightly, and her hand brushed his.
And the air between them shifted.
Not dramatically. Not like the world tilted or the stars aligned. Just a small, quiet pause— one breath longer than it should’ve been.
She was still smiling, tipsy and sleep-heavy and happy in a way he hadn’t seen in weeks.
And Spencer— gentle, brilliant, usually-overthinking-everything Spencer— leaned in. So did she. It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It was soft. Tentative. A shared breath, a question answered.
Their lips met in a kiss that was more laughter than logic, more hope than heat— warm and unsure and a little clumsy, like a secret they’d kept too long finally letting itself out.
(Y/n) pulled back first, eyes wide. “Was that…”
Spencer blinked. “Yeah.”
“Should we—”
“Maybe we shouldn’t—”
They both paused. Then grinned.
She reached out, brushing a thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Well. That was overdue.”
“I blame the fries,” Spencer said solemnly.
“I blame Penelope’s tequila.”
“Fair.”
They lingered another minute in the silence, not quite ready to leave the moment behind.
Then she nudged him with her shoulder. “Walk me to my car, genius?”
He stood, already reaching for her hand. “Only if you promise not to fall asleep in the passenger seat again.”
“No promises.”
They left the bullpen behind— two notes tucked away in drawers, two hearts lighter than they’d been in months— and disappeared into the quiet warmth of the night.
And in the silence that followed, Quantico stayed still.
Waiting.
The next day
The bullpen was too bright.
Spencer winced slightly as he stepped in, coffee in one hand, sunglasses still perched on his face despite being indoors. He wasn’t hungover, exactly— he didn’t drink enough to be. But he was sleep-deprived and jittery, and his chest still felt too full. Or too empty. He hadn’t decided.
(Y/n) wasn’t in yet.
He told himself that was fine.
He told himself a lot of things.
Settling into his chair, Spencer reached for a pen— only to knock his top drawer halfway open.
A folded scrap of paper peeked out from between the gum and the behavioral science book.
His breath caught.
With careful fingers, he picked it up, recognizing her handwriting immediately— slanted, loopy, a little rushed. His thumb brushed over the crease as he unfolded it.
“If you're reading this, congrats— either we remember everything and we’re in love now, or this is about to be very awkward for exactly one (1) of us.
Either way, here’s a fun fact: statistically, kissing your coworker is a terrible idea.
…But you’re worth skewing the data for.”
— (Y/n)
Spencer laughed. Quiet. Genuine. A little breathless.
He folded the note back up, gently, like it was something precious, and tucked it into his pocket. He turned toward her desk, smiling instinctively—
But she wasn’t looking back.
She was sitting there, just a few feet away, utterly unaware. Sipping her coffee. Typing up a report. Like it was any other morning.
Spencer’s smile faltered.
She hadn’t found it.
The note— his note— was still hidden, wedged under the calendar like some half-finished confession. She didn’t know. Last night hadn’t landed for her the way it had for him.
Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe she hadn’t looked. Maybe she had looked and—
He didn’t finish the thought.
Instead, he turned back to his desk, refocused on the file in front of him, and took a long sip of coffee that didn’t quite burn enough.
Whatever last night was— drunken giddiness, emotional overflow, wishful thinking— he’d carry it on his own. At least for now.
He could wait.
He always did.
——————————————————————————————————
Part 6: Sweet Escape
A couple weeks had passed.
Life returned to normal— at least, that’s what they told themselves. Cases came and went, paperwork piled and shrank. The days blurred into late nights and early flights and coffee-fueled briefings. And somewhere in the middle of it, they slipped quietly back into their rhythm.
Friends again. Close again. But nothing more.
Not because they didn’t remember.
Not because it didn’t matter.
But because neither had said anything.
The note (Y/n) had meant to find remained lost in the chaos of her desk, buried under files and candy wrappers and the noise of everyday life. Spencer hadn’t mentioned it. He hadn’t needed to. Something between them had changed after that night— softened, stretched, turned inward— but it never quite crossed the line again.
Not until tonight.
They were just back from a case. A bad one. Long and tangled and sad in the way some stories just are. Most of the team had gone home as soon as they were wheels-down. Morgan was first out, muttering something about needing a shower that might double as an exorcism. Emily left with Penelope, who’d shown up in full sparkle to “emotionally supervise.” JJ and Hotch were the last to trickle out, both exhausted and too sleep-deprived to even say goodnight properly.
And then it was just them.
(Y/n) sat at her desk, a little sideways, lazily spinning a pen between her fingers. Spencer was across from her, legs stretched out, head tipped back against his chair.
“You know,” she said, voice rough with fatigue, “if we survive another one of these weeks, I think I deserve full naming rights over the jet.”
Spencer cracked a smile, eyes still closed. “You’d name it something unhinged like ‘Cloud Boss.’”
“I was thinking ‘Flight Risk,’ actually.”
“That’s worse.”
She grinned. “You love it.”
Spencer pushed himself upright, gathering his things with a slow, almost reluctant motion. He looked at her for a beat— quiet, unreadable— and then said softly, “Goodnight.”
She nodded, still smiling. “Night, Spence.”
He turned and walked toward the elevator, footsteps echoing in the mostly empty bullpen.
(Y/n) stretched, groaning a little, and began packing up. Her desk was a mess— typical for post-case chaos. She reached to move a half-crumpled folder when something slid free from underneath it.
A small piece of paper.
Folded.
Her heart stuttered.
She opened it slowly.
And read the words inside.
To: Drunk You
From: Also Drunk Me
If you're reading this, we either made very good or very questionable choices. I meant everything. Even the part about your hot sauce addiction being a cry for help.
P.S. I like you too. A lot. Like... "statistically improbable but emotionally devastating" a lot.
Everything hit at once— the rooftop, the streetlamp laughter, the hot sauce fries, his hand in hers, the kiss. The kiss. Oh god.
She stood so fast her chair skidded behind her.
Bag slung over one shoulder, the note clutched tight in one hand, she sprinted for the elevator.
It was already nearly closed— just a sliver left. She slapped the button hard, breath catching.
The doors stopped.
Spencer stood inside.
He looked up, confused. “(Y/n)?”
She stepped in, breathless.
“I remember now.”
He blinked. “Remember what?”
“Come on,” she said, still breathing heavily. “You know what.”
He just stared at her. Blinking. Quiet.
“I…” she faltered, heart hammering. “Really?"
"(Y/n), I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Never mind.”
The doors began to close again. And then, just before they sealed, he reached out.
Caught her by the wrist. Pulled her in. Her back hit the elevator wall. And without a word, Spencer leaned in and kissed her.
Slow. Certain. Tender. Like it had been waiting. Like he remembered every second of it. Her free hand curled into the front of his shirt. His fingers slid behind her neck, his other hand at her waist. The kiss deepened, soft and aching and everything they hadn’t let themselves say.
The elevator kept moving.
But they didn’t notice.
Not anymore.
She broke the kiss first, breathless and blinking like she’d just come up for air. Her forehead rested lightly against his as she caught her breath.
“…Why the fake out?” she asked, half-laughing, still clutching the note in her hand.
Spencer smiled, and it was all mischief.
“For making me wait two weeks.”
Her mouth dropped open, affronted.
“Okay,” she said, pointing a finger at his chest, “fair enough, but you are so lucky that was adorable.”
“I know,” he said, completely unrepentant.
And before she could come up with a snarky retort, he kissed her again.
Just because he could.
Just because she let him.
Just because, finally, finally— they didn’t have to pretend anymore.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader
words: 2.0k
summary: You and spencer are confident you are being discreet about your relationship (you are not)
warnings: very raunchy making out in the elevator but otherwise it's fluffy like a freshly shampooed cow
a/n: is three sugars too much for coffee? i have no idea how much is too much when i write spencer's coffee order. let's just say 3 is too much because this man drinks his coffee SWEET
To say that Penelope Garcia was a naturally curious woman would be underselling it by a criminal degree. And when it came to her friends— her team, her family— that curiosity was lovingly relentless.
Which is how (Y/n) found herself cornered in the tech room at exactly 8:32 a.m. by both Garcia and Emily, coffee in hand, nowhere to run.
“Okay,” Emily said, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked. “We’ve been patient.”
Garcia chimed in, “Painfully patient.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” (Y/n) said, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t heard them.
“Oh, please,” Emily scoffed. “You’ve mentioned your boyfriend a grand total of two times.”
“Three,” Garcia corrected. “But one of those was just ‘my boyfriend likes mango,’ which doesn’t even count.”
“I’m a private person.”
“You work with federal agents,” Emily deadpanned. “We find things for a living.”
(Y/n) sighed. “Fine. He’s... sweet. Thoughtful. Overly romantic, if I’m honest. In the best possible way.”
“Oh?” Garcia leaned in. “Like how?”
(Y/n) paused too long.
Garcia gasped. “You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not!”
“You are,” Emily grinned. “Spill.”
“Okay, once,” (Y/n) said reluctantly, “he emailed me a PDF file titled ‘just because.’ It had scanned pages from an annotated copy of my favourite book, with his notes in the margins. Like, handwritten. From when he first read it.”
Garcia blinked. “Who emails their girlfriend a PDF?”
(Y/n) smiled in sweet recollection of that memory, how it was so unapologetically him— precise, nerdy, and quietly sentimental. He hadn’t even said anything when he sent it, just a subject line that read “Thought of you while reading.” And the book? It was something she mentioned offhandedly during a debrief three months prior. Of course he remembered. He always did.
Meanwhile, across the bullpen, Derek Morgan nudged Spencer Reid with the edge of a manila folder.
“You’ve been annoyingly chipper lately,” Morgan said.
“I’m always chipper.”
“No, you’re twitchy and anxious. This”— he gestured vaguely at Reid’s face— “is new. You’ve been smiling like someone who’s gettin’ some.”
Spencer flushed but didn’t deny it. Just shrugged, soft and smug.
Morgan narrowed his eyes. “Pretty Boy has a secret.”
——————————————————————————————————
It was early— too early, by most of their standards. The bullpen still had that quiet, sleep-hazed hush to it, the kind that only ever lasted until the second pot of coffee kicked in.
Spencer was already at his desk, half-slouched over a file, tapping a pen against the paper in a steady rhythm. His brow was furrowed, curls slightly unkempt, cardigan sleeves already shoved up to his elbows like he hadn’t even noticed the chill in the air.
(Y/n) walked in, hair still damp from her shower, nursing her own cup of caffeine like it was oxygen. Without a word, she stopped beside him, set a second cup of coffee on his desk— black, three sugars, extra hot. Just how he liked it.
Spencer looked up, blinking. And then smiled.
Not the polite kind. Not the absentminded “thanks” he gave to Morgan when he handed him a report. This one was soft. Familiar. The kind of smile that landed a little too slow and lingered a little too long.
She smiled back— tiny, sleepy, warm— and kept walking.
From his desk, Morgan raised an eyebrow.
“You two telepathic now?” he called.
(Y/n) didn’t miss a beat. “He just looks like a three-sugar morning.”
Spencer flushed lightly. Tried very hard to look engrossed in his file.
Morgan tilted his head, amused, but said nothing else.
For now.
——————————————————————————————————
The post-briefing hallway was always a mess— agents filtering out in loose, staggered clusters, already juggling phone calls and folders and to-go cups. (Y/n) and Spencer walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, debrief sheets tucked under their arms.
It was nothing new. They always walked like that. But someone turned the corner too fast— an intern, maybe— nearly colliding with (Y/n) in the narrow hallway.
Spencer’s arm was around her waist before she even had time to react, catching her with practiced ease.
“Careful,” he murmured, the word quiet and close, his eyes flicking over her quickly. Not panicked. Just... thorough. Like he had to be sure she was still in one piece.
She nodded, barely flustered. “I’m fine.”
But he didn’t move right away.
His hand stayed at the small of her back— gentle, warm, grounding— for just one second too long.
They started walking again like nothing had happened.
Except Emily had seen the whole thing.
She stopped mid-step, one brow raised, lips pursing in suspicion. Watched them disappear around the corner with narrowed eyes.
Then shook her head once and muttered under her breath, “Nah. No way.”
And kept walking.
——————————————————————————————————
It was supposed to be a routine systems check.
Garcia was combing through the security logs for the east wing elevators— standard operating procedure after a glitch flagged a potential breach. Ninety-nine percent of the time, this kind of thing amounted to someone forgetting their badge or JJ carrying Henry in through the staff entrance.
She wasn’t even paying that much attention. Fingers flying on autopilot, her mind already halfway on her lunch order, until the timestamp 22:41 popped up.
She blinked. Squinted. Paused. Rewound.
Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.
“Oh my god.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper. She rewound again. Yes. Still there. Not a hallucination. Not her mind playing tricks.
Definitely Spencer Reid.
And— holy shit— definitely (Y/n).
In an elevator.
Making out.
Not cute-office-romance making out.
No, this was pressed-up-against-the-wall, hands-everywhere, breathless and starved and feverish kind of making out. Spencer's hand was on her waist, then in her hair, then gripping her thigh as he practically lifted her off the ground. And (Y/n)? Her mouth was at his jaw, her fingers curling into the collar of his shirt like she was trying to burn the feel of it into her palms.
Garcia made a high-pitched, involuntary squeak.
Then slammed her hand on the desk phone.
“Derek Morgan. Tech room. Now.”
Morgan arrived first. Followed by Emily, who walked in brow furrowed. “You paged me? What’s the—?”
She cut herself off.
“... Is that the elevator?”
“It is,” Garcia nodded solemnly.
Emily leaned forward. “Wait— is that (Y/n)?”
“Is this— ?” Morgan started, but the words died in his throat as he looked closer.
His jaw dropped.
“Is that— ?”
“Oh, it is.”
A long beat of stunned silence.
Then, slowly, “Spencer?” Morgan said, voice incredulous.
“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia said, grinning wickedly as she hovered over her keyboard.
Morgan and Emily were already leaning in close, popcorn-level invested.
She hit play again.
The footage resumed.
At first, it was just (Y/n) and Spencer standing in the elevator, talking— innocent enough. Until Spencer said something— inaudible, but clearly effective— and (Y/n) rolled her eyes, stepped forward, grabbed him by the tie, and yanked him down into a kiss.
Morgan let out a low whistle.
But that wasn’t the part Garcia was talking about.
At around the 45-second mark, Spencer’s hands slid down (Y/n)’s back and landed firmly on her hips, then lower.
“Oh my God,” Emily said, eyes wide.
Then (Y/n)’s back hit the elevator wall, and Spencer didn’t even hesitate— one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding beneath her blazer, under her shirt, palm flat against her bare waist.
He kissed her like they were the only people in the world. Like it was muscle memory. Urgent. Confident. Completely un-Spencer.
And then she moaned. Audibly. In the security camera footage.
“Oh my God,” Garcia repeated, one octave higher.
Morgan just stared, stunned silent for once in his life.
Spencer pulled back for a breath in the footage, then leaned in again— kissing her jaw, her neck, his hand definitely not on her waist anymore.
Emily had to fan herself with a stray file.
“Spencer Reid,” she said, breathless. “Has game.”
“Game?” Morgan echoed. “That man is playing a whole ass league.”
“WAIT. OH MY GOD. SPENCER IS PDF GUY?!”
Morgan looked between them. “Wait. Who the hell is PDF guy?”
“Long story,” Emily muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. “Holy shit.”
They all watched in silence as the footage looped again.
Spencer leaned in, said something at her ear. Whatever it was, it made (Y/n) flush, then pull him in again, mouths meeting like it physically hurt to be apart. His hands— decidedly not where they should be— disappeared beneath the hem of her shirt just as the doors started to open.
Then they broke apart like nothing happened, like they weren’t seconds away from defiling federal property, both adjusting their clothes with the sort of casual precision that only came from lots of practice.
The video ended. Nobody said anything for a full five seconds.
Then Garcia breathed, “Our little genius is secretly a menace.”
Emily nodded. “Remind me to never underestimate Spencer Reid ever again.”
Morgan just whistled. “Damn. Pretty Boy really is full of surprises.”
——————————————————————————————————
It started innocently enough.
Spencer and (Y/n) were at their desks, quietly reviewing case files. Garcia strolled in, followed by Emily and Morgan, all three of them wearing suspiciously gleeful expressions. Spencer looked up first, sensing the shift in energy like a deer catching the scent of danger.
“Morning,” he said slowly.
Garcia beamed. “Oh honey. Don’t be coy.”
(Y/n) raised an eyebrow. “Coy about what?”
“Oh, just your scandalous elevator escapades.”
Spencer blinked. “I— what?”
Garcia spun her laptop around with a dramatic flourish. “Roll tape.”
On-screen, the infamous elevator footage began to play. There they were— Spencer and (Y/n)— barely waiting for the doors to shut before she grabbed him by the tie and pulled him into a kiss that could not, under any circumstances, be labelled work appropriate.
(Y/n)’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
Spencer’s eyes widened in horror. “Where did you— how did you—”
“I run the surveillance system, Doctor Love,” Garcia said, smug. “A glitch flagged the camera, and lo and behold, I find this cinematic masterpiece.”
Morgan leaned in, whistling low. “Spencer Reid, you sly bastard.”
Emily made an impressed sound. “Honestly? Respect.”
Spencer looked like he was about to pass out. “Please don’t show anyone else—”
Right on cue, JJ walked in holding a folder. “Show anyone else what—?”
Garcia spun the laptop before anyone could stop her.
JJ saw exactly three seconds of the video before she yelped and turned away. “NO! MY EYES! What the hell?!”
(Y/n) groaned, slumping forward into her desk. “This is great. This is all so great.”
Spencer reached over and shut the laptop with a decisive click. “Okay. We’re done. The video is gone now. That’s the end.”
Emily elbowed Garcia. “I’m not deleting that.”
Morgan grinned. “Pretty Boy’s been hiding a whole new playbook.”
Before either Spencer or (Y/n) could respond, Rossi strolled into the bullpen, sipping his coffee. He stopped briefly, looked around at the wide eyes and pink faces, clocked the shut laptop, and said calmly—
“Took you all long enough. Some profilers you are.”
Spencer looked up, shell-shocked. “Wh— You knew?”
Rossi shrugged. “There was palpable tension. I could taste it in the air.”
JJ, still blinking the trauma from her eyes, turned to Hotch as he passed by with a file in hand. “Hotch, did you know?”
Without missing a beat, Hotch said, “They filled out the disclosure forms nine months ago.”
"Nine months? You guys lied to us for NINE MONTHS?" Garcia was startled to say the least.
Hotch looks up briefly, expression unreadable, and mutters, “Next time, if you’re going to be subtle, try harder.”
(Y/n) made a noise that could only be described as a whimper and slowly began sinking into her chair like she hoped the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
Spencer leaned over, voice low and a little sheepish.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I’d do it all over again.”
(Y/n) looked at him, still half-hidden behind her hands.
“…Even the elevator?”
He gave a faint, conspiratorial smile. “Especially the elevator.”
spencer reid x fem!reader | fluff, comedy of errors | 2.5k | bones!reader is born can i get a hell yeah
synopsis: It's the most important day of their lives. Whose? That's a good question, the answer to which neither Spencer nor the good-natured stranger he runs into at the wedding knows.
The venue was beautiful, to say the least.
Outdoor weddings were always a gorgeous scene— string lights strung like stars, soft instrumental music humming in the background, linen-covered chairs arranged with mathematically precise symmetry. The colour scheme was tasteful. The centrepieces were suspiciously well-funded. It was like the wedding planner had subconsciously channelled Martha Stewart's spirit.
It was all perfect.
Except for the tiny little problem that it was the completely wrong wedding.
(Y/n) paused at the edge of the ceremony seating, squinting at the welcome sign.
Welcome to the Wedding of Brenda & Kyle.
#ForeverByle
“Okay,” she muttered, “who the hell is Brenda.”
She fished out her phone and checked the invite again. Dana’s wedding. Same date. Same time. Same hotel.
But apparently, not the same ballroom.
Before she could figure out where she’d gone wrong, the usher smiled politely and gestured toward the seats. Panic? Never heard of her. She smiled back, nodded like she totally knew what she was doing, and slid into a seat near the middle row, mentally drafting a text to Dana that started with, “heyyyyy, sooooo, funny story, don’t panic.”
And then someone sat beside her.
Tall. Brown curls. Awkward posture. A navy suit that probably hadn’t seen the sun since the Reagan administration.
He was on the phone, half-whispering in that frantic, confused way of someone whose GPS had betrayed them in a deeply personal way.
“Emily, I am literally at the wedding, and I do not see any of you. Wh— what do you mean where am I?”
He paused, blinking around like he’d just realized he’d wandered into a simulation.
“The wedding,” he hissed. “The address you gave me. It’s—”
He pulled his phone away to squint at the location. “9 Reading Avenue.”
A pause.
“No— Leeding? Emily, that’s an entirely different word! That’s not even close. That’s an hour and a half away, I will never make it there in time—"
Someone a few rows ahead turned and gave him a look before pointing to the 'turn off your cellphones' sign right next to where they were seated.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, I have to go. Yes. Yes, I’ll figure it out. Yes. No, Emily, I am not panicking. Yes. Okay. Bye.”
He hung up. Stared at the phone for a moment. Then muttered, “Well. Shit.”
(Y/n) tried not to laugh, but she was not particularly good at that.
“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning over slightly. “For eavesdropping and all. But if it makes you feel any better, I think I’m also at the wrong wedding.”
He looked at her, brows furrowed. “You don’t know Brenda or Kyle either?”
“I was going to Dana’s wedding,” she said. “Pretty sure this is not Dana’s wedding.”
“I was supposed to be at the wedding of Emily Prentiss’s cousin,” he said, then paused. “My colleague. Which is not here. Obviously.”
They both stared ahead at the people posing for photos in front of a flower arch.
“…Do we just stay?” she asked.
He sighed. “I already took a canapé,” he admitted defeatedly, like he had committed a heinous crime that he deeply regrets in retrospect.
She nodded slowly. “We’re in too deep.”
“Godspeed, Brenda and Kyle.”
“May your registry be untainted by our presence.”
They clinked water glasses in solemn agreement.
——————————————————————————————————
The plan was simple. The wait for the vows, slip out when everyone is distracted and congratulating the happy couple. Of course, that was just the plan. That's not what happened. Oh, no. Plans, as (Y/n) was quickly learning, had no place in Brenda and Kyle’s beautiful, high-budget disaster.
“Brenda’s cousin from Wisconsin, right?” someone chirped from behind her.
She turned, half-smiling. “Uh— sure?”
“Get in here!” said the woman, who was aggressively glittery and holding a mimosa. “Group photo time!”
Before (Y/n) could protest, she was dragged into a semi-circle of strangers, one of whom insisted on handing her a sparkly prop mustache on a stick. She stood between two women named Cheryl (yes, both), blinking as the photographer counted down.
“Say ‘#ForeverByle!’”
click.
"Okay, okay, now let's do one where we spell BYLE with our bodies."
"Oh boy."
"Say Byle!"
Meanwhile, Spencer had managed to escape toward the perimeter of the reception area, only to be intercepted by a small child crying because his shoelaces were “stupid and mean.” Spencer crouched down to help. He assessed the issue: double knots, one loop five times bigger than the other, and what looked like a lollipop stick tucked in for reinforcement.
Spencer was mid-lace when another voice chimed in, “FIZZY!”
He looked up. Three guys in matching suits, red-faced and laughing, were raising drinks and jogging over.
“Oh my god, Fizzy!” one of them said. “You showed up!”
Spencer stood, still clutching the shoelace. “I— what?”
“Fizzy, man, I told you Kyle would lose it if you came! Dude, this is classic Fizzy right here.”
“What is?”
“Shoes! You and the kids! God, you haven’t changed at all.”
They patted his back and shoved a beer into his hand, dragging him toward a table labelled "KYLE’S COLLEGE BROS." Spencer looked over his shoulder like a man being abducted.
Spencer opened his mouth to protest— then closed it again. Too late. They were already pouring him a drink and launching into a retelling of something called “The Hot Tub Incident of ‘09.”
Every time he attempted to excuse himself, someone shouted “Classic Fizzy!” and handed him another drink. He was being held hostage; that much was clear.
Meanwhile, (Y/n) had given up trying to be discreet.
She was now the unofficial emcee of the kids’ table, arm-wrestling a ten-year-old and making origami animals out of party napkins. She was holding court like she’d been born into this family. One of the bridesmaids had even asked her to be in a TikTok.
Spencer watched her from across the tent with a mixture of awe and existential confusion. He’d known her for— what?— an hour? And yet somehow she had more wedding clout than the groom.
She was sitting at a round table now with no fewer than three flower girls, all of whom were now wearing napkin tiaras she’d evidently folded for them. One was looking at her with stars in her eyes. Another was braiding her hair. A third was giving her a gummy bear to “keep her strong.”
He squinted toward her table again, half-profiling, half-admiring, and paused.
Wait.
Wait a second.
He didn’t even know her name.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” someone tapped a champagne glass at the mic, “we now invite Brenda’s cousin Becky to give a quick toast before we start the buffet!”
The camera panned to show (Y/n), who was now trying her best to get a flute of champagne from the top of a tower of glasses without toppling the others.
Spencer’s head snapped toward the stage just as she— Becky, apparently— awkwardly shuffled to the stage with the confidence of a woman who had absolutely no idea what she was doing and was doing it anyway.
And so she stumbled up to the mic, champagne glass in hand, heart full of dread and secondhand embarrassment.
“I just wanna say,” she began, immediately regretting every life choice that led her to this moment, “that Brenda and… Kevin—”
Spencer closed his eyes.
“—are, like, soulmates. Probably.”
The crowd was silent.
“And if they’re not, that’s okay too. Marriage is about compromise. And tax breaks. Cheers!”
Spencer sank deeper in his chair.
Someone in the back said, “That’s real.”
(Y/n) raised her glass. “To love, confusion, and free food!”
Applause.
(Y/n) walked back to Spencer like a soldier returning from war.
“Well?” she asked. “Not bad for a complete stranger, right?”
“You really committed to the bit.”
“I thrive under pressure.”
“You don’t even know their last names.”
“I don't even know yours, Fizzy.”
“Oh God,” Spencer groaned, burying his face in one hand. “Not you too.”
(Y/n) grinned, sidling up beside him as they made a subtle retreat toward the back of the tent. They leaned casually against a column wrapped in ivy and fairy lights, each holding a second glass of champagne they hadn’t exactly asked for but weren’t going to question either.
“Listen,” she said, swirling her drink. “I just gave a toast in front of a hundred strangers while half the bridal party thought I was Brenda’s cousin Becky from Wisconsin. The least you can do is let me enjoy your Hot Tub Incident shame.”
Spencer groaned louder. “You don’t even know what it was.”
“Oh, but I can imagine.” She sipped. “You, a keg, a miscalculation, some poor defenceless chlorine—”
"I don't even know what it was!"
"Hey, a girl can dream."
He pointed at her with his champagne flute. “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it. I saw you get roped into that photoshoot earlier. You were making a Y shape for ‘Byle.’ With your arms.”
She winced. “Don’t remind me. I said ‘Byle’ so many times it doesn’t even feel like a real word anymore.”
"Yeah, beautiful ceremony, I gotta say."
They both burst out laughing, the easy kind that spilled over too quickly, fizzing under their ribs like the cheap champagne they were drinking. Spencer found himself relaxing without realizing it— his shoulder brushing hers just slightly as they leaned in closer, like conspirators. Or very amused criminals.
(Y/n) was still smiling when the waiter approached. Late twenties, buzzcut, holding a silver tray like he’d rather be holding a resignation letter.
“Hey, so we’re doing a head count for the catering, and we’re over by two people.”
“Oh no,” (Y/n) said. “Wedding crashers?”
“We think so,” he nodded. “If you see anyone suspicious—”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” she promised gravely, then turned back to Spencer and hissed, “Run.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Run. Run, run, run.”
She grabbed his hand and bolted through the tent, past the confused DJ, over by the cake table.
Spencer barely had time to think, let alone resist.
They were sprinting.
They had no idea where they were going.
And it was, without a doubt, the most fun either of them had had in months.
——————————————————————————————————
The bride's room seemed to do the trick for a bit, a simple enough plan— lying low until the reception starts, and then bam, they slip out when the dance starts. But when footsteps started to get closer down the hallway, they had to improvise.
They squeezed into the closet with all the elegance of two people who definitely hadn’t just sprinted away from a wedding they weren’t invited to. It smelled like lavender sachets and panic. Spencer reached up, bumping into a rogue hanger, and muttered an apology to no one in particular.
(Y/n) adjusted her balance against a stack of spare table linens and whispered, “I should probably tell you, I’m not actually Brenda’s cousin Becky.”
Spencer blinked, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “Didn't think you were, stranger. I'm still not Fizzy, for the record.”
“I’m (Y/n),” she offered with a smile. “Dr. (Y/n) (L/n). I work with the Jeffersonian Institute.”
There was a brief silence.
Then Spencer’s eyebrows lifted in slow, dawning realization. “Wait. As in Dr. (L/n)— ‘Craniofacial Decomposition Rates in Arid Climates’?”
Her mouth fell open. “You read that? Dude, who are you?”
“I cited it,” he whispered, like he was admitting to something sacred. “Twice. In my dissertation on rapid-decomp trauma markers. You’re that Dr. (L/n)?!”
(Y/n) blinked, stunned. “Wait, yes, you also wrote the paper on Bayesian regression modelling for trauma pattern reconstruction using multi-layered victimology data.”
His entire face lit up. “I did! You read that?!”
“Are you kidding? I printed it. I annotated it. I argued with a bunch of your footnotes in the margins.”
“That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
They grinned at each other like kids at a science fair. The closet, which had once felt vaguely threatening, was now sacred ground.
“You work with the FBI sometimes, right?” Spencer asked, excitement quietly thrumming through his voice.
“Yeah,” she said. “Mostly for forensic reconstructions— skeletal trauma, mass graves, postmortem ID. You?”
“I’m in Behavioral Analysis.”
(Y/n) lit up. “Holy shit, wait, You’re Dr. Spencer Reid?”
He flushed. “I mean. Yes.”
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “I thought you sounded familiar. I skimmed your field interview transcript from that cult takedown in Texas. It read like a case study in verbal chess.”
Spencer laughed under his breath. “You skim transcripts for fun?”
“Just the good ones.”
“That’s mildly alarming.”
“I contain multitudes.”
He was about to agree— probably too quickly— when a door creaked open outside the closet.
They both froze.
Soft footfalls padded across the room.
A second voice joined the first, breathless and laughing.
Spencer leaned slightly, peeking through the slats.
And then turned back, eyes wide. “Oh. It’s Kyle.”
(Y/n) whispered, “With Brenda?”
“Try again.”
“Oh no.”
They both pressed silently against the doorframe, silent witnesses to Kyle's infidelity. Spencer looked positively betrayed by the universe. (Y/n) looked like she was calculating moral consequences in real-time.
(Y/n) muttered, “Oh my god, with the maid of honour, Kyle?”
Spencer tried valiantly not to pass out. “I—no—I’m not—”
“Kyle!” a voice shrieked from the hallway.
Brenda.
Kyle blanched.
The maid of honour screamed.
(Y/n) grabbed a bottle of champagne off the vanity and passed it to Brenda. “You’re gonna need this. Also I got you guys a gravy boat, the receipt's in there, you can return if you— you get it, yeah.”
The bottle popped. Brenda didn’t even hesitate— she launched the champagne in a glorious, arcing splash directly into the maid of honour’s face.
Screaming.
Chaos.
One of the flower girls burst into tears.
Spencer looked at (Y/n). “I feel like we should leave.”
The groom— also soaked, stunned, and wide-eyed— stammered, “Who even are you?!”
(Y/n) raised a hand, utterly calm. “Forensic anthropologist and criminal profiler.”
Then she grabbed Spencer’s hand.
“Come on, Fizzy. Let’s go.”
"Where?"
"If we sprint, we can catch Dana's reception dinner."
"Good, I'm starving."
And they ran.
Again.
Straight into a future that was just as chaotic, but in the best possible way.
spencer reid x gn!reader | 800 words | Spencer being extremely, painfully, in love with the reader, that is literally the entire plot | fluff
Dr. Spencer Reid's Dissertation on the Groundbreaking Discovery of a Fifth Fundamental Force
It's basic physics that gravity is the weakest of the fundamental forces, but responsible for the attraction between objects with mass. Electromagnetism governs the interactions between electrically charged particles. Nuclear forces are the strongest of the fundamental forces, responsible for holding the nucleus of an atom together.
According to Dr Reid, the most important (and quite frankly, the strongest) force that the human body can experience is actually a fifth one that's a combination of them all; it's responsible for attraction between bodies (specifically yours and his), it deals extensively with electrically charged particles (in other words, its what makes him feel like he is internally vibrating at a glass shattering frequency whenever you are around, how he can never seem to be anything other than at an excited state at just the thought of you), and most importantly, it's what holds the nucleus, the core, the crux (him) together.
Sure, whenever someone mentions in passing or as a joke that you were a force of nature, it was meant to be a figure of speech, a jibe, something to say just for the sake of it. But even without his PhDs, he knew better. No, to him, it was a fact that his world revolves around you. A normal, simple, everyday fact. The sun rises in the east. Nikola Tesla was born during a lightning storm. Casein in milk helps neutralise capsaicin, which is why raw milk helps with spicy food. Spencer Reid was deeply, irrevocably in love with you. Simple fact.
Close-up magic was cool, definitely, but he knew it was just perfectly timed misdirection and sleight of hand. Tricks. Illusions. White Lies. That's not to say he doesn't believe in magic or miracles, no, because that's all you could possibly be, right? A miracle? A blessing from a God he thought he didn't believe in, until you happened? Because what you do to him is nothing short of magic.
How the chaos of his mind fades into static white noise at a simple touch of your hand. How your eyes always look to find his in a room, no matter how crowded, and how you always smile like a kid who won a stuffed animal at a carnival when they finally do. How some part of you always stays and lingers around him every day, be it in your perfume that he can still smell on his clothes, remnants of the mark you've left on him, keys you've misplaced at his place, your mug next to his where the dishes are stacked, or in the little notes you leave for him to find throughout his day, reminding him that even with all the death, pain, and destruction in the world, perfection like you is possible.
People look at their lives in their own way. Most people quantify the time lived by looking at it in parts— childhood, teenage/adolescence, adulthood, and old age. For Spencer, though, there was only one other time in his life that mattered— Before you. He swears that everything he knows, everything he has ever learned, everything that he has been through, up until the point that he met you, happened specifically so that he could do just that— meet you.
If there's anything the BA in Philosophy helped him understand, it's this. Existentialists argue that life has no inherent meaning, and individuals must create their own meaning through their choices and actions. By that logic, his choices and actions, having subconsciously led him to you, must mean that you are the true meaning of life. Not an existentialist? Not a problem.
Plato believed that the meaning of life lies in attaining the highest form of knowledge, which is the Idea of the Good, from which all good and just things derive utility and value. Considering how Spencer's pursuit of this exact idea is what led him to you in the first place, this must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you were the true meaning of life. At least to him.
Nihilism suggests that life is ultimately meaningless and that there is no objective value or purpose. Nihilists must have never encountered you, he concludes.
a/n: this is so not like my usual stuff, i am aware, but i am in my feels right now and my WIPs are still IP and like i said i am in my FEELS, so here is my unfiltered, unformatted, definitely not even a little bit proofread spencer reid ramble. this wasn't even in my drafts i just typed and clicked post now so i really am sorry if this is horseshit. tried my best to keep it gender neutral but like i too fuck up so apologies in advance.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
words: 4.2k
summary: Spencer battles his addiction and self-loathing, only to find the possibility of redemption in the unwavering care of someone who refuses to leave.
warnings: oh boy, ok so we've got a LOT OF ANGST!!!, Spencer's addiction (!!!), suicidal thoughts, a lot of self-loathing, Spencer is spiralling (rip), mildly descriptive withdrawal process, possibly incorrect etymology facts, a dead fish, the self-loathing really is heavy on this one, I'm serious.
a/n: i am holding your hand, i scared myself with this one, BUT the ending is pretty optimistic so it's not all pain :')
Heracles atoned. His crimes were a result of madness— divine madness, not his own. It can be argued that they weren’t even his actions at all. And still, he atoned.
The Oracle of Delphi instructed him to give twelve years of service to the king of Mycenae, and even though Heracles believed Eurystheus to be beneath him in stature, he accepted the 12 labours. Heracles completed the 12 momentous tasks as atonement for the crime of killing Megara and their children, even though it was Hera's vengeance that drove him mad and tricked him into committing the crime in the first place.
If Heracles sought redemption for something that wasn’t truly his fault in the first place, what about the rest of us? What about atonement for crimes not born of divine madness, but of choice? What about the consequences that stem not from insanity inflicted by gods, but from choices made— cold, human, and deliberate? Is that something one can atone for?
Apophenia. A common human tendency to see patterns where there are none. It makes you believe in coincidences. It’s why people find meaning in lottery numbers, in shuffled tarot cards, in the sequence of a roulette wheel. It's what makes Spencer draw parallels between himself and perhaps the mightiest of Greek heroes, only he doesn't see them as equals, but one as a sorry excuse, an imitation, a failed attempt at living up to the other. He sees one as a myth, and the other as a mockery. A hollow echo. A failure.
I feel like a kid again. That's a nice thing, right? Feeling like a kid? Innocent. Loved. Nurtured. Pure. Scared. Wait, scared? Scared. Alone. Vulnerable. Guilty. Crying to sleep every night. Curled up into a ball on the playground, busted eyebrow and broken glasses with stains of blood and dried-up tears. I gotta tell Mom I need new glasses. Again.
Oh. He feels like a kid again.
Do they know? They might know. They must know. They know. He pretends they don't. They pretend they don't. Everybody knows. Was it kindness that kept them quiet? Decency? Look the other way so he wouldn't be ashamed? Not exactly helping, then. Or was it so they could have deniability? We had no idea. Spencer Reid? Our Spencer? They gasp. He wouldn't.
They've definitely noticed. That much he knows. All eyes are on him when he's in a room. Not in the usual Spencer is being his brilliant self again way. In a Spencer is a disgrace to himself, look at his pathetic face way, except no one would look him in the face anymore. Like if they looked at him, it would be painfully obvious in their faces what they really thought of him. Like there was no way to look at him the way you would look at a normal person.
Every day, he comes in to work screaming: Look at me. Do you see me? Do you see what I'm doing to myself? Do you see it? Do you see me? Look at me. Don't look at me. Stop looking at me. Stop. Don't look at me. Please. Stop. Stop. No. Stop. STOP.
"Morning," is all they hear.
You look at him. Oh no. Not you. Please. You're... not disgusted? You're not looking at him as if one would an insect. Huh.
Great. You are so pathetic, you're pretending people like you. Do you realize how pathetic that is? Do you realize how pathetic you are, Spencer? You're so deep in delusion that you think someone cares. No one cares. Nobody cares.
His thoughts are loud today. Louder than usual. Not ideal. You're still looking. You're crying. You're crying?
Amazing job! You've made the one person who probably cares about you cry just by existing. Hey, do you know what you should do? Do you know what you should do, Spencer? Kill y—
"Hey, are you okay?" It's his own voice. An act of rebellion against himself. A lifeline.
"Spencer, are you?" you ask, sniffling. That's the first time someone has stopped to ask him that question. He didn't know what to say.
At the depth of my delirium, I think of you. I think we're in love. I think of being in your arms. I think of you holding my hand and telling me you love me. I think of you telling me I'll be fine. I think of you telling me I'll be okay. I'm not fine. I'm not okay. I need you. I'm sorry. Tell me you love me. I'm sorry.
He just stares. You look at him just a second longer than he wants you to, give his hand a little squeeze, and then you're gone.
See? She's gone. You know why she's gone? You know why she didn't stay, Spencer? Wait, actually, think of a reason why someone would stay. Go on, try. That'll be much harder, yeah. Pathetic.
Mirrors don't work anymore. Whenever he looked in one, he used to see himself. He just sees a silhouette now. A hollow void that only moves seconds after he does. Somebody he knows but cannot quite recognize.
You see that? Even your fucking reflection thinks you're pathetic.
They're mocking him. They are taunting him. They don't even have the decency to look back at him. Pretty shitty for a mirror, he thinks.
Hey. Idiot. Yeah, you. What are you looking at? You're feeling sorry for yourself? You're sorry, buddy? You're guilty? You wanna go back? Back to mommy? Back to before all this? Back to how it used to be? Back to... what, exactly? Back to being brilliant and broken and hiding it better? Back to when you still had the energy to fake being whole? Weak.
Spencer doesn't remember what home feels like. It used to be Vegas until he had to leave. It used to his job until he had to hide. It used to be his apartment until he couldn't trust himself to be alone anymore. Sometimes when you look at him, talk to him, touch him, he thinks this could be home. But it's never enough. The more of you he had, the more of you he wanted.
Boy, you never stood a chance, did you?
The first time, he promised himself it would be just this once. It's wrong, yes, but it's for recovery. It's just this once. He can stop whenever he wants to.
Second time, the last time. It's not like he can't stop if he wants to. He's in control. It's fine.
Third, the final time, for sure. It's only for a while. It's not permanent.
He can stop whenever he wants to. He can stop whenever he wants. He doesn't want to stop. He can't stop. The more he had, the more he wanted.
The pull, the calling, the addiction, it's far too evil. It's a siren. It's a mimic. It fools you into thinking it's taking you somewhere beautiful. Some place you need to get to. And every time, it promises you that you're getting closer. That you'll get there soon enough. Just a few more steps. Just a couple more times. Just another leap. But all it does is lie to you and make you feel like you're close. Like you're getting there. Like you will be home in no time. When in reality, you've regressed. You're worse off than you were when you started. Only then do you notice you're all alone.
What a wonderous, massive, cosmic joke. Doctor Spencer Reid. Child Prodigy. Genius. Criminal Profiler. Special Agent with the FBI. Drug Addict. Liar. A threat to himself and the people around him.
The walls are too close tonight.
Everything is itchy. His clothes. His skin. The thoughts under his skin. The thrum in his veins that won’t quiet down.
You don't know who you are when you're not in pain. That's why you keep coming back, Spencer. Not for the high. For the silence. The certainty. God, what a burden it must be. Having to pretend they're not afraid of you. Like they don't flinch whenever you open your mouth.
"Shut up. Just shut up," he yells to his empty apartment.
He rubs his face hard enough to leave marks. Paces the length of the living room five times. Seven. Twelve. He forgets what number he’s on.
He wonders, not for the first time, if this is the moment he finally fractures beyond repair. If this is where the brilliant, broken, bullet-dodging Spencer Reid finally snaps and nobody notices. Maybe they already did notice. Maybe they’re just waiting to see if he self-destructs before they have to say something.
This is pathetic. You are pathetic.
He sits. Then stands. Then sits again. The couch is too soft. The floor is too cold. The apartment smells like nothing and everything. Bleach. Dust. Failure.
You don’t even get to be tragic. You’re just exhausting.
His hands are shaking again. Not just the twitchy, ignorable kind— full tremors, rattling like change in his pockets. He tries to hold them still. Fails.
You’re not going to get better.
He closes his eyes.
You're alone, Spencer.
He opens them.
Nobody's coming for you.
No one cares.
You are all alo—
Three knocks. Someone's here. You're here. You're here? What are you doing here?
"What are you doing here?"
"Hello to you, too, Spencer. Care to let me in?"
~
You're leaning against his counter. He's stood on the other side, facing you, but not quite meeting your eyes.
Can't even look her in the face. Loser.
"Spencer?" He responds with a hum that sounds like it is meant for him as much as it is meant for you.
"I've been here for fifteen minutes and you haven't said a word."
"Right. Ah, there you go. That's a word. That good enough for you?"
That's right. Push her away. Antagonize her. Make her hate you. That'll show her for caring about you.
"Spencer, don't be like that, come on."
"Don't be like what? Like a junkie? Like an addict? Is that what you mean? Jesus, you can't even say it." I am not trying to push you away. I cannot help it. I am so sorry. Please still like me.
"I meant, don't be distant with me. I meant, don't be a jerk, you jerk," you say, your voice more reprimanding than angry. That shuts him up.
"Spencer, I am not going to walk around eggshells with you. I don't want to. You have a problem. You need help. You know that. I cannot sit still at work, pretend everything's fine, nod my head and hope you'll be okay and forget everything when I go home. I cannot be like that."
Spencer looks at you like you're hanging stars in his sky. You continue.
"I am so sorry that it took me this long to figure it out and come help you. I had to be sure we're doing it right."
"Doing what right? What are you talking about?"
"Getting you sobered up. I don't really know much about it, and I didn't want to go somewhere that would leave a paper trail. You could lose your job. I did some research, pulled some strings, and well, I was able to get some supplies and over-the-counter meds and worst case scenario, if something does go wrong, which I'm really not counting on, I know some people who would be willing to help off the record."
He stares at you like you're some kind of hallucination. Some fever dream conjured by withdrawal and regret and too many sleepless nights. For him? Why would you do this?
“Why would you do this?” he says aloud, voice flat. Hollow. “What is wrong with you? You could get fired for this. Do you understand that?”
Please don’t stop. Please don’t take it back. Please don't leave me alone. Please don’t say this was a mistake.
You cross your arms, unfazed. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for the concern, by the way.” You look at him and see his face contort in confusion.
"Honey, no offence, I say this with lots of love in my heart," you put your hand over his and continue, "but you're a self sabotaging moron who thinks he doesn't deserve good things. You are very wrong, for the record, and I deeply care about you in spite of that."
Exactly. Why?
“Exactly. Why?” he says. The words are louder this time. Angrier. Desperate. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ve treated you like crap. I’ve lied to you. Pushed you away. I'm a mess. A tragic self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not— I’m not someone you should still give a damn about.”
And there it is. That trembling, cracked little part of him. The kid who got beat up on playgrounds and cried about it alone. The man who thought he had to earn affection with perfection.
You take a breath. You move your hand, which was on top of his, to hold it now.
“I don’t need reasons or incentive to care about you, Spencer. You don't have to deserve or earn anything from me. Or anyone, for that matter. You are a good person. You deserve to have joy in life. You were not this self-loathing, withdrawn, quiet person, not when we first met. I love listening to you. I love when you get excited about something. I know you're still in there. You’re still my friend. A huge part of my life, whether you like it or not. I love you.”
I love you too. Oh god, I love you too.
"I miss you when you’re not around,” you continue. “And I’m done missing you even when you are. So pony up. We’re getting you sober.”
"Did you know that the word sober originates from Latin? Yeah, se meaning without, and ebrius meaning drunk. The word sobrius which is where sobriety is believed to have come from, literally means without wine."
"There he is."
~
"Alright, so it's nothing you don't already know, but I'm telling you anyway so you know the drill. It's going to be painful. You'll have cold fevers, nausea, you'll sweat a lot, your body will hurt, you may have episodes, and you will feel awful. And that's all before it gets to the hard part."
"You know, you don't have to do this. You don't need to— I don't—"
"Spencer, Spence, hey," you hold both his hands in yours and continue, "Look at me. It's okay. I know what I'm getting into. We can do this. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"
I hope I hold on long enough for you to see me when I'm not like this. When I'm okay. Like I used to be. Like I was when I first saw you. But God forbid, if I let go, I hope it's in your arms.
"Okay."
It comes in waves. The chills start first— sharp, stabbing needles running down his spine, crawling beneath his skin like he’s being flayed alive from the inside out. Then the nausea, rising like a tide, acidic and angry. His body betrays him over and over again. Sweat clings to him, drenching the sheets, pooling under his neck. Every movement feels like a punishment. Every breath feels borrowed.
And she’s still here. Still here. God.
He can’t look at her when it’s bad. When he’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter. When his limbs lock up and his sobs catch in his throat like barbed wire. He hates that she sees him like this. Hates that he can’t hide the worst parts of himself.
Why are you still here? Leave.
Every time he opens his eyes and finds her still at his side— cool rag in hand, whispering his name, smoothing the hair back from his forehead, holding his head up when he vomits— it shatters something in him. A tenderness he’s not strong enough to hold.
You shouldn’t have to see this. You don’t deserve to.
He tries to apologize. For the sweating. For the smell. For the vomiting. For the crying. For the memories he’ll never let himself say aloud. For existing like this in front of her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and cracking.
“You don’t have to be, you have nothing to be sorry for,” she says every time.
But he is. So, so sorry.
You could’ve loved a hundred better men. Men who would’ve taken care of you, who wouldn’t need saving, who would know how to say thank you instead of I’m sorry.
And still, she stays.
Maybe I’m being made new. Maybe this is what it means to be reborn, to be stripped down to nothing, to be known in every terrible inch, and still not be sent away.
He doesn't believe in God. Never really has. But if he did, if he ever were to believe in something divine, it would be this. Her. Here. Now. In all her human mess and radiant grace, holding the pieces of him steady like they're sacred.
If I make it out of this… If I make it to the other side… it’ll be because she walked with me through the fire and didn't once let go.
And if he doesn’t—
Let it be here. Let it be now. Let it be in her arms.
He shakes his head, eyes glassy and wild, muscles locking in protest. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t— I can’t—”
His voice is barely human anymore. It's all pain and fear and shame twisted into syllables that sound like defeat.
You kneel beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing damp curls from his forehead. “Yes, you can. You’re doing great. You’re doing so good, Spencer. We’re almost there. You’re so close. You’re doing great.”
He wants to believe you. God, he wants to. But everything hurts. Everything burns. His bones feel like they’re breaking and reforming all at once. His mind is louder than ever, telling him he’s weak, that he’s wasting your time, that you’ll hate him after this.
But your voice cuts through the noise like light through smoke.
You’re still here.
You’re still here.
You’re still here.
When the worst of it passes, you're both tired. Him, more so than you, of course, but you're exhausted regardless. His world is still spinning, but not violently anymore. Just slow, dizzy loops. You're sitting beside him on the floor, hair messily tied back, sleeves rolled up, skin warm where it brushes his.
“Hey,” you say gently, pushing a water bottle toward him. “When was the last time you ate?”
He blinks. “I… don’t remember.”
You nod like that’s what you expected. “Okay. No worries. I’ll look around your kitchen, see what I can make work.”
God, you’re so… gentle. It’s devastating.
You're holding a knife in your hand, looking at his fridge, hoping to find some vegetables, fruits, anything. You don't. You absentmindedly hold the knife as you ransack his kitchen as politely as possible.
He watches you shuffle toward the cabinets. He should offer to help. He should stand. He should do something. But all he can do is sit there on the counter, hunched, wrapped in the too-big hoodie you made him change into, staring at the way you move around his space like it’s your own. Like you're allowed to be here.
And if you could just twist that knife into my heart, stab me lightly, yeah, that would be great.
You start opening drawers and cabinets and make a little sound of horror. “Spencer, honey. You live like a caveman. Where’s all the food? Have you been eating at all?”
He shrugs. Tries to play it off. “I’ve… had protein bars. Mostly.”
“Mmm.” The noncommittal hum you make isn’t exactly believing. But you don’t push. “That’s okay. We’ll do takeout tonight. Figure out the rest tomorrow.”
He nods, too tired to argue. Too in awe of you to try.
“Go relax, okay?” you say as you pick up your phone. “I’ll order something. Just rest until it gets here.”
You wait until he’s curled under a blanket on the couch— he didn’t want the bed— and that’s when you really look around.
It’s chaos. The kind that builds slowly, quietly, until it drowns a person.
Books are scattered everywhere. His meticulously labeled files are out of order. His fish tank light is flickering and dim. The automatic feeder has maybe a day’s worth of food left. And worst of all, one of the tiny fish is floating belly-up, pale and still.
You cover your mouth and breathe through your nose. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t even see it. That’s what breaks your heart. You step into the hallway and call Garcia.
“Penelope. I need you to do me a favor. No questions asked. I’ll owe you forever.”
You hear the shift in her tone instantly. “Tell me what you need.”
“I’m sending you a picture. I need a fish. Exactly like the one in the photo. Same kind, same size. I need it tonight. As soon as you can.”
There’s a beat. “On it.”
By the time the takeout arrives, you’ve got the new fish hidden in a thermos packed with water, and you’re swapping it into the tank just as Spencer wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and asking if he should grab plates.
“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Grab whatever you’ve got.”
He disappears into a cabinet, and you finish the switch in record time, flushing the old one without blinking. He doesn’t notice.
He just sits down beside you a minute later and says, “Thanks for staying.”
You hand him his plate.
“Always.”
He smiles at that— tired, but genuine. You both eat in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of forks against ceramic the only sound between you. You keep glancing over, watching for signs of nausea, ready to intervene. But he seems okay. Exhausted, but okay.
After a while, he leans back, running a hand through his hair.
“I think I need to lie down.”
“You shouldn’t lie down just yet,” you say gently as he settles onto the couch.
Spencer looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”
“If you end up throwing up again while you’re asleep, you could choke on it. Just for tonight— until it’s fully out of your system— it’s safer to stay upright. By morning, it should pass.”
“Oh,” he says quietly, like he hadn’t thought of that. Of course, he hadn’t. He’s not used to someone else worrying about the aftermath. He's not so used to someone else worrying about him, period.
I love you.
You sit down beside him, not too close, but close enough that he could lean if he wanted to. “You can rest here. Sit with me. Like you do on the jet.”
He turns to you slowly. “You’re… not going home?”
You shake your head once. “I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.”
There’s a sharp sting in his throat, and for once it has nothing to do with withdrawal. Have I mentioned that I love you? In case I haven't, I love you. I'm sorry. I love you.
You open your arms a little, wordlessly offering, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his head to your shoulder. He doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s holding onto you until your fingers slide through his hair.
"You're fine. You're going to be okay."
The next morning, he wakes up before you do.
The light’s different today. The early sun filters through the blinds in soft, dappled gold. For the first time in what feels like ages, it doesn’t feel too harsh or blinding. For the first time in longer than he can remember, the sun doesn’t scream. It just… glows. Gentle. Warm. Alive.
You’re still asleep, head tilted, mouth barely parted. Your brow’s furrowed even now— worried in your dreams, probably about him. Always about him.
He watches you in silence. Not like a man haunted. Not like someone waiting for the sky to fall. Just grateful. Reverent.
You saved my life.
If there's anything the BA in Philosophy has helped him understand, it's this. Existentialists argue that life has no inherent meaning, and individuals must create their own meaning through their choices and actions. By that logic, his choices and actions, having subconsciously led him to you, must mean that you are the true meaning of life. Not an existentialist? Not a problem.
Plato believed that the meaning of life lies in attaining the highest form of knowledge, which is the Idea of the Good, from which all good and just things derive utility and value. Considering how Spencer's pursuit of this exact idea is what led him to you in the first place, this must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you were the true meaning of life. At least to him.
Nihilism suggests that life is ultimately meaningless and that there is no objective value or purpose. Nihilists must have never encountered you, he concludes.
This could be home. You could be home. It could be enough.
a/n: it could count as fluff towards the end but like only if you're mildly fucked in the head like I am
dad!spencer x mom!reader | domestic fluff, a whole lotta love <3 | 600 words
a/n: consider this a reparation of sorts for Atonement
summary: a lazy sunday at the Reid household is filled with laughter when you discover just how much your daughter loves to play peek-a-boo
It's the sun that wakes you. Soft and golden, slanting through the curtains, filling your bedroom with a warmth reminiscent of a hug from someone who loves. Someone you love. Instinctively, your hands reach out to the other side of the bed, only to find a Spencer-shaped emptiness next to you. The sheets are still rumpled, still smelling faintly of him.
You hear sounds of muffled laughter from the next room. Two voices, both equally excited. Of course, he couldn't wait. You slip out of bed, careful not to creak the floorboards, and follow the sound. The nursery door is open just a crack, morning light spilling into the hallway, and you pause there.
He’s on the floor, knees bent, curls a soft mess, t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. Your daughter is in front of him, still in her little onesie, cheeks flushed with joy as Spencer covers his face with both hands and—
“Where’d Daddy go?” he says, peeking between his fingers.
She squeals and suddenly looks serious, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, like she had just witnessed someone disappear into thin air, and when he drops his hands—
“Boo!”
More laughter. From her. From him.
You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart so full it aches. You don’t make a sound. You just watch them. Your entire world is in front of you. His in his arms, laughing with him. You watch as their eyes crinkle the same way and notice how much they look alike.
He scoops her up with a soft grunt, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of glass and starlight. She kicks her feet in excitement, still giggling, grabbing at the collar of his shirt with her tiny fists.
“Oh, you’re so strong,” he whispers dramatically, making her giggle louder. She grabs his nose with one of her hands and pulls his face down to look into his eyes. She babbles something utterly incomprehensible— a string of sounds with all the conviction of a very important sentence.
Spencer nods solemnly. “You know what? I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you make an excellent point.”
She gasps like she can’t believe she’s being taken seriously, then locks eyes with him in an intense, unblinking stare. He blinks back, just as serious.
“What are you doing? Are you trying to intimidate me?” He leans in closer. “Is this a power play?”
Her tiny brow furrows. Still staring.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “You’re trying to assert dominance.” He points at her like he’s cracked the case. “That’s exactly what this is. This is a tactical manoeuvre.”
She blinks.
“You have my respect,” he nods gravely. “But just so you know, two can play at that game.”
She responds by grabbing his nose again.
He yelps dramatically. “Okay, okay, you win!”
From the doorway, your laugh finally gives you away. He gasps dramatically, pointing to you. "Look who's here! Who is that?"
The moment she notices you, she breaks into a fit of giggles and rapidly crawls to you, wanting to be lifted up into your arms. You oblige, how could you not? You press a kiss to her cheeks with a hum as she uses both her tiny hands to clumsily try and hold your entire face.
"Morning, sunshine."
She babbles something in reply, all vowels and delight, and Spencer tilts his head.
“No good morning kiss for me?”
You grin, leaning over with your daughter still balanced on your hip. “Of course you get one,” you say. “Come here.”
And you kiss him, gentle and familiar. Warm like Sunday mornings.
a/n: propaganda i am falling for— girldad spencer <3
you'll see me in hindsight tangled up with you all night burning it down
pairing: spencer reid x gn!bau!reader
words: 2.5k
summary: spencer's hindsight is screaming at him that he made the wrong decision by ending your relationship
warnings: angst but like in a hot way, happy ending besties <3 spencer's kind of a dick in this for a little bit (he means well, he's just confused), language, allusions to smut, making out, fluff (?) towards the very end but like you gotta really squint
Spencer fucked up.
He's gripping the sink with both hands, water running down his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. The previous week has been hell, almost, and Spencer knows a thing or two about hell. It was the right thing to do, he thinks to himself, but he can't help the part of him that wonders if that's even true in the slightest. His mind flashes back to that fateful night.
"Spencer, what do you mean 'we can't do this anymore?'"
"Us. This!" he said, wildly gesturing to the space between you.
You stared at him, mouth parted like the words were there, ready to go, but stuck behind disbelief.
"Why?" you asked, quiet. Measured. Already bracing for an answer that would hurt. He hesitated. That was all the confirmation you needed— he didn’t want this either.
"I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”
“What part of this isn’t okay? The part where we care about each other? Or the part where we’re actually happy for once?”
“You don’t get it—”
“No,” you cut in, sharper now. “No, I don’t get it. Please enlighten me.”
Spencer ran both hands through his hair like he was trying to yank the thoughts out by force. “People I care about get hurt. That's just how it goes. You’ve seen what we deal with. You know how dangerous it gets. I can’t— I won’t be the reason something happens to you.”
You blinked. “Spencer, we work the same job.”
“That’s not— it’s different.”
“How?” You're beyond exasperated at this point.
“Because I—" he broke off, breathing hard. “Because I really care about you.”
You laughed, humorless. “Bang-up job of showing it, then. Also, wh— you think I don't care? Spencer, what—”
“I’m sorry,” he said, almost a whisper. “I just… I can’t live with myself if something happens to you. I cannot do this knowing I am actively putting you at risk.”
“Look. I care about you too. You’re the smartest person I know, and I trust your judgment. But if you’re going to sit here and break us apart, then you better have a legitimate reason.” You stepped closer. “Because what you’re giving me right now? It’s bullshit, Spencer. YOu know that. And I’m not going to let you overthink your way into a breakup.”
He looked at you like he wanted so badly to believe you. Like you were the rope dangling over the cliff, and he didn’t trust himself to grab it.
“Yes, we deal with hell on a daily basis,” you continued, softer now, “but we also come home to each other. It's tedious, and awful, and exhausting, but we have each other, Spence. And I—”
You paused. Swallowed hard. Didn’t realize you’d said it until it was already out.
“I love you.”
Silence.
Something cracked in his expression. He looked at you like that was the one thing he wasn’t prepared for. The one thing that might’ve saved him— if he let it. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.
Destroy it.
“I don’t,” he said, voice flat.
You blinked. “Don’t what?”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stutter. Just said it. Like ripping the pin from a grenade and waiting for it to blow.
“I don’t think I love you.”
It didn’t matter what he meant. It didn’t matter if he was lying through his teeth. Because the second you believed him, the second you stepped back and nodded— something broke. The damage was done.
Now he’s gripping the sink like it’s the only thing holding him upright, staring at a reflection that doesn’t look like him anymore.
“I am an idiot,” he mutters to no one. The mirror doesn’t disagree.
He sees you everywhere. On his couch in your pajamas, eating cereal straight from the box. He sees you on the jet, asleep on his shoulder, warm and close and real. He sees the last time you laughed at something he had said. How your head tipped back, how your nose scrunched. He sees your face the first time he kissed you, how your smile made him feel like he was bathing in sunlight.
He sees you and him tangled together in the back seat of his car, your eyes closed and head tilted back as his name falls out of your lips like a prayer. He sees your pile of clothes next to his on his bedroom floor, half forgotten in the haste of needing each other.
He sees you in the faint lipstick smudge still clinging to the collar of his favourite shirt. In the barely-there marks scattered along his neck and chest, fading now but not forgotten. His fingers brush over them without thinking, retracing each one like muscle memory, each a timestamp of a moment he’d give anything to relive. He wonders if you're thinking of him too.
He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and laughs— bitter, breathless.
Yeah. Spencer fucked up big time.
You always thought that even if by some horrible twist of fate, your relationship with Spencer were to end, at the very least it would be amicable. You'd be able to work together, be friends, and still stand to be around each other. You were wrong.
Immediately after the fight last week, you were called to Detroit for a case. There was barely enough time to pack, let alone recover. So, you didn't say anything. Neither did he. To the team, or to each other. It’s easier that way, you thought. The team thinks everything is fine. Business as usual. You’re partnered up for interviews like always. Briefing side by side. Riding in the same car. Sharing a room.
But it's not all okay. It's not all fine, and you know that. He’s quieter than usual. You catch him zoning out in the middle of victim statements. His hands tremble when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s unravelling. And yet, every time you brush past him, he flinches like you’re the one that left.
He still looks at you the same sometimes. Like you’re his. Like you matter. Like nothing’s changed. And that, more than anything, is what hurts. You’re not angry. You’re wrecked. Because you can survive heartbreak. But what he did? That was reckless abandonment. You don’t show someone heaven and then blind them.
Neither of you has had a wink of sleep since then. Even familiar places feel foreign when you're not with each other. What makes it worse is that you're so used to being with and needing each other that it's second nature to you by now. There are absent-minded touches, kisses, lingering hands and eyes that none of you mention.
There’s a moment— small, forgettable to anyone else— when his fingers graze yours as he hands you a case file. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You both freeze. Just for a second. He doesn't look up. Doesn’t say a word. Just retracts his hand like it burned him.
And that’s how it’s been. Every second of this trip. A minefield of almosts. Close calls. Words left unsaid and looks held too long. Lying awake all night in the bed as far away from each other as possible. It's driving you insane. Damn Detroit's winter that makes you crave his warmth. And damn this forced proximity bullshit that the universe has punished you with.
You’re sharing a room, which is objectively a horrible idea, but it would’ve been suspicious to change it last minute. You'd mentally agreed not to bring it up now, so you had to soldier through. At least that’s the excuse you told yourself when you didn't protest. And so now, you’re both here, end of a long day, door shut behind you, silence thick enough to suffocate.
You're sitting on opposite ends of the bed like strangers in a waiting room. You hear him sigh behind you. A long, pained sound. And for the first time since the break, he says your name. It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But it’s enough.
You turn, slowly. Not because you’re calm, but because you’re not sure what will come out if you speak too fast. He’s standing now, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he doesn’t know what to do with you. His shoulders rise with a breath he never quite finishes.
“I can’t sleep,” he says. “I haven’t. Since that night.”
You stare at him. “Okay.”
"Okay? That's it?"
"What do you want me to do, Spencer? Sing you a lullaby?"
"You know what, forget I said anything."
"Believe me, I'm trying," you say, your voice dripping with contempt. Spencer's face contorts like he's confused.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
“It means,” you say, finally standing too, “that you don’t get to say things like that and expect comfort. You don’t get to crack open this— this door like we’re still something and then slam it shut the second it scares you.”
He flinches.
“You think I’ve been sleeping?” you continue, voice shaking now. “You think I’ve been fine? Because I’ve been trying to be. I’ve been trying to hold it together. But it’s really fucking hard when the person I love tells me he doesn’t love me back and then acts like that never happened.”
He's trying to find the words, he really is, but he can't choose between the part of him that's mad at himself for being an idiot, and the part of him that's mad at you for believing him in the first place. He makes the wrong choice.
“You don't get to say that. You walked away. You believed me when I said I didn’t love you.”
Your laugh is sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, you major fucking hypocrite. I’m sorry— its my fault now? Was I supposed to not believe the man I loved when he looked me dead in the eyes and ripped my heart out?”
He throws his hands up. “I had to! You wouldn’t have walked away otherwise!”
“Yeah? And whose fucking fault is that?”
“Mine! Obviously mine!” he snaps, voice rising. “Is that what you want to hear? That I made a mistake? That I wake up every goddamn day hating myself for it?”
“Oh, poor you!” you shout back. “Waking up alone by choice. Because you couldn’t handle the idea of someone loving you. Spencer Reid— genius, coward, commitment phobe.”
He moves closer, eyes blazing. “Don’t twist this into me being scared of you. I was trying to keep you safe.”
You step forward to match him, nose to nose now. “Did I ask? Did I ask you to keep me safe, Spencer? You don’t get to protect me by abandoning me.”
“Oh, get over yourself—”
“Me? I need to get over myself? Jesus, you're so full of yourself. I can't even believe that I'm entertaining this right now."
"Nobody's making you stay. Door's right there."
"You know what, Spencer? Fuck you,” you snap.
“Fuck you.”
You let out a bitter laugh and shove his shoulder. “Bold words from someone who doesn’t even have the balls to tell their partner that he fucking hates them!”
“WHEN did I say that I hated you?” he roars, hands shaking now. “I never said that. I love you! Jesus Christ, of course I love you!”
You stare at him, heart pounding in your throat.
“Then do something about it, you moron.”
And he does.
He grabs your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth and kisses you so hard it knocks the air out of your lungs. It’s angry and desperate and messy, like trying to glue a shattered heart back together with nothing but skin and breath. Your hands fist into his shirt like you’re trying to tear it off or hold him closer, maybe both. Neither of you knows how to be gentle about it.
"You're an idiot," you mumble between kisses.
"Good, we're on the same page."
Your back hits the dresser with a dull thud, and neither of you flinch. His hands are everywhere— on your waist, your hips, sliding under the hem of your shirt like he can’t get close enough fast enough. His mouth moves from yours to your jaw, down your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your knees threaten betrayal.
He finds that spot just behind your ear, the one he knows drives you crazy, and lingers there like a punishment. No, like an apology. You gasp, hand tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make him groan.
He is whispering apologies, begging for your forgiveness as he unravels you, his breath warm against your skin.
“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” you whisper, voice already unsteady as you pull him back to your mouth. “You need to make it up to me.”
“I will,” he promises, between kisses that are more like confessions than contact. “I will. I swear to God, I will.”
And he did. Multiple times that night. For the first time in a long time, both of you slept. Not just passed out from exhaustion, but real, peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. The kind that only comes when the weight has finally lifted.
You woke up tangled in each other, your head tucked under his chin, his arm tight around your waist like he still didn’t quite believe you were there. He kissed your forehead before either of you said a word.
The case wrapped itself up faster than expected after that. Something about sleep and not repressing your feelings— radical concepts, really. You and Spencer cracked the final piece during the afternoon briefing, and the rest of the team rallied around the lead like clockwork. It felt good to feel like yourselves again. Felt even better not to pretend anymore.
You’re on the jet heading home, fingers loosely intertwined beneath a shared blanket when Emily strolls past and pauses in front of your seat. Her smirk is practiced. Lethal. Oh, this can't be good.
“I was in the room next to yours,” she says, casually. “I heard screaming. Was gonna knock, actually, see if everything was okay.”
Spencer tenses beside you.
Emily raises a brow. “But then the screaming turned into a, uh, different kind of screaming.”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, burying your face in your hands.
“Anyway,” she grins, completely unbothered. “Glad you two worked it out.”
She pats Spencer on the back as she leaves. You and Spencer look at each other, mortified and emotionally prepared to change your identities and leave the country. He leans in to whisper something.
"Worth it."
a/n: wildest dreams og version does something to me man istg, song of all time <3 also I have been sitting on this fic for a while not knowing how to end it so I apologize if it's ass, I've been trying to experiment with writing different POVs and gender neutral reader, I'm tagging this as gn!reader, but I'm so sorry if I've accidentally implied that the reader is female 🫂
Hi hi!! Your recent poll asked for a request,,, here I am,, 😎
FIC IDEA: how would Reid act if he found out that Reader was a bully in highschool? You can decide if they were extremely cruel or just passively cold, be he finds out that they weren’t the nicest to a few people for whatever reason. Would it tarnish their friendship? Or would he find out that not all is what it seems? 🤨
hey so like anon first of all i love you so much oh my god. thank you so much for the request <3 this was a joy to write. sorry if i took a while to respond, i was on a hill with no network 🫂 strap along besties, we've got angst (hurt comfort?) coming. really hope you like it <3
Excuses
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
words: 3.0k (it got long-ish y'all, sorry)
summary: your therapist urges you to reach out and make amends with a past that haunts you. you fear how this may affect your friendship with spencer.
warnings: extensive backstory that was probably not necessary but i got carried away rip, language, talks of bullying, reader feels a lot of guilt, i wouldn't call this angst as much as it is hurt comfort? but to each their own.
Everybody has a past. As cliche as it sounds, it's an objective fact. You don't get somewhere without going through something. No destination without a journey and all that bullshit. Some people have a past where they used to be proud of who they were, who they used to be, but not anymore, no. Life had not been kind to them. Some others are proud of the person they have become, but only after burying the other person, the figment of the past. Regrettably, you were the latter.
You didn't understand why your therapist was insistent on talking about Cheyenne. You had mentioned her once, in passing, as part of an entirely different conversation, so it came as a surprise to you when you realised she was going to be the day's topic.
"So, do you mind if we talk about Cheyenne for a bit?" Yes, you most definitely did mind.
"What about her, Steve?"
"Well, the last time you mentioned her, we didn't really get to unpack a lot of that? So I was wondering if we could tap into it today."
"There's not really much to unpack, I mean, I— we," you corrected yourself, "used to go to school together. We had a strained relationship. Mostly my fault, I guess? Mostly my fault Jesus, I sound like a pompous dick. It was all my fault, everything was my—" you paused, the gravity of everything sinking in. Turns out, there was a lot to unpack. Steve waited. He always did, waiting for you to find the right words and compose yourself.
"Everything was my fault," you managed to admit. You thought he'd take it from there, maybe tell you it wasn't your fault, you were just a kid! But no, he just kept looking at you. Pen down, completely focused on you, just listening. You hated how safe that made you feel.
You gave in with a sigh and continued. “We used to be friends. Like, actual friends. Middle school lunch table every day, braiding-each-other’s-hair friends. And then high school happened. And I happened.”
After what felt like ages, you were finally at the end of your story. You had been picking at a thread on your sleeve slowly until it unravelled completely. You didn't notice until you had all of it looped around your fingers.
“I don’t know what happened to her. No one does. I looked her up, once. A couple years ago. No social media, no mutuals. It’s like she disappeared.”
“Did you want to find her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to know if she was okay. That I didn’t… ruin her completely.”
Steve leaned back slightly. “You said earlier that you became loud. Mean. Why do you think that is?”
"I guess I was scared? School wasn't all picnics and sunshine, and you know what my folks were like, I guess I thought if I became this— this cold, thick-skinned person who, you know, inflicted, I wouldn't have to feel the pain. I wouldn't have to hurt."
Steve nodded slowly. “That makes sense. Children adapt to survive. You weren’t safe at home. You learned to build armour with cruelty. That doesn’t excuse it, but it explains it.”
You felt something burn behind your eyes.
“Steve, I was a monster,” you muttered.
“No,” he said gently. “You were a child who made bad decisions while trying to survive her own pain. That doesn’t make you a bad person. That makes you human.”
“I think about her all the time,” you admitted. “Sometimes I see someone who looks like her, and I panic. And then I get angry. I get all agitated. Because why should I get to feel anything at all? I’m not the one who had to disappear.”
Steve folded his hands. “Guilt is heavy. But it’s not a life sentence. You’re allowed to feel sorry, and that's a good thing. It means you've become a better person. And you’re allowed to make amends. That’s what accountability is. Not punishment, but reparation.”
“So what? You think I should reach out? Write her a letter or something?”
He smiles. “I think it’s time.”
-
A twelfth crumpled paper was tossed towards the trash can. It joined eight others on the floor. There was no right way to start the letter. No words in your lexicon to properly phrase what you wanted to convey. You couldn't just start a letter with "Hey Cheyenne! Remember me? Your best friend who became your bully? Of course you do! How have you been?" Yeah, that didn't sound right.
You banged your head on the table as the next blank sheet of paper stared at you menacingly. The table rattled at the impact, everything you had stacked up on it shaking lightly. Your room was dark except for the lamp on the table, which was emanating too much heat for it to be normal. It had been running for hours on end, and the last time you remembered it was way past midnight. You sighed, a defeated sound escaping your throat. This was going nowhere.
You decided to try one last time, be honest, straight to the point, and to not read it a hundred times after you were done, because every single one of those times you'd notice something new that isn't right. Maybe the thirteenth time's the charm. This was it, no matter what.
After about 30 minutes and a few drops of tears on the paper that blotted the ink in a downright pathetic way, you were finally done. You could finally get some sleep before you had to leave for work. You looked at the clock, which read 3:57 am. You rubbed your eyes and looked again, just to make sure you weren't a miserable loser who spent over 7 hours trying to write a very simple letter. Turns out you were, and the universe had punished you with barely a couple of hours of sleep for the day. You were too tired to argue.
-
You tried your best to look put together. To look like you weren't functioning on minimal sleep and an unhealthy amount of caffeine. But there's only so much you can do. Besides, working with profilers was a death sentence at times like these. Trying to be inconspicuous in a room full of barely disguised mentalists? Get out of here. You should know, you were one of them.
The worst part would be running into Spencer. Not because he'd get a wind of what was going on, hell, you'd tell him yourself if you could. It was because of what he would think. How he'd react if he knew. Anyone else, you can handle being on less than stellar terms with. Not with him. Spencer Reid was many things: a scholar, a certified genius, an expert profiler, one of the best agents the department has seen, but most importantly (to you, at least), your best friend.
You and Spencer always had something quietly sacred. He was your person. To him, you weren't a mystery. You were not complicated. You were not irrational. "You make perfect sense to me," he had said one day, in casual conversation after you complained that you were being stupid about getting upset over something trivial. He actually said that, like it wasn't the most devastatingly intimate thing ever.
Part of you thought he'd understand, that he'd be able to empathise. But you knew it would be extremely unfair of you to expect that. How could you, after everything he had been through? You knew this was a touchy topic for him. You remembered the way his entire body had gone tense during that case in Vermont, the one with the high school boy who was pushed too far by a group of bullies. He’d snapped at Garcia when she made a flippant comment, and barely said a word for the rest of the flight back. You hadn’t asked then, you didn't have to.
And now here you were. About to become a living reminder of something you suspected he spent most of his life trying to forget. What if he didn’t look at you the same after this? What if you told him, and all he saw was that person you used to be? What if he stopped trusting you? Talking to you? Liking you?
You were halfway through that spiral when you heard the soft scuff of approaching footsteps and looked up, only to see Spencer, coffee in hand, heading straight toward your desk. Shit shit shit shit sh—
“Rough night?” he asked, handing you the coffee, voice soft.
You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Do I look that bad?”
His eyes widened, panic setting in almost immediately. “No! No, no, I didn’t mean that, I wasn’t saying you look bad, I just meant you look, uh, tired? In a neutral way. Like, more tired than norm— usual. Which is not a reflection of your appearance. At all. I, uh,”
You let him dig for another half second before smiling. “I’m messing with you.”
He deflated with a half-laugh. “You're mean.” Oh, you have no idea.
You took the coffee gratefully. “But yeah. To answer your question. It was… pretty rough.”
He hovered for a second, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You didn’t even have time to think before your phone buzzed sharply on the desk. Garcia. You answered quickly.
“Garcia?”
“Hey, sugarplum. Guess who just did a very light, totally legal background check on a Cheyenne Smith?”
Your breath caught. “You found her?”
“Mmhmm. Lives in Brooklyn now. Works at a bookstore, apparently. I’m sending the address your way. You owe me a tub of that overpriced lavender gelato.”
You exhaled, relief and panic mingling in your chest. “Penelope, you are literally the best.”
“I know, sweetums. Go be brave.”
You muttered a quick “Thanks for the coffee” as you stood abruptly and gave him an impromptu half-hug, barely remembering to grab your badge on the way out. Spencer called your name once, softly, but you were already halfway to the elevator by the time you turned to wave. It wasn’t much of a wave. More like a frantic gesture of not-right-now. You didn’t even hear the ding of the elevator over your heartbeat. You had to send that letter. As soon as possible.
-
A couple of weeks had passed since that morning. Spencer had given you space, the way he always did when he sensed something was weighing on you, but he hadn’t stopped watching. Quietly. Carefully. The jittery hands, the distant look in your eyes, the way your knee bounced under the table like you were trying to outrun your own thoughts— he noticed it all. You hadn’t been talking to him much lately, not in the way you used to. And it hurt. Because he knew you. Knew all your tells. Knew when you were suffering and trying desperately not to show it. And what ached most was knowing you didn’t think you could let him in.
You, on the other hand, had been a mess since the moment you dropped the letter in the mailbox. The anticipation alone was unbearable. You kept imagining every possible response she might have— anger, sadness, silence. And worse, you kept imagining what Spencer would think if he ever found out. You couldn't afford to risk what you had with him. What were you supposed to do now? Be quiet and distant forever? Forget that anything happened in the first place? Lie to him about who you were? Pretend? You knew none of those were the right thing to do. You kept asking yourself if this was worth ruining what you had now. If you were ready to lose another friend indefinitely.
That combination of dread and hope had been tearing you apart, cell by cell. Then, just when you’d started telling yourself maybe she wouldn’t respond at all, a letter arrived. Two days ago. The envelope had your name written in a soft, slanted hand you remembered far too well. It had burned your fingers the moment you touched it, like shame had been etched into the paper itself. You hadn’t opened it. You couldn’t. It had been sitting in your bag like a ghost, haunting you, demanding to be acknowledged.
You were at your desk, coat already slung over your chair, everyone else gone for the day. You weren’t working. You hadn’t been for the past hour. You just sat there, the letter in your hand, staring at it like it might explode if you opened it wrong. You didn’t know what you were waiting for. A sign? A push? Something to make it less terrifying? Your mind was spiralling. What if it was cruel, what if she hated you, what if she was right to—
“You’re not leaving?” Spencer. Oh, no.
"Yeah, no, I was just about to go," you managed to respond, trying your best not to let your voice waver. You had a feeling you didn't do a very good job. "What are you still doing here?"
"Actually, I was hoping we could talk? If that's okay?" Oh shit.
"Sure, Spence. You okay?"
"Are you?" he asked, voice ever so tender. Of course, he noticed.
No point in lying anymore, you figured. This was it. You were mentally preparing yourself to lose the last good thing that hadn't yet been tainted by the mess that is you. You sighed. Resigned, defeated, dejected.
"I, um," you hesitated, wondering if there was even a minuscule chance that you could get out of this. There wasn't. "I got a letter.”
He blinked. “Okay... From who?”
You hesitated. “A friend. From before.”
Spencer tilted his head. “Okay. And you haven’t opened it yet?”
“No.”
“Can I ask why?”
You looked down at your hands, flexed your fingers like they might give you the words. “Spencer, what I’m about to tell you is going to change things between us. I know it will. Your opinion of me will change, you'll probably hate me, and rightfully so, but you deserve to know. Especially you.”
He pulled the chair closer, silently.
You inhaled slowly. “Her name is Cheyenne Smith. We went to school together. We were friends. Good friends, in middle school. And then I," you had to pause, the gravity of what you were about to tell him pulling you down stronger than you could take. "I became someone else. I stopped talking to her. I made her life miserable. I was part of a group of kids who bullied her. And I didn’t just stand by. I did it too.”
You told him everything. Didn't spare a single detail. And he listened patiently, which intensified that weight in your chest. When you were done, there was a long, brutal pause. Spencer didn’t say anything. Just stared at you with an unreadable expression. The silence stretched. You hated every second of it.
“Please,” you whispered. “Say something.”
He blinked, like he was coming back to himself.
“You know,” he said, slowly, “I didn’t have the best time at school. That’s probably not a surprise. I was younger than the other kids. I talked too fast, read too much, understood things no one else did. I was… different. I was bullied. Relentlessly. Cornered in hallways, mocked in front of teachers, humiliated for just existing.”
You didn’t breathe. You couldn't. Nothing felt like the right thing to do. Did he hate you? Was he going to tell you he hated you? Oh, god. He was going to tell you he hated you, wasn't he?
“If one of them reached out to me now,” he continued, “and told me that they remembered what they did, that they carried it, that they were sorry… that they’d become a better person… I think part of me would feel something I’ve never gotten to feel. Closure. It wouldn’t undo the damage, that I'll have to carry. But maybe I wouldn’t still feel like that scared kid curled up in the back of the gym.”
His voice cracked just slightly. “You did the right thing.”
You didn’t mean to start crying. But you did. A shaky breath, a quiet sob. And then he was reaching out, taking your hand in his, grounding you.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I am so sorry. I didn’t want you to think less of me, I—”
“Hey, hey, listen. I don’t,” he said, without hesitation. “Okay? If anything, I think more of you. You faced it. You took responsibility. Most people wouldn’t.”
He linked his hands with yours, fingers ever so subtly brushing over your knuckles.
“You’re not that person anymore,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to read it alone.”
You looked at him, eyes glassy. “You’d read it with me?”
“I’ll be right here. No matter what's in that letter, it's going to be fine. I'm right here.”
And for the first time in days, you believed it might actually be okay.
a/n: i think this is my first spencer request so can i get a hell yeah <3 also cheyenne is such a pretty name
bau!reader and spencer are dating now, and they're just like talking about how they met and stuff casually and he's like you know i sorta tried to ask you out when we met? she's like what? you're telling me we could've started dating years ago??? he's like hey it's no big deal, ig you just weren't really into me back then and she's like not into you??? my brother in christ i stuttered and rambled for 3 entire minutes when we met what made you think i didn't like you
a whole lot of fluff badically thanks x
helloooo <3333 thank you so much for the request!!!! i had a WIP with sort of a similar theme as the ask so decided to combine them, i really hope you like it xo
Um, actually
pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader
words: 2.0k
summary: A flashback to when you first met spencer helps you realize just how oblivious you were. But so was he, so it's all good.
warnings: fluffffffff, possibly incorrect etymology facts, Spencer being a horrible cook for funsies, minor Brooklyn 99 reference (if you caught it i love you so much), glasses spencer !!!!! (not really all that relevant to the plot but i am a sucker for glasses!spence <3), established relationship
"Beeves? Really? Come on, that cannot be a real word."
Dinner conversations were always lively with Spencer. More often than not, it involved facts about the recipe, the origins, the historical significance, different interpretations of the same dish in other cultures, and whatnot. Today, it was etymology.
"It is!" he exclaimed, pointing towards you with his fork, way too excited about beef etymology in the most endearing way possible.
"You see, in the context of 'meat from cows', the plural of beef would just be beef. If we're talking about fights, disagreements, that kind of beef? It would be beefs. But beef also refers to an adult cow, steer or bull. So in this case, the plural would be—"
"Beeves?"
"Bingo."
"Huh, the more you know. You got more weird plurals?"
"Well,"
"Of course you do."
"There's moose, whose plural is actually—"
"Meese, obviously."
"Oh, no."
Eventually, dinner was done, dishes were put away, and you were now cuddled on the couch, his arm around your shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing circles on your bicep over the sleeve of your sweater.
It was quiet. Silent. But not the kind of silence that came with warnings and omens. It wasn't the kind of silence filled with premonition that you had so gotten used to with your job. It wasn't uncomfortable, and it wasn't foreboding. It was the kind of stillness that settled like morning fog over a quiet lake. Gentle, unmoving, and content to simply exist. The air bore a sort of warmth and hope that neither of you had been familiar with in years. Ever, if you're being honest. Beautiful thing, domesticity. Naturally, you were reminiscing.
"Spence?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Remember how we met?"
He tilted his head thoughtfully, lips pressing together as though deep in concentration. “Hmm… you know, I have an eidetic memory, but I can’t say I do—”
You smacked him with the throw pillow. He laughed, pulling you a little closer. “Of course I do. It's one of my favourite memories of us," he admitted, kissing your forehead. He smiled into your hair. “Crazy how much has changed, huh?”
You nodded, eyes still on the soft knit of his sweater sleeve. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago.”
“You know,” he said, suddenly bashful, “I tried to ask you out that day.”
Wait, what? Your head snapped toward him. “You did not.”
"Oh yeah. Crashed and burned splendidly."
"Spencer, honey, I feel like I would remember that."
“Um, actually,” he said, adjusting his glasses with mock seriousness, “that’s literally the first thing I did.”
You stared at him, slack-jawed. “Wh— what do you mean? We… we could have started dating ages ago?”
He chuckled lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean, maybe? I thought I was pretty obvious about it. But you didn’t seem interested, so I figured—”
“No, no,” you interrupted, practically sitting up. “Believe me, I was interested, alright? Spencer, I stuttered and— and rambled for like three entire minutes when I met you. I forgot to tell you my name. I—I asked you if you wanted the extra ticket to—"
His eyes widened as he realized where this was going. “Wait, wait. That was supposed to be flirting?”
"Yeah!?" you exclaimed, so exasperated it almost sounded like a question. "Honey, what else did you think it was?"
"I thought you were being polite! And I— I definitely flirted back," he promised, clearly going through that memory inside his head as he spoke.
"Sweetie, when?"
"You know, when I said there was someone I'd like to go with?" He stressed on the word someone far too much, waiting, hoping you would catch his drift. You finally did, after 10 really long seconds.
"Me? You meant you'd want to go with me?" you asked, still incredulous at what he had implied.
"Uh-huh!? Honey, who else—"
"Spencer, Oh my god, I thought you were telling me you had a girlfriend."
"...Oh."
You both sat there for a moment, letting that truth settle between you like dust in late-afternoon light. You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Wow. Can’t believe we missed out on years.”
“I know,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, eyes trained on the space between you, like he was watching the shape of time itself. “We're idiots, aren't we?”
"Possibly, but at least we're idiots together now," you responded, leaning further into him, leaving no more space between you, if that was even possible with how close you were sitting in the first place.
"Agreed. If anything, I think our love makes me a better person. Remember when I boiled that egg last week?"
"That was really big. I'm proud of you," you affirmed, your voice sincere.
"Crazy how much hasn't changed, though."
"What do you mean?" you asked, head tilting to look at him. His eyes were already on you, fond, like he was enamoured with you. Like he was going to tell you he loved you, and even after you had already heard it a hundred times by then, it still made you nervous.
"You still don't double-check the mail, even after I specifically—"
Another throw pillow found him, this time directly across his face, muffling the rest of his declaration. He laughed in response to that yet again, smug bastard that he is. You feigned offence at that and attempted to push him off of you, and sat a couple of feet away from him, hands crossed across your chest, face neutral.
But he knew what you were expecting to hear. He also knew that he didn't have to say it loud for you to know. It went without saying how much you loved each other. With every word you ever exchanged, every sentence ever spoken, the unspoken part? The subtext? It was always there. I love you.
He sensed that he had to make it up to you now. He also knew that you weren't really mad, probably loving the banter just as much as he was. Still, he always enjoyed making it up to you way more than he'd ever care to admit, so if it meant he had to come up with an elaborate ruse to rile you up first and then pretend to ask for your forgiveness, then so be it. His arms were around you in record time.
Bonus— a flashback: how our idiots actually met
You were grasping the tickets tight. There had been an oversight. On your part, mostly (entirely, if we're being honest), but you had to fix it as soon as you could, nonetheless. The tickets in your hand did not belong to you. And the longer you were holding them, the more it started to feel like they were burning a hole in your hand. You had to give it to whoever was expecting it, apologize, and get out of their face before you started sensing their judgement. The tickets belonged to one Spencer Reid. Who the hell was Spencer Reid?
A small part of you wanted to get to know him immediately. You don’t find a lot of federal agents who take Halloween seriously, let alone someone willing to spend Halloween weekend at Phantasmagoria. Someone with that good of a taste? Sign me up, you thought.
Your eyes scanned the bullpen of the BAU, searching for any face that might look like it belonged to a “Spencer Reid.” You didn’t know what he looked like. But there was a tall, lanky guy— glasses, brown hair, cardigan layered over a dress shirt, tie slightly askew, gun holster hanging off his waist like it had no business being there. (Is that even allowed?) He was holding a cup of coffee and making his way toward a desk.
Unfortunately, the first thought your caveman brain was able to come up with was— cute. Nope. You were on a mission. You had to focus. Focus, damn it. You figured, if this nice, fine (really fine) and distinguished gentleman, whoever he was, wasn't Spencer Reid, at the very least, he looked approachable and helpful enough to point you in the right direction. Personally, you didn't want haphazard gun holster guy to be Spencer Reid. Hell of a first impression you'd be making, if that were the case.
“Hi! Sorry— um, where can I find Spencer Reid?”
He paused, blinking. “Hmm? That would be me.”
Well, shit.
“Oh? That—It, uh. You?” Brilliant. Very eloquent today, evidently.
“Uh-huh,” he nodded, a little amused.
You nodded like that would help shake your embarrassment off. Be normal, you thought. You're a normal person. Words are easy. Speak. Say things.
“Right. Cool. Hi. I’m Sex Crimes. I mean— I work Sex Crimes. The division. Of the FBI. I don’t— I don’t go around committing sex crimes around town. You already knew that. Obviously. Why am I explaining this?” Oh, sweet Jesus.
He was staring politely now, wide-eyed and politely stunned.
“Anyway!” you barreled on, desperate to claw back whatever dignity you had left, if any. “Lester, the mail guy, yeah, he came in today with this orange envelope? With the pumpkins on it? I assumed they were my Phantasmagoria tickets, so I just took them. To be fair, he tried to, um, stop me, but I was sort of way too excited to listen, and it wasn’t until I got back that I remembered I’d asked for mine to be delivered to my house, not here. So then I looked at the envelope— which, yeah, is what I probably should’ve done in the first place—and surprise surprise, they didn’t have my name on them. They had yours.”
You shoved the envelope into his hands like it might bite you if you held onto it any longer. “So yeah. Sorry. These are yours, is what I am trying to say with way too many words than necessary. I took them by accident. Please take them away from me. Thank you.”
You were looking down at the ground, waiting for it to open up and swallow you whole. The seconds of silence that followed your very passionate ramble were not helping. Any time now, ground. His voice snapped you right back into reality.
“Firstly,” he said, smiling, “thank you. Seriously. And secondly, you don’t get a lot of FBI crowd at Phantasmagoria.”
He glanced down at the envelope. “You said tickets? Plural?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I booked them in August, thinking I’d go with my boyfriend. And, well, come October… I am yet to find him. August me was a little too optimistic.” Exactly why you trauma dumped about your love life to this stranger, you may never know. But he didn't seem to mind all too much, so yeah, what do you know?
He smiled again, warmer this time. It made your stomach flip in a way you did not have time to examine. NO. Nuh-uh. You promised yourself no workplace crushes, and you meant it. Did you mean it? In retrospect, maybe you weren't all that serious. You could make an exception, right? For him? Oh, absolutely. Well, that was a quick change of heart.
“But now that you mention it,” you continued, “there’s an extra ticket. I don’t really need it. So, if you know anyone who might want to go with you…” Smooth. Real subtle. Oh, yeah. Asking him if he's single? You were so smart, you should've been an FBI agent or something. You should've gotten a raise.
“Well, actually…” he started, almost sheepish. “There is someone I’d love to go with. But I have a feeling she already has a ticket.”
Of course, Halloween Jesus wasn't single, you thought. He was too good to be true, right? Your sweet, foolishly sweet brain, interpreted his advance as— Oh, he's taken. Well, couldn't blame a girl for trying (you would later be upset about this for a while).
“Oh. Right. Okay. Well, if there’s anyone else who might need a ticket, I’m two floors down.” You offered a tight smile and turned to leave before you could make it worse. His face contorted in confusion, a hint of disappointment flickered across too, before he quickly recovered.
“Hey— Sex Crimes?”
You turned.
“You got a name?”
a/n: this is all so how i met your mother to me hence the song, in this house we stan idiot4idiot romance, we ♥️ imbeciles, hope you liked it lol<3333
house md x criminal minds muahahahaha (reduce your expectations to zero)
pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader
words: 2.7k
warnings: FLUFFIEST FLUFF IN ALL LAND, language, canon doesn't even exist at this point rip, established relationship, spencer and reader being sooooooo in love, House is in it for like 2 minutes T_T, new jersey slander, vegas slander, florida slander (only for funsies, i have never been anywhere except vegas teehee), minor Chase slander (this is solely for the plot i love my problematic daughter)
a/n: listen i TRIED but house has like 2 minutes of screen time I'm SORRY I'M SORRY OKAY? I only now got back after the hiatus and I didn't know how to end it and well yada yada yada this cesspool of disappointment happened. also apparently I cannot write a fic of anything without making a brooklyn 99 reference so here you fucking go <3
Getting shot did not feel as badass as expected. It hurt like a bitch. Damn every single movie that made it look cool. And damn every single paramedic who said you were lucky it didn't hit any vital organs. My brother in Christ, I am the most vital organ. It hit ME. I am in inexplicable pain. Fuck you, you thought.
A case in Princeton? What could go wrong? Well, several things, apparently. A, you had been shot, as we already know. B, you were probably going to run into Chase, which was the last thing you needed right now. C, much worse, by the end of your little adventure, your boyfriend was going to be well acquainted with Gregory House, for all the wrong reasons.
You didn't exactly have a say in which ER they were rushing you to, but even in the barely conscious haze, you tried to mutter "Mercy... Mehr...," before you passed out, which the paramedics unfortunately interpreted as you begging for mercy. What you were actually trying to say was that you wanted to be taken to Mercy General Hospital, and by no means, Princeton Plainsboro. You were taken to Princeton Plainsboro.
You had no idea how much time had passed. All that you were aware of at the moment was the static white noise that you'd been hearing for hours on end slowly dissolving into proper sounds that your brain could interpret. Shrill beeping of medical equipment, the faint hum of the AC, muffled voices and rushed feet, presumably outside whatever room you were in, pages being turned. Pages being turned? Of course. A sound you were well accustomed to. Spencer. You were instantly at ease.
You opened your eyes as slowly as you could, so as to not overwhelm your eyes with all the light after being unconscious for so long. It didn't work. It was still too bright. You couldn't see shit for a few seconds. After taking a couple of seconds to adjust, you carefully looked around the room.
It was a typical room for a hospital, you thought. Simple, minimalist, boring, mildly drab, if we were being honest. But something about the interiors seemed... off. Familiar. The walls. This sickly shade of green (which was a poor design choice, by the way— no sick person would get better in this sorry excuse of a room). You knew this place. Oh, shit.
You tried to call out for Spencer, let him know you're up, but then decided you didn't want to do it like this. You wanted to wake up all nonchalantly, like it didn't matter that you were shot by a bullet; you were still extremely cool and awesome. You thought to ask "Enjoying your book?" so you'd seem mysterious and also convey that even in this state, you were observant enough to know what was going on around you.
While in the process of deciding how to soft-launch your newly found consciousness, your throat, your very own throat, betrayed you. The only sound that left your throat, despite having an entire monologue ready in your head, was a pained cough. But it got his attention, so that's something? He quickly shut his book and sprinted from across the room to be at your side, his entire focus on you.
"Hey. You're awake."
"You're, like, so pretty right now."
"Really? Oh, uh— well, thank— thank you. You, uh, you look really pretty too," he managed to muster up, clearly caught off guard by your declaration, despite the fact that you were his girlfriend of well over months at that point.
"Sorry. Painkillers," you explained, even though it was a completely conscious decision to make him blush like that. "You okay?"
He exhaled a laugh at your question. "You ate a bullet, and you're worried about me right now?"
"Yeah, I'm considerate like that. You still didn't answer my question."
"Yeah, I'm okay," he replied, his eyes soft as he scanned you. You never stopped catching him off guard, be it with your concern, your intellect, your care, your love, or even just your mere presence, captivated him. He loved being loved by you. "You feeling okay? Doctors said you'll be fine, mostly, save for some internal bleeding."
"It's okay. That's where the blood's supposed to be."
Spencer gave you a deadpan look, clearly not amused.
"Actually, though, my mouth is feeling a bit tingly?"
"Oh. Well, that's not normal. You shouldn't be feeling anything right now, also you got shot in the abdomen, so it really—"
"Yeah, yeah, I was hoping you could just kiss it better for me? You know, cause technically you're a doctor and everything?" He visibly relaxed after he understood what you were actually doing.
"Gotta say. You make a compelling argument. That is the prescribed treatment, yes," he played along, as he leaned in to close the distance between you.
Every time you kissed him, it felt like the first. This time was no exception. Modern medicine be damned, you could survive just off his kisses. He kissed you like a man starved, and you, well, you were a giver. The smile on your faces as you broke apart couldn't be erased even if you tried. Just pure joy and bliss.
"Next time, though, you can just, you know, ask me to kiss you. Radical concept, I know. But I'm your boyfriend. We sorta tend to do that. It's all part of the package."
"Yeah, it's these crazy painkillers, man. I swear. It's like I'm horny for you, but, like, emotionally."
"And they say romance is dead."
You exhaled a laugh, straining slightly as it reverberated through your wound. It wasn't an exaggeration that your laugh was music to his ears. Any time you laughed, it was instinct for him to laugh along with you. With love like this? Romance could never die.
"Seriously, though, you're okay?"
"Never better, Spence," you promised, noting that his concern didn't reduce one bit. "Seriously. I'm, like, zooted out of my mind right now. I can't feel a thing. I'm fine. I swear."
He deflated a little, knowing that you weren't in as much pain as he thought. Still, he had to be sure you were okay.
"I'll go tell your doctor you're up. Just in case."
"Honey, I'm fi—"
"We're just making sure."
You sighed, knowing there was no winning this. Besides, it's probably a good thing. The sooner your doctor was convinced you were okay, the sooner you can get the fuck out of this place.
"Hey, Spence?"
"Hmm?" he questioned, stopping halfway out the door, already on his way to call your doctor.
"Who's my attending?"
"Oh, Dr House."
The few minutes you were alone in that room were pure agony. This did not make sense. Even Remotely. House was your attending? Gregory House, who famously does not see patients, doesn't even do clinic duty or help at the ER when the hospital is short-staffed, was your attending physician. Either something truly drastic had happened since you left, you were actually in a coma and hallucinating, or he was fucking with you. Which does sound like a very House thing to do.
You watched as House entered first, cane tapping against the tile, followed by Spencer, whose face screamed I am doing my best to be polite, but I have so many questions. House, to your horror, was wearing his white coat. Clean-shaven. Professional. Smiling. There was a clipboard in his hand. Coma theory wasn't looking all too far-fetched right now. You were definitely hallucinating. This was The Bad Place.
“There she is,” House said, flipping through a chart that probably wasn’t even yours. “The FBI’s own bullet sponge. Looking good, Agent.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re being nice?”
“I’m being professional,” he corrected. “You know, the thing you insisted I didn’t know how to be.”
Spencer raised a brow at you.
“I…” you gestured weakly, “may have painted a picture.”
“Don’t worry,” House said smoothly, still not looking up from the chart. “I’m sure you told Beautiful Mind over here that I’m a misanthropic, narcissistic, cane-wielding reprobate who shouldn’t be allowed near scalpels or people. Which is why I’ve decided to dedicate the rest of this week to being the poster boy for medical decency.”
Your eyes narrowed further. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Absolutely,” he said brightly, still not breaking character. “I took one look at him and thought, yeah, let’s make her eat her words,” he taunted, the last part of the sentence in faux glee.
Spencer, clearly still confused, looked between you two. “I’m sorry— what’s happening right now?”
“Don't worry about it, honey,” you said, your voice too high-pitched to be reassuring. This day couldn't end faster.
"I can't exactly help it, I'm your—"
“Boyfriend,” House interrupted. “I picked that up when she asked you to kiss her gunshot wound better," he explained, stressing on gunshot wound.
"Okay, how the hell do you kn—" You were interrupted before you could finish, once again by House.
"Just FYI, that’s not in the AMA’s list of recommended interventions.”
Spencer’s ears pinked, but he stood his ground. “Actually, she’s not wrong. Oxytocin release from affectionate touch can lower cortisol levels and reduce perceived pain.”
House blinked once. “So it talks back. And it knows things.”
"House," you warned.
“He's right,” House replied, now facing Spencer. “Unless her libido is compensating for cranial trauma. In which case, you should maybe keep the tongue down until we run an MRI.”
Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. You knew that sound all too well. That was the sound of Spencer Reid’s neural pathways short-circuiting.
"House, I swear to God—"
“No, no, this is good!” he beamed at Spencer, ignoring you completely. “You’re weird. I like that. And considering your girlfriend once got back together with Chase for exactly 3 days because he made her a mixtape, you're something of an upgrade.”
Was that... was House giving you his blessing? Is that what this was? Or were you reading too much into it? Either way, you couldn't get out of there any damn sooner.
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh, God. Sedate me. I beg you.”
"Relax. The bullet didn't hit anything. You'll be up and gun-slinging in no time." He snapped the chart shut. “Reid. Want to come talk about your girlfriend’s insides with me in the hallway?”
Spencer looked at you for permission, ever the gentleman. Also, he looked sceptical. And mildly afraid.
“Go. Please. Maybe he’ll behave if you’re watching.”
“I won’t,” House said cheerfully. “But we’ll both pretend I will, and that’s basically the same thing.”
As they left, you heard House murmur, “So. You ever try Vicodin recreationally?”
"Dilaudid, actually."
You slowly reached for the morphine dispenser and set it on the highest possible level.
~
The morphine wore off soon. Too soon, honestly. You were up, staring into bright white lights and sad green walls in no time. Spencer, thankfully, was by your bed. Alone. House-less. That was vaguely terrifying, actually. He looked confused. Confuddled. Not exactly dumbfounded or scared, but very concerned. Typical House interaction aftershock.
"Honey? You okay?"
"Either everything he said was definitely sarcastic, or we need to deliver a profile as soon as we possibly can."
You managed to muster an amused laugh, which quickly died down after you sensed the genuine horror in his face.
"Oh, you're seri— honey, he was kidding. He likes to mess with people, that's all. He wasn't being serious, I promise." Well, for the most part. But he didn't have to know that. He needed reassurance right now. He needed to know he wasn't crazy. Again, typical House interaction aftershocks.
"Okay, that helps a bit. A tiny bit. Although I definitely have questions."
"How about I answer them while I cuddle my boyfriend in this huge-ass bed?"
"It's like you're Romeo," he teased, as he climbed into said huge-ass bed.
After a few minutes of comfortable silence, the interrogation began.
"Exactly how are you acquainted with Greg?"
"Oh, he's Greg now?"
"Long story. Again, how do you know him?"
"Well, you know how I joined the team as a forensic pathologist? Before that, I had a brief stint as a medical fellow in his differential diagnosis team at this here hospital," you admitted, like just the memory had mildly inconvenienced you.
"Somehow, I'm more disturbed that you had to live in New Jersey."
"Hey. Just because I'm too tired to argue doesn't mean I'll tolerate New Jersey slander."
"The state animal of New Jersey is the orange construction cone."
"Please, like Vegas is any better. What happens in Vegas stays the fuck there 'cause no one else wants it."
"Alright, compromise. Florida sucks," he suggested a truce. His eyes were on you, already waiting to lock it in.
"Florida sucks," you concurred with a satisfied smile, closing the deal and the distance between you. He broke away after god knows how long, albeit begrudgingly. Damn oxygen.
"Alright. Next question."
"Shoot. I'm so ready right now."
"So... Chase." He begins. Well, you weren't prepared for that.
"Alright, maybe not that ready."
"No, no, I'm just curious. Was it, like, a really good mixtape, or—"
You hit him with the pillow you had at your side for support, just as he braced for impact and failed. The bastard laughed at your agony and pulled you in closer, into a harder embrace.
"I'm kidding. I'm just messing with you. If you don't want to talk about it, we don—"
"No, no. I do. It's not a touchy topic or anything. He was just... well, a lousy boyfriend."
"Hmm. Lousy how?"
"He did try. I'll give him credit. But whenever he fucked up, it was big, you know? And having House meddling the entire time didn't help either. It's just, it never felt right. Like it was so close to being what I wanted, but no matter how much we tried, it could never be... that."
"What about me? Am I what you want?" he inquired, his tone playful, yet you sensed the hesitation that lingered.
"Honey, you are what I need."
"I think we need to renegotiate on the painkillers."
He drew another laugh from you and joined you in your glee as he admired you in silence. Just as he was thinking about how much he loved you, he was met with a revelation.
"You know, in a weird, twisted way, we wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for House."
Your face scrunched into pure disgust, and much to your chagrin, he was right.
"Ugh, honey, I need you to promise never to tell him that."
"Agreed. Also, follow up on the last question."
"Come at me, lover."
"Oh wow, okay. Moving on. So, if I were to over majorly screw up, what songs would you prefer on the mixt—"
You hit him with the pillow once again.
"Truce, truce," he proposed for the second time that day, still laughing.
"You are so lucky you're cute."
"I am aware, yes," he replied, his voice all playful.
"Are you? 'cause you're blushing real hard right now."
"I think I'm allowed to be flustered by my girlfriend's shameless flirting."
You fake an exaggerated gasp. "Who you callin' shameless? You know, I could take you in a fight, Reid."
"Oh, we're on last names now?"
"Keep deflecting, I'll show you what a proper uppercut looks like."
"I'd rather you don't rip your stitches, actually. You're still very much healing."
"I'm letting you go. For now," you warned, pointing a finger at him threateningly. Menacingly.
"I am shivering in fear. On the inside. I swear." He kissed your temple and got off the bed rather unceremoniously. It made you laugh, so he'd take it.
"Rest, okay? Get some sleep."
"I'll be dreaming of you."
"I take it back. I love your painkillers."
He heard you laugh yet again, his favourite sound in the entire world. Part of him wanted to record it and play it on loop. Other parts of him wanted that sound, that music, etched on the insides of his ear.
"Oh, and before you go to sleep, I do have one last question."
"Ask away, darling."
"I met Greg's oncologist friend earlier?" he posed it like a question, like he wasn't really sure if he was right.
"Wilson?"
"Yeah, him. It's just, do they— do they know gay marriage is legal now?"
HEYYY!! Godspeed on your semester <33!! You got this. 🫶🏼
Fic idea: Reader is Reid’s roommate and is pretty laid-back (easily mistaken for a slacker because they don’t take on rigorous tasks often) and stumbles across a stumped Reid who’s trying to solve a case. Very casually Reader makes an insane prediction, and Reid learns that they’re basically a genius… who doesn’t really know they’re a genius?? (Because when they think “genius” the reader usually thinks of nerdy and scrawny people like Reid)
I hope that makes sense vro 💔💔
Baby you have been in my inbox for a MONTH i am so sorry i hope you like it 🥀
Lazy
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
words: 1.2k
warnings: Language
summary: You, a chronically underachieving genius accidentally solve an active FBI case over takeout and crime scene photos. Spencer Reid blurts out an "I love you" before sprinting out the door in mismatched socks.
a/n: fluffity fluff in the end for a little bit hehe <3
Truth be told, you hated that word. Lazy. You preferred efficient. Your 9-to-5 was soul sucking, much like any other 9-to-5, so you did the only thing you could to make sure this job doesn't eat you alive— the bare fucking minimum.
A report due by 5? Alright, it'll be on the desk at 5, not a minute sooner, and not a minute later. A task needs doing? Oh, it'll be done. Flawlessly, in fact. But that's it. No fanfare, no extras, exactly what is required, nothing more. Meetings? You speak only when necessary. Deadlines? Met to the second. No matter how convoluted the problem or the task, you found the cleanest, simplest way through.
You did just the right amount, never showed your true potential, and it never raised any questions. If you asked your coworkers, they'd say you were a joy to be around. With your social capital? You were never getting fired. It was the perfect ruse.
But when you reached home with takeout, took your shoes off at the end of the day, you left your job along with them at the doorstep of your house. 5-to-9 is your time. And no one was taking that away from you. Alright, maybe one person was taking that away from you. But truth be told, you didn't really complain.
Spencer Reid was an enigma. Living with him was never dull, be it because he was actually, quite literally, the best flatmate a person could ask for in all thinkable ways, or because he challenged you the way you liked best— intellectually. Today was apparently a latter kind of day.
"Reid-o. What's got you all worked up?"
"Reid-o?" he asked, looking up from the papers strewn about his desk.
"Term of endearment. You didn't answer my question."
The first thing you noticed after coming home was the pair of Converse that were clearly taken off in a hurry and left there haphazardly. The living room smelled of the strongest espresso in all of land, like a truck of coffee had decided to explode in your house, of all places. The room was relatively dark, except for the lamp burning over the desk where he was huddled over. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed you come home. Ergo, he was stressed.
A heavy sigh, one hand running through his hair. You made a mental note of his stress level: medium-high. A few more hours of this and he’d either fall asleep at his desk or start quoting obscure philosophers.
"It's this case," he admitted finally, his voice sounding almost defeated. "I have been poring over the case files and the crime scene photos, and the interviews for hours, and I have basically no pattern or connection between any of the victims. So, how was your day?"
"Better than yours," you scoffed, "Can I have a look?"
“I thought you hated this stuff.”
“I hate paperwork and bureaucracy. Big difference.”
He hesitated, then pushed the files toward you, still half sceptical. “They’re all women, different ages, different occupations. Killed two days apart. Same method, no evidence left behind, nothing to tie them together. We’re missing something.”
You skimmed through the reports, flipping through pages with zero urgency. You tapped your finger on the crime scene photos, brows slightly furrowed at the gore; they were crime scene photos, after all. But you kept your focus on just the crime scene. Just the way it was staged. You tapped your finger on the last photo, humming thoughtfully.
“How did he get in?” you asked.
Spencer sighed again. “We don’t know. That’s part of the problem. No signs of forced entry, no tampering, no secondary footprints, nothing on any of the security footage. Just the victims entering their homes alone, like normal.”
“No delivery men, no dates, no door dash?”
“Nothing. Clean. Like no one else was ever there.”
You tilted your head, squinting at the arrangement of one of the living rooms. “Alright. So, let’s say the footage is legit, no one else enters or leaves the premises. The simplest explanation?”
He gave you a look. “Occam’s Razor?”
“Exactly. The simplest explanation is that no one entered because they were already inside.”
He blinked. “You’re saying the unsub was—”
“Already in the house. Yeah.”
“That would mean... he snuck in before the victims got home. Hid. Waited. Killed them. Then left... somehow.”
“Without triggering a single alarm or camera. Meaning either the cameras were looped at just the right time— which you’re saying they weren’t— or he never walked past them to begin with.”
Spencer stood now, pacing a little. “But how? Every entry point was covered.”
You leaned back into the couch, arms crossed. “Then maybe we’re not thinking three-dimensionally enough. You need to look at the architectural plans. House blueprints. Vents, crawlspaces, dumbwaiters, hell, even hollow walls. If he’s getting in and out without being seen, it’s because he’s not using the doors. Or windows.”
Spencer froze mid-step, then slowly turned to you, eyes wide.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Oh my god.”
“What? Did you get something?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter.
Spencer blinked, still stunned, like the gears in his mind had just snapped into overdrive.
“The houses, every single one of the victims’ homes, were renovated within the last year,” he said, more to himself than to you, “That’s why we didn’t consider construction anomalies. We assumed standard layouts, but what if— what if they all used the same contractor?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think the unsub is the person who remodeled their houses?”
“Or someone connected to the company. Maybe he installed hidden access points, crawlspaces, false walls, and vent systems wide enough to move through. Places where someone could hide for days.”
He rushed back to the files, flipping through them like a man possessed. “This would explain everything— the lack of evidence, the absence of footage, the precision in timing...”
He looked up suddenly, eyes shining like the sun just rose inside his skull.
“Did you know you’re a genius?”
You smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I have my days.”
“No, no, I’m serious.” He was talking fast now, gathering files, tugging his coat from the back of his chair. “You just cracked the entire case with, like, three questions.”
"Guess I've lived with you long enough for it to rub off on me, huh?"
He laughed at that, face serious for a split second. “You’re incredible.”
That actually made your stomach flip. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”
“I gotta go,” he muttered suddenly, stuffing folders into his messenger bag hurriedly like he was trying to stop them from escaping, “Hotch needs to see this now. But, oh my god, I love you so much right now.”
And before you could even react, he leaned over, pressed a quick, distracted kiss to your cheek, and bolted out the door, his shoes half on.
You sat there, stunned.
“…Cool,” you mumbled, touching your cheek where his lips had been a moment ago.
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