She’s already watching you from the bed, on her knees, black lace barely covering her thighs. Her lips are parted, pupils wide with anticipation, hands twitching at her sides like she’s waiting for the smallest excuse to submit. But you don’t give her a chance to speak.
“Face down. Ass up. You know the position.”
Her body moves like instinct. She turns, hands pressed to the mattress, lowering herself until her chest meets the sheets and her ass lifts high into the air. Her panties stretch across her soaked cunt, barely holding back how wet she is for you. Her legs part wider without needing to be told. She wants this. She’s ready for it.
You step closer, run your fingers up the back of her thighs, then slide them under the band of her panties and tug. The fabric sticks slightly to her slit, wet and hot, and you let them fall to her knees. Her pussy is glistening. Her thighs are already trembling and you haven’t even fucked her yet.
“Already dripping,” you murmur, your voice low, letting your thumb drag through her folds and press right into her entrance, not pushing in yet. “Is that how desperate you are for my cock?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “Please.”
You bring your hand down hard on her ass. The slap is loud. Her body jolts and a cry rips from her throat.
“Count it.”
“O-one.”
Another slap. Then another. You alternate sides, your palm leaving red-hot handprints across her skin. She moans with each hit, cunt twitching, juices leaking down her thighs.
“Two. Three. F-four. Fuck—”
You curl your fingers into her hair and yank her head back sharply. Her breath catches, back arching deeper. She looks back at you, eyes glossy, mouth slack.
“Need to be fucked that badly, huh? Can’t go a single night without me owning this pussy?”
She whines, nodding fast. “I need it. Please. Fuck me.”
Your harness presses against her inner thigh as you step between her legs. The strap-on is thick, veined, already slick with lube. You tease the tip through her folds, circling her clit, smearing her slick all over it.
Her hips push back, trying to force herself onto you, but you grip her waist tight and still her.
“Don’t fucking move.”
She freezes.
You line up the head with her tight entrance and drive in with one punishing thrust. The sound that leaves her isn’t a moan. It’s a cry. Her body stretches around the thickness of the cock, and her fingers claw at the sheets.
“Fuck,” she sobs. “Oh my god—so big—”
You give her no time to adjust. You grip her hips and slam into her over and over, dragging the full length out before plunging it back in. Her pussy clenches every time, squeezing the strap so tight you can feel it in your thighs. Her cries fill the room, high-pitched, breathless, raw.
You reach forward, grab a handful of her hair again and pull her torso up until her back is pressed to your chest. She’s panting, her mouth hanging open, barely holding herself together.
“You’re just a hole like this,” you growl into her ear. “A fucktoy. Nothing more.”
She moans like she agrees, like being degraded turns her into putty in your hands.
“Say it. Say what you are.”
“I’m your fucktoy,” she gasps. “Just a hole. Yours. Use me.”
You slam her back down onto the bed, shove your hand around her throat, and start fucking her harder. The bed is shaking now. Her breath catches under the pressure of your hand. Her pussy is spasming around the strap, so close to coming.
“You don’t come until I tell you to.”
“I—fuck—I can’t—”
“You will.”
You grab her clit, rub harsh, fast circles, and thrust deep, grinding the base of the strap into your own cunt as you ride her hard and fast. Her legs are giving out. Her body is twitching.
“Now.”
She screams as she comes. Her thighs quake. Her walls clench tight. She sobs into the sheets, begging with broken words for you not to stop. But you keep going. You fuck her through it, watch her body tremble with overstimulation, listen to her cry out again and again.
When you finally slow, you let her collapse forward, her whole body spent, legs still shaking. You slip the strap out slowly, watching her cunt twitch as it leaves her gaping and wet.
You climb up beside her, press soft kisses to her spine, to her shoulders, wrap your arms around her and hold her while she comes back down. Her body curls into yours instinctively.
“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You did so good.”
She nuzzles into your neck, eyes glassy, lips swollen, voice rough.
“I love it when you break me.”
You kiss her forehead, then get up and guide her to the bathroom. The shower is already running. You sit on the edge of the tub with her between your legs, washing her gently, brushing your fingers over the red marks on her thighs.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur against her wet hair. “Always.”
Summary: The first time you go out with the team without Spencer, they make it their mission to explain why you should absolutely date him. The problem? You already are. And have been for months.
Words: 4,4k.
Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. secret relationship. mentions of alcohol, injuries, typical cm stuff. neither hotch nor rossi are present because it is a conversation not approved by parents. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: Welcome to the first fic of my 2k celebration! I had so much fun writing this and I really hope you enjoy it. I missed writing Spencer so badly, my beloved boy♡
Seeing the things you saw every day never got easier. It never dulled. Not truly. No matter how many cases you closed, how many reports you filed, or how many reassurances you whispered to yourself that it was “just part of the job,” the images lodged themselves stubbornly behind your eyes. They resurfaced in the fragile, half-lit space between waking and sleep, where logic dissolved, where the world felt unmoored and memory ran riot. Some nights, they came at you in jagged shards. Faces without names, eyes wide with terror, blood that would not wash from your hands, screams that looped endlessly in your mind, refusing to be silenced. Other nights, the horror didn’t take shape, didn’t insist on narrative. It simply pressed down, a dull, omnipresent ache inside your skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, dragging your thoughts through viscous fog. Hours after the case had technically concluded, you still felt it there, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness, leaving you unsteady, as if your brain itself had lost the ability to process the world normally.
Pretending you were fine, the practiced mask you showed the victims’ families as they sobbed into your shoulder, had long become second nature. But pretending you weren’t in love with your coworker required a level of discipline you could only maintain for so long.
Especially not here, wedged into a booth at a dimly lit bar with the low hum of conversation pressing in from all sides. The room was full of profilers, which somehow made everything worse. Too many observant eyes. Too many people trained to notice the smallest deviations in behavior, the slightest changes in posture or tone. You nursed your drink carefully, letting the cold glass ground you, while Emily sat close enough that her knee bumped yours every time she shifted, and Penelope hovered on your other side like a bright, determined force of nature, utterly committed to the idea that you were going to have fun, whether your nervous system agreed or not.
Morgan and JJ laughed loudly at something Penelope said, and for a moment you let yourself smile along with them, letting the music and the alcohol blur the sharp edges of the day. They kept refilling your glass, kept asking questions, kept dragging you into conversations that required just enough focus to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to the case. It was sweet, really, their way of anchoring you to the present, but it also made the knot in your chest tighten. Because Spencer wasn’t there. And without him across the room, without the subtle weight of his gaze finding you instinctively, you felt off-balance, like you’d lost a familiar point of reference.
But he had taken a few days off. A minor injury, he said, just a cut and a bruise above his eyebrow, the result of protecting you from an unsub who had come too close. Now he was away, tending to his mother, and the world felt off in his absence. It was selfish, of course, to miss him this much. And yet, every instinct in your body longed for him: the quiet presence across the table, the faint scent he left on his coat, the way his nervous energy somehow steadied your own. You traced the rim of your glass absentmindedly, wishing for him to materialize from the crowd, wishing for the familiar tilt of his head, the low hum of thought behind his eyes.
Damn.
“That guy definitely wants something,” Emily said beside you, leaning in with a grin as she gestured toward the bar. You followed her gaze to the man who had been stealing glances at you all night, confidence written into his posture. A moment later, a bartender appeared, setting a sleek, expensive-looking drink in front of you with a nod in the man’s direction.
You barely hesitated before sliding the glass away. “I’m not interested, thanks,” you said, firm but polite, pushing it back toward the bartender.
JJ raised her eyebrows, amused. “Wow. Not even a sip?”
“I didn’t ask for it,” you replied, shrugging, though your fingers curled a little tighter around your own glass.
Penelope gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Do you realize how hot you have to be for strangers to just send you drinks? You’re wasting valuable flirting potential.”
Emily laughed. “She does this every time. Completely unfazed. It’s impressive, honestly.”
“You know,” Morgan said suddenly, eyeing you over the rim of his bottle, a teasing glint in his eyes, “this would be a lot easier if you just had a boyfriend.”
JJ nodded along, grinning. “Seriously. It’d save us all the trouble of watching men strike out all night.”
You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m doing just fine without one.”
“Uh-huh,” Morgan said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are. You turn down free drinks, avoid flirting, and spend half the night staring at the door like you’re waiting for someone.”
JJ tilted her head, studying you with that calm, perceptive expression that made suspects crumble. “You know,” she said slowly, “you don’t act like someone who’s single.”
Oh.
You laughed, a little too quickly. “There’s no correct way to act single.”
Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Sure there is. And you don’t fit it. You turn down drinks, avoid flirting, and spend most of the night talking about work or—” he paused, grinning, “—Reid.”
“What? I do not,” you protested.
Emily smiled into her glass. “You do. Constantly. Did you even realize you quoted one of his fun facts earlier?”
“That was relevant,” you said defensively. “And we’re friends.”
“Friends,” Penelope echoed, drawing the word out. “Interesting. Because the way you say his name is not very platonic.”
You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “He’s my coworker. We work well together. That’s all.”
“Oh no,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “You don’t just work well together. You orbit each other. It’s painful to watch.”
JJ nodded. “You finish his sentences. He checks your reactions before he answers questions in briefings. And don’t think we haven’t noticed how you always end up sitting next to each other on the jet.”
“That’s coincidence,” you said immediately.
Except it wasn’t.
Not really.
Coincidence didn’t explain the way your fingers found each other in the narrow space beneath the shared blanket on long flights, skin brushing just once before intertwining. Didn’t explain the quiet weight of his hand resting against your knee when the lights dimmed and everyone else slept. Didn’t explain the chess table in hotel lobbies, the board between you like plausible deniability while his thumb traced slow circles against your knuckles. The way you both froze at the slightest sound, then smiled innocently when someone passed by.
You had learned how to hide. How to make it look accidental. How to pull away a second before it became obvious.
Emily raised an eyebrow. “Is it? Because I’ve taken three different seats to test that theory, and somehow you two still end up shoulder to shoulder.”
Your stomach dipped. You forced a careless shrug, lifting your glass as if this were amusing rather than terrifying.
“The jet isn’t exactly spacious,” you said. “Statistically, proximity is inevitable.”
Penelope leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Also, he brings you coffee. Not just coffee, your coffee. No one memorizes an oat-milk-to-cinnamon ratio like that for a friend.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “He’s thoughtful. That’s just how Spencer is.”
“Exactly,” JJ said gently. “Thoughtful. Kind. Loyal. And completely in love with you.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “He is not.”
Morgan smirked. “Kid looks at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.”
Emily added, “Like you make the world quieter for him.”
Penelope sighed dreamily. “Like if the universe ever collapses, it’ll be because you weren’t holding his hand.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands for a second. “You’re all being ridiculous.”
“Are we?” JJ asked softly. “Because I’ve seen him panic when you’re hurt. He forgets procedure. He forgets everything except you.”
Morgan nodded. “I’ve never seen Reid jealous before. Then some consultant flirted with you and suddenly he’s giving me a ten-minute lecture on territorial behavior in primates.”
You stared at your drink. “We’re just friends,” you repeated, quieter now, like saying it enough times might make it true in the way they needed it to be.
Emily clinked her glass gently against yours. “Then you should start to date him.”
You smiled, a reflex more than a reaction, and let your gaze drop to your hands. If only she knew. If only she knew that “starting” had happened months ago, not with a confession or a dramatic moment, but in the slow accumulation of small things. In conversations that stretched past midnight because neither of you wanted to be the first to say goodnight. In the way Spencer learned the exact cadence of your voice when you were tired and adjusted himself accordingly, by speaking softer, moving closer, offering presence instead of solutions.
By the time the night stretched into that hazy, in-between hour where the music grew louder and the conversations looser, the team had clearly decided this was no longer casual teasing.
This was a campaign.
Morgan leaned back in his chair, lifting his bottle like he was delivering a closing argument. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “let’s be logical about this. You have to date Reid, and we have reasons. One: free lectures on literally anything. Guaranteed safety on trivia nights. And if you ever forget a birthday? He won’t. Ever. Man’s brain is a steel trap.”
You scoffed lightly, even as your heart gave an involuntary, traitorous flutter. “I don’t need to date someone for trivia night.”
What you didn’t say was that Spencer already remembered the dates that mattered, without prompts or reminders or jokes made at his expense. He remembered the day your fingers brushed for the first time, both of you startled by how electric something so small could feel. He remembered the anniversary of the case that left you hollowed out, the one that made your hands shake for days afterward. He remembered the exact time you had once texted him I can’t sleep, the message sent in the dead of night when you were sure no one would answer, and how he’d shown up at your door less than twenty minutes later, hair rumpled, jacket half-zipped, eyes dark with concern, holding two mismatched mugs of tea like they were offerings meant to ward off your fear.
And of course, he remembered the first time you kissed. That quiet moment before a case, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, his hands trembling slightly where they rested at your waist. The way he’d paused, breath warm against your cheek, asking softly if this was okay, as if you might change your mind at the last second. The way the world had narrowed to just the two of you when you hadn’t.
Penelope leaned across the table then, bracelets chiming as her eyes sparkled with unfiltered conviction. Her voice dropped, earnest and conspiratorial all at once.
“Wrong,” she said. “You need to date someone who adores you. And Spencer Reid?” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Worships the ground you walk on. Respectfully. With footnotes.”
You swallowed because that wasn’t exaggeration. Not even a little. Spencer loved you the way he loved knowledge: with reverence, with humility, with a kind of awe that treated you as something to be understood and safeguarded rather than claimed. He asked before touching you, even after months together, even when your body already knew the shape of his. Asked if he could hold your hand, if he could kiss your shoulder, if it was okay to stay the night. Every question spoken softly, like consent was not just a rule but a philosophy he lived by.
And when you teased him for it, when you smiled and told him he didn’t have to ask every time, he would flush, ears going pink, eyes impossibly sincere as he said, very seriously,
“I never want to assume I have the right to you.”
The memory settled heavy and warm in your chest, almost painful in its tenderness. You stared down at your drink, the ice melting slowly, and wondered how long you could keep pretending this was all just hypothetical.
JJ laughed. “Two, he’s amazing with kids.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You choked on your drink, the burn sharp as it went down the wrong way, coughing as you leaned forward, eyes watering slightly.
“Why,” you managed, setting the glass down harder than necessary, “are we talking about kids?”
Emily shrugged, smirking. “Because I’ve seen him with Henry. He kneels to talk at eye level, explains things like they matter, and somehow turns explaining space-time into a bedtime story.”
Your laughter never came.
Instead, your thoughts slipped traitorously inward, drifting to a quiet night you rarely let yourself linger on for too long. The room had been dark except for the thin spill of streetlight through the curtains. Spencer had been staring at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his chest, voice unsteady in that way it only ever was when he let himself be vulnerable with you. He’d said he wasn’t sure he’d ever be good enough for a future like that. Not just kids, but the whole fragile idea of permanence. A house. A dog. A life where someone depended on him in ways he might fail.
You’d rolled onto your side then, traced the familiar line of his jaw with your thumb. You’d told him that he was already the gentlest person you knew. That gentleness wasn’t weakness. That it was rare. Necessary.
He’d gone quiet after that. Too quiet. When you looked at him, his eyes were shining, glassy in the dark, like no one had ever named that part of him before. Like no one had ever framed him as enough. And then, hesitantly, like he was testing the safety of the idea, he’d started talking about names with interesting meanings, about how parenting shaped a person forever, about how words and care and patience could alter the entire trajectory of a life. You’d listened, heart aching in that hopeful, terrifying way, knowing how much trust it took for him to even imagine it out loud.
Morgan snapped his fingers sharply, pulling you back to the present.
“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “That man is dad material.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead. “We are not doing this.”
“We absolutely are,” Penelope said. “So, three, picture it. Reid as a husband? He’d over-research wedding venues. Color palettes. Statistically optimal cake flavors.”
JJ nodded thoughtfully. “He’d cry during the vows. And then apologize for crying.”
Emily added, “And then quote something obscure but devastatingly romantic.”
You stared at them. “You’re all insane.”
Morgan grinned. “You’d be insane not to marry him.”
“I am not marrying Spencer Reid,” you said quickly, and stopped. Because the word yet pressed so hard against your teeth it almost slipped free.
Penelope gasped. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate. That denial was practiced.”
Because it was. Because you’d rehearsed it in your head every time you watched Spencer fall asleep beside you, glasses carefully set on the nightstand, one hand curled loosely in your shirt like he needed proof you were real. Because you already knew what forever would look like with him, and loving him in secret felt safer than risking a world that might take him from you.
JJ smiled into her glass. “Four, you already defend him like a spouse.”
“That is not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Emily said easily. “Every time someone underestimates him, you go feral.”
Morgan laughed. “Remember that sheriff who called him ‘the kid’? You verbally disassembled that man.”
“He deserved it.”
“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Wife behavior.”
You buried your face in your hands again. “He’s my friend.”
“Friends don’t memorize each other’s stress tells,” JJ said gently. “You know when he’s about to spiral before he does.”
“And he knows when you’re pretending you’re fine,” Penelope added. “He brings you books instead of asking questions.”
Emily tilted her head. “You know what that’s called?”
You peeked through your fingers. “Don’t say it.”
“Domestic,” Emily said.
The table erupted in laughter.
Morgan wasn’t done. “Five, let’s talk logistics. You’d never argue over directions. He already knows the fastest route everywhere.”
JJ laughed. “Your kids would be terrifyingly smart.”
“Okay, absolutely not,” you said quickly. “We are shutting that down right now.”
Emily smirked. “Too late. I’m picturing curly-haired little geniuses who quote Shakespeare.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And carry FBI badges at career day.”
You shook your head, cheeks burning, heart doing something dangerously unprofessional in your chest. “This is ridiculous.” And so lovely to imagine.
For a moment, the teasing eased, not gone, just quieter. The music filled the space between you, the bar lights blurring slightly at the edges. You took a slow sip of your drink, staring down at the condensation on the glass.
Penelope smiled at you, gentler now. “We just think you deserve someone who looks at you the way Spencer Reid looks at you.”
Morgan nodded. “Like you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”
You nodded slowly, still silent, heart pounding.
If they only knew that you already were.
That the man they were trying to convince you to date was the one who kissed your temple before briefings, who texted you goodnight even when you were in the same building, who held your hand in the dark when the world felt too heavy. That you were already his, in every way that mattered.
You took a slow breath, forcing your expression to stay neutral, even as your chest overflowed with something secret and devastatingly sweet.
Because they could give you a thousand reasons to date Spencer Reid.
And not a single one of them would come close to the reasons you already loved him.
The night unraveled slowly, the way nights like that always did, as if no one quite wanted to be the first to admit they were tired. Laughter faded into softer smiles, jokes trailed off mid-sentence, and the table became crowded with empty glasses and half-forgotten napkins, evidence of a shared attempt at normalcy. The music blurred into something distant and indistinct, no longer demanding attention. You said your goodbyes in a haze of hugs, promised Penelope—twice, because she insisted—to text when you got home, and accepted one last lingering look from Emily and JJ. It wasn’t accusatory. Just fond. Observant. It settled in your chest like a question they didn’t ask.
The cold air outside wrapped around you immediately, clearing the last traces of alcohol from your system. You breathed it in deeply as you walked, shoulders drawing up, the city quieter now, lights reflecting softly off damp pavement. By the time you reached your apartment building, the exhaustion you’d been holding at bay finally settled in. The familiar hum of the hallway lights greeted you, and you moved on autopilot, unlocking the door, slipping inside.
Your shoes came off just past the threshold. Your keys landed in the ceramic bowl by habit. You sighed, long and deep, body sagging as if it had finally been given permission to rest.
And then you froze.
There was a light on in the living room.
Not harsh. Not alarming. Just warm and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped, then stuttered, then began to race in earnest as you moved further inside, steps slow, breath shallow with anticipation. You didn’t call out. You didn’t need to.
Spencer was there.
He sat on your couch, leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. A book rested open beside him, forgotten, a marker of a thought interrupted. He looked up the moment you appeared, eyes softening instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. His curls were more unruly than usual, falling into his eyes, and his jacket had been folded neatly over the arm of the couch, as if he’d taken care to make himself small in your space. He stood too quickly, movement a little uncoordinated, nerves evident in the way his shoulders squared.
“Hey,” he said softly.
The sound of his voice wrapped around you and your chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, even as your body betrayed you, carrying you toward him without hesitation.
“I came back early,” he said, swallowing, fingers flexing as if he didn’t know where to put them.
Your brows furrowed. “Spencer, you were supposed to be with your mom until tomorrow.”
know,” he said quickly, then slowed himself down, forcing a breath. “I was. But you sounded tired earlier. On the phone. And you said your head hurt.” His gaze flicked to your face, so careful. “And you paused before answering, which you only do when you’re trying not to worry me.”
You stopped in front of him, hands already reaching for his sleeves, grounding yourself in the warmth of him.
“So I changed my ticket,” he finished, voice quieter now. “I thought…statistically, after cases like this, you’re more likely to minimize how bad you’re feeling. And I didn’t want you to be alone.”
Something in you melted completely.
You stepped into him, resting your forehead against his chest, breathing him in. His arms came around you immediately, no hesitation this time, no uncertainty. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair, the other settling at your waist. He held you like he was anchoring you to the present, like he knew exactly how fragile you felt.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured, voice muffled against him.
“I know,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair. “I wanted to.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye, careful not to touch where you were still sensitive from the headache.
“I want to take care of you,” he said again, quieter this time, like a promise meant only for you.
Your chest ached. Because this was who Spencer Reid was. He loved quietly, deliberately. He showed up. He noticed. He acted.
It was the thousandth reason to love him as you already did.
He pulled back again, eyes scanning your face with practiced concern. “Did you eat something there?”
You huffed a soft, tired laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said, lips twitching.
“Barely. There’s no real food in a bar.”
He nodded, already turning toward the kitchen. “Okay. I made that instant soup you like just in case. It’s…not burned.”
You watched him move through your space like he belonged there, because he did. His shoes lined up neatly by the door. His glasses case on your coffee table. His presence woven so seamlessly into your apartment it felt wrong when he wasn’t there.
While he reheated the soup, you leaned against the counter, watching the careful way he stirred, the way he tasted and adjusted, brow furrowing in concentration.
“You didn’t have to come back early,” you said again, softer now. “I know you wanted to be with your mom.”
He glanced at you, expression earnest. “I know but she was okay, probably even tired of me talking so much about you. And I wanted to be here when you got home. And I figured…after nights like this, you usually can’t sleep.”
Your throat tightened, the words sitting heavy for a moment before you let them out.
“They were talking about you all night.”
Spencer paused mid-motion.
The ladle hovered above the pot, a thin ribbon of steam curling up between you. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, like his body had registered the information a second before his mind caught up.
“Oh,” he said.
You smiled faintly, watching the way his fingers tightened around the handle. “They think we should date.”
That did it.
His ears flushed immediately, color blooming so fast it felt almost unfair. He swallowed, blinked once, then again, like his brain was rapidly sorting through several possible responses and rejecting all of them.
“Oh,” he repeated, voice cracking just slightly, traitorously.
You stepped closer, leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like soup and clean cotton. His body relaxed at the contact even as his mind clearly did not.
“They gave me reasons,” you added softly. “Lots of them.”
He resumed moving, carefully this time, ladling soup into a bowl with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
“Were they…logical?” he asked.
You laughed under your breath. “Painfully so.”
That earned you a shy smile, the corner of his mouth lifting as he set the bowl down with great care, adjusting it so it was perfectly centered on the counter.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “They’re not wrong. I mean—about the logic. Not about the…dating part. Because we already—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “I mean, it would be redundant.”
“I know,” you said gently, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed your knuckle automatically. “They don’t.”
He nodded, lips pressing together in thought as he handed you a spoon, making sure it wasn’t too hot.
“Maybe we should…tell them someday,” he said carefully, like he was testing the idea for structural integrity.
“When we get married,” you replied easily, absentmindedly studying your bare finger like you could already see it there. Like it was an inevitability, not a joke.
Spencer’s brain left the building.
He froze completely, eyes widening, breath catching so sharply you were genuinely concerned he might tip over. The spoon in his hand clinked softly against the counter.
“What?” he said, voice several octaves higher than usual.
You looked up at him, amused, soft, devastatingly calm. “Imagine their faces when they get the invitation.”
He stared at you like you’d just proposed rewriting the laws of physics.
“You’re drunk,” he said faintly.
“I’m in love,” you corrected, crossing your arms behind his neck, pressing yourself closer. You kissed his cheek once. Then again. And once more for good measure. “So in love.”
He made a small, helpless noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, hands lifting instinctively to steady you at the waist. His ears were fully red now, eyes bright, and smile completely unguarded.
“Now I need to know,” he said breathlessly, “exactly what they told you, because this amount of affection is…unusual. Even for you.”
You laughed, forehead resting against his.
“Oh, Spencer,” you murmured. “You have no idea what they already know.”
pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader | soulmate au
summary: in a world ruled by soulmate marks, y/n l/n never expected to work alongside the man she was bound to.
aaron hotchner chose duty and fear over the bond between them—until a case involving fading soulmarks forces both of them to face what rejection truly costs.
some connections don’t disappear. they fight.
warnings: kidnapping, non-consensual drugging, medical experimentation, violence, murder, blood, emotional distress, trauma, grief, soulmate rejection, use of y/n, third-person pov (let me know if i forget anything!)
word count: 26.6 k
a/n: hi!!! i've had several ideas for a criminal minds stories for a while now, and i've finally managed to finish one of them. i hope i can get started on the others soon, some about aaron and some about spencer. i apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language.
once again, i can't post the whole fic here because of its length, so i'll leave the link to AO3 below.
thank you so much for reading, and i hope you enjoy it as much as i did!!!
you can read it here!
i have some post-story extras planned for this fic, so I'll probably be uploading them to AO3 as well.
pairings: post prison spencer reid x fem!reader / fiancée
theme: bit angst even more fluff / THE happy ending you waited for
summary: aftermath; He chased her through the night, promised forever, and placed the ring back where it belonged—on her finger, and in her heart.
Part two of Truth hurts
content warnings: be prepared to cry again
words: 5491k - relax, I've read way longer ones
Morning came without mercy.
You lay on your back in the unfamiliar hotel bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time. Long enough that the light shifted slightly, long enough for your chest to ache with every breath. Your eyes burned, swollen from crying, your body heavy like it had been filled with sand.
The space beside you was empty.
Of course it was.
A knock sounded at the door.
You didn’t move.
Another knock, a little firmer.
Still nothing.
“No housekeeping today, thanks,” you said hoarsely, barely louder than a whisper.
A pause.
Then—soft, careful, devastating—
“It’s me, honey.”
Your stomach dropped.
That familiar voice wrapped itself around your ribs and squeezed. Nausea rolled through you as your heart started pounding, sudden and violent. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing it not to be real.
Another knock. Gentle. Almost pleading.
Slowly—so slowly—it felt like wading through water, you pushed yourself upright. Your legs trembled as you crossed the room. You opened the door just a crack.
And there he was.
Spencer stood in the hallway like he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were red, rimmed dark with exhaustion, curls limp and untamed. He looked smaller somehow, like the night had taken something out of him and not given it back. In his hands was a paper bag from your favorite diner.
“Vegan” breakfast burritos. Exactly how you liked them.
Your throat tightened.
“What are you doing here, Spencer?” you asked quietly, voice raw and tired.
“I needed to check on you. And – and we need to talk, please” he said softly.
You hesitated, then stepped back, opening the door wider. “Okay.” you added weakly.
He set the bag down on the table, hands lingering on it like it grounded him. “I got you breakfast. I didn’t know if you’d eat, but I— I remembered you like them without eggs but regular cheese.”
A ghost of a smile flickered on your face before you could stop it.
You sat across from each other, the distance between you careful, deliberate. And then you talked.
You talked until your voice went hoarse. Until tears slid quietly down your cheeks again. Until his hands trembled when he reached for yours, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
“I need you to understand something,” Spencer said, eyes locked on yours. “JJ might have been my first love. I won’t lie about that.”
Your breath caught.
“But she’s not the one I chose to spend the rest of my live with,” he continued quickly. “She’s not the one I choose. You are.”
You swallowed hard.
“I was confused,” he admitted. “But not because I love her. I was confused because of how much I love you. Because I realized how terrified I am of losing you. Of losing the life we’re building.”
His voice broke. “I want to marry you. I want to have a life with you. A family. As many kids as you’re willing to give me. I want all of it—with you.”
You smiled, small and hesitant, tears slipping free. “You make it sound so… certain.”
“I am,” he said immediately. “About you. Always you.”
He squeezed your hands gently. “And… you should go to the wedding. Not for me. For Rossi. He loves you. You know that. He talks about you like you’re already his daughter—long before he even knew he had one.”
That made your chest ache in a different way. You almost forgot that’s today.
When Spencer stood to leave, you thought that was it.
But at the door, he paused and bent down, grabbing a bag from the hallway.
“I brought your things,” he said softly, setting it inside the room. “Your essentials. And the dress you chose.”
You nodded, unable to speak.
His fingers lingered in yours one last time. “Whatever you decide… I’m here.”
He leaned in and kissed your cheek—soft, careful, full of restraint. “I love you,” he whispered.
After he left, the room felt impossibly quiet again.
You opened the bag almost immediately.
Inside, neatly tucked away, next to the dress and shoes, was a small box.
Your hands shook as you opened it.
Your engagement ring caught the light.
You pressed it to your chest and cried—softly, helplessly.
+
Later, you stood alone in the hotel bathroom, the shower steaming around you. Water slid down your face, mingling with quiet tears as you leaned your forehead against the tile.
You thought about Spencer. About your past. About the way he loved—awkward, intense, absolute. About the future you’d dreamed of. About how fragile it all suddenly felt.
You cried again, quietly, and then—finally—made a decision.
The ceremony was over by the time you slipped into the reception, heart pounding, dress smoothing beneath your fingers. Laughter filled the room. Music hummed. Life went on.
And then you saw him.
Spencer stood at the bar, talking to JJ.
You stopped short, just staring.
Your chest tightened—not with rage, not even jealousy this time—but with something heavy and unresolved.
And for a moment, all you could do was watch, wondering what came next.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t lingering. It was casual—easy—the kind of touch that came from familiarity. She smiled at him, warm and effortless, and Spencer laughed softly in response, head tilting just slightly the way it always did when he relaxed around people he trusted.
Your chest caved in.
The sound of his laugh hit you harder than the touch itself. Tears burned instantly, your vision blurring as your heart sank with a sickening heaviness. You knew what he’d said to you that morning. You believed him—mostly. But this was too fresh. Too raw.
It looked like nothing had changed.
Like the night before hadn’t shattered you.
You turned away before either of them could see your face.
You were halfway to the exit when you collided gently with someone.
“Oh—sweetheart,” Krystall Rossi said warmly, steadying you with both hands. “I’m so glad you made it.”
You forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Congratulations,” you said softly. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said, studying you more closely now. She softened immediately. “Are you okay?”
Your breath hitched. “No, could you… could you tell David I’m so sorry?” Your voice trembled despite your best efforts. “I can’t stay.”
Understanding flickered across her face. She nodded without question. “I will.”
You slipped past her before you could fall apart completely.
Krystall didn’t hesitate. She turned on her heel and walked straight to Spencer.
“She left,” she said quietly.
Spencer’s head snapped up. Color drained from his face.
“What—?” He didn’t even finish the question before he was moving, weaving through guests, pushing through the doors and out into the front yard.
“Hey—wait,” Spencer called, confusion threading into his voice.
You didn’t stop.
“Hey!” He followed you into the front yard, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. “What’s wrong? Why are you leaving?”
He caught up to you, fingers brushing your wrist. “Please—talk to me.”
You ripped your arm away. “Don’t.”
His breath hitched. “What did I do?”
You spun on him, tears spilling freely now, words tearing out of your chest.
“I walked in and saw you laughing with her. Smiling. Letting her touch you like she didn’t just rip my heart out of my chest.”
His face drained of color. “That wasn’t—”
“Don’t explain it away,” you snapped. “I can’t take that right now.”
“I wasn’t choosing her,” he said desperately. “I swear to you.”
“But it felt like you were,” you yelled. “Like I don’t exist the second she’s in the room.”
Guests were starting to notice. Curtains shifting. Faces turning. Spencer stepped closer, lowering his voice, panic written all over him.
“Please. Not out here.”
Footsteps approached.
“Spence?” JJ’s voice was soft, cautious.
Your laugh broke out—sharp, disbelieving. “Unbelievable.”
Spencer turned immediately. “JJ—no. This is not the time.”
“I just wanted to make sure everything was okay—”
“It’s not,” you said, voice trembling but steady. “And you know that.”
Will appeared beside JJ then, completely unaware of the landmine he’d stepped into. He smiled awkwardly, trying to ease the tension.
“Hey, uh—everything alright out here?”
JJ’s eyes were glassy. “Will, I—”
He placed a gentle hand on her arm. “C’mon, babe. Let’s head back inside. This is Rossi’s wedding.”
Spencer nodded quickly. “Yes. Please. Go inside.”
Will looked between the three of you, confusion deepening. “Did something happen?”
Your heart clenched.
You could have said it.
You could have shattered everything the way JJ had shattered Spencer and you.
But you didn’t.
You swallowed hard and shook your head. “No,” you said quietly. “Nothing that concerns you.”
Spencer’s head snapped toward you. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you interrupted softly. “But I’m not going to be that person.”
JJ stared at you, stunned.
Will exhaled in relief, squeezing JJ’s arm. “Okay. Good. Let’s go.”
JJ hesitated. “Spencer—”
“No,” Spencer said firmly, stepping between you and her. “Please. Just fucking go.”
Will gently but decisively guided JJ back toward the doors, still clueless, still trusting.
“Let’s go inside,” he murmured to her. “We’ll talk later.”
As they walked away, JJ looked back once—eyes full of regret, guilt, something unreadable.
You turned back to Spencer, chest heaving.
“I could’ve destroyed them,” you whispered. “Did you know that?”
He shook his head, tears streaming now. “I know. And I’m —”
“But I won’t,” you said, voice breaking. “Because I know what it feels like to be on the other side of that kind of betrayal.”
“I never wanted you there,” he said desperately. “I never wanted you to hurt like this.”
“Intent doesn’t change impact,” you cried. “I stood there watching you laugh with her like last night didn’t happen.”
He flinched. “Please don’t leave again.”
“I don’t want to,” you sobbed. “But I can’t stay and pretend I’m okay.”
“I’m begging you,” he said, reaching for you again. “Let me fix this.”
You stepped back, shaking your head. “You don’t fix something by reopening the wound.”
You turned toward your car.
He followed, voice breaking apart. “I love you. Please don’t go like this.”
You opened the door, hands trembling. “I love you too,” you whispered. “But loving you shouldn’t cost me my dignity.”
The door closed.
Spencer stood frozen as you drove away, the sound of gravel under your tires echoing too loud in the night.
Behind the windows, unseen eyes watched—Emily, Penelope, Rossi—understanding exactly what had just happened.
And Spencer Reid stood alone in the yard, realizing that the woman he loved had chosen grace over destruction… even as she walked away from him.
Your chest started to hurt in a way that scared you—sharp, aching, like your heart was trying to claw its way out. Your vision blurred so badly you had to pull over, hands shaking as you threw the car into park and turned the engine off.
Your phone buzzed.
Spencer.
Again.
Then Penelope.
Then Emily.
You dropped the phone into your lap like it burned you and folded over the steering wheel, a sound tearing out of you that didn’t even feel human anymore. This wasn’t pretty crying. This was gasping, shaking, snotty, body-wracking sobs. The kind that left you dizzy. The kind that came from loving someone too deeply.
“I can’t do this,” you sobbed aloud to no one. “I can’t—God, it hurts.”
Your heart ached so badly you pressed your fist to your chest, breaths coming in broken, uneven pulls.
“She drove away,” Spencer choked. “Again. And I deserved it. I didn’t protect her. I didn’t—”
“Spencer Reid,” Penelope said firmly, eyes blazing behind her glasses, “listen to me right now.”
He looked up, broken.
“She didn’t leave because she doesn’t love you,” Penelope continued. “She left because she loves you so much it’s tearing her apart. And she is hurting. Deeply. And if you sit here feeling sorry for yourself instead of fighting for her, then that will be the moment you lose her.”
Emily nodded. “She’s probably still close,” she added calmly.
Spencer sucked in a shaky breath. “What if I make it worse?”
Penelope shook her head. “You won’t. Because you’re not going to explain. You’re not going to analyze. You’re going to feel. You’re going to tell her the truth. All of it. You run. Right now. You run like hell, boy genius. And you fight like hell to get your girl back.”
Spencer froze for half a second.
Then instinct took over.
He was on his feet before either of them finished speaking, already moving, already running.
He opened the door slowly, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.
“Hey,” he whispered.
You didn’t answer.
He crouched down immediately, right there on the pavement, until you were facing him—your legs still inside the car, his hands coming to rest on your knees, warm and steady.
“Please don’t pull away,” he said softly. “Just… just look at me and please listen to me what I got to say.”
You did. And it broke you all over again.
“I love you,” he said. Not rushed. Not panicked. Grounded. “I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. And I don’t want a life that doesn’t have you in it.”
Spencer stayed crouched in front of you, like this was the only place in the world that mattered. His hands were still on your knees, warm and grounding, thumbs brushing gently like he was reminding you he was real.
He took a breath. Then another.
“I love you,” he said again, softer this time. “I know I already said it, but I need you to hear it without panic attached to it. I love you in the quiet ways. In the everyday. In the future.”
Your lips trembled.
“I don’t just want you,” he continued, a small, sad smile breaking through his tears. “I choose you. Every version of you. The hurt one, the angry one, the one who laughs too loud, the one who cries in the car because she loves too deeply.”
He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking briefly to your face, searching. “I see us, you know. I always have.”
You swallowed hard.
“I see mornings,” he said softly. “Sunlight through the windows. You half-asleep, barefoot, stealing my coffee even though you say you don’t like it. I see a house that smells like salt and sunscreen because we live near the ocean.”
A tiny smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.
He noticed. His smile widened, fragile but hopeful.
“I see kids,” he whispered. “Our kids. Running down the beach, sand everywhere. You yelling at them to put on sunscreen. Me trying to explain tides and marine biology to them while they very politely ignore me.”
A quiet, breathy laugh escaped you through tears.
“I see you pregnant,” he went on gently, reverently. “Your hand in mine, me counting heartbeats and worrying constantly, and loving you even more than I thought was possible. I see bedtime stories and scraped knees and teaching them how to ride bikes.”
His voice wavered. “I want a family with you. A real one. Not someday. Not maybe. With you.”
He swallowed, expression turning serious again.
“And I know… I know leaving might be the only way,” he said quietly. “Not because I don’t love my job. Not because I don’t care about the team. But because I love you more.”
Your breath caught.
“I know you trust me,” he said, nodding slowly. “But I also know you don’t trust her. And you shouldn’t have to live like that. You shouldn’t have to wonder every time we walk into a room if someone is going to reopen your wounds.”
He tightened his grip on your knees slightly, grounding himself too.
“If we stay, she’ll find her way back into our lives. I know that,” he admitted. “And I don’t want you spending years being brave for me. I want you to feel safe.”
A tear slid down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
“So I’ll go,” he said simply. “I’ll leave the BAU. I’ll teach. Or I’ll leave the FBI entirely. I’ll pack up our lives and start over somewhere warm and quiet and blue.”
Another small smile. “Somewhere you can breathe.”
He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours again.
“I will spend the rest of my life proving that you are my choice,” he whispered. “Not with words. With actions. With distance. With boundaries. With a future that protects you.”
His voice broke fully now.
“I don’t need her in my life. I don’t need this job more than I need you. I need us.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes shining, hopeful and terrified all at once.
“Please don’t walk away from me,” he said softly. “Let me build something new with you. Let me love you the way you deserve. Let me be your safe place.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile and full of possibility.
The night air felt different now — not healed, not fixed — but open.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were choosing between love and survival.
You might finally get both.
“I just… I don’t want you to regret this,” you admitted, voice small. “Moving to a beach town. Leaving the BAU. Leaving everything you’ve built… just because I love the ocean. Because it brings me peace. You don’t even like the beach.”
Spencer’s hand reached up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I know,” he said softly. “I really don’t. But this isn’t about what I like. It’s about what we want. The life I want is with you. That’s not negotiable.”
Your breath caught. “But… you shouldn’t have to give up what you love for me.”
He shook his head, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not giving up who I am. I’m choosing something different. Something better. With you. Because being with you… this is the life I’ve always wanted, even if I didn’t know it until now.”
“I want a life where I come home to you every night,” he continued. “Where we argue about paint colors and whose turn it is to do bedtime. Where we’re tired because we stayed up with a sick kid, not because I chased monsters all day.”
A small, trembling smile tugged at your lips.
“We talked about kids,” he said softly. “A lot of them.” His mouth curved with something almost shy. “You said you wanted a loud house. Chaos. I said I wanted to read them stories and teach them useless facts they’ll roll their eyes at.”
You let out a quiet, tearful laugh. “You said three was statistically manageable.”
“And then you said five felt right,” he replied, smiling. “And I said… ‘Okay.’”
You let out a shaky laugh, fingers tracing circles on his chest. “So… five kids still?”
“Five,” he said firmly, a grin tugging at his face despite the tears. “Maybe more, if we survive that.”
You shook your head, laughing through tears. “God, we’re ridiculous.”
“We’re us,” he whispered. “And that’s enough.”
You let out a quiet sigh, pressing your forehead against his. “Okay,” you said finally, voice trembling. “I… I choose this life with you. But we have to be honest. Always. Boundaries. Truth. No pretending.”
He nodded, hands cradling your face gently. “Yes. Always. I promise. Everything from now on, it’s all real. No secrets. Communication and no games. Just… us.”
You leaned in tentatively, brushing your lips to his. It was soft. Careful. Testing. Then a second kiss lingered a little longer, warm and steady, as if memorizing the feel of each other again.
You pulled away and you searched his face, still unsure, still fragile. “And if it’s hard?”
“It will be,” he said simply. “But it’ll be ours.”
Silence settled — not heavy, not suffocating. Just careful.
The next kiss lingered a fraction longer. Warm. Familiar. Your hand slid up to his jaw, thumb tracing a line you knew by heart.
“I missed you,” he murmured.
“I’m still here,” you whispered back.
He smiled then — small, real — and kissed you again, a little surer this time. Not desperate. Not frantic. Just… home.
When you leaned into his chest again, his arms wrapped around you naturally, like they always had. Like they were learning the shape of each other again — slower, kinder, braver.
And for the first time since everything shattered, you felt something quietly bloom beneath the hurt.
Not certainty.
But hope.
You stayed wrapped around him for a few seconds longer, your forehead resting against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar warmth of him. Then, slowly—reluctantly—you pulled back, like you were afraid breaking contact would undo everything.
Your voice came out small.
“Spencer… can we… can we just go home?”
He nodded immediately, no hesitation. “Of course, baby.”
You swallowed, eyes flicking to the road ahead. “I—I know I usually drive. I love it. I know you don’t really like it… but could you drive tonight? I don’t think I can.”
His expression softened even more. “Hey,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently along your jaw. “I’ve got it. We’ll go home. We’ll stay in. We don’t have to go back to the wedding. Not tonight.”
Relief washed over you so hard it almost made you dizzy.
He helped you out of the driver’s seat carefully, one hand steady at your waist like you might shatter if he moved too fast. You let him guide you into the passenger seat, watching him quietly as he closed the door and walked around the car.
When he slid in beside you and started the engine, the soft glow of the dashboard lit his face. He turned the radio down low—something gentle, familiar—and pulled out into the dark.
The city felt different at night. Quieter. Safer.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then, hesitantly, Spencer’s hand lifted from the wheel and hovered between you, unsure. You noticed, heart tightening, and placed your hand in his before he could pull away.
He squeezed—careful at first, then firmer, like he was grounding himself.
You turned your head and watched him drive, the lines of his face soft in the dim light, curls falling into his eyes. He glanced over once, catching you looking, and gave a small, almost shy smile.
He lifted your hand slowly and pressed a kiss to the back of it, lips warm against your skin.
“I love you so much,” he whispered, like the words were meant only for the dark around you. “You’re my world. My safe haven.”
The car hummed quietly beneath you, the soft glow of the dashboard lighting his face in the dark. Your fingers were still in his, tentative at first, now held firmly as if letting go wasn’t an option.
He glanced down at your hand, then back at the road, a slow, steadying exhale escaping him. “You know…” he began softly, almost hesitantly, “I’ve spent so many years thinking I knew what I wanted. The cases, the work, the people we help… it all mattered. But none of it mattered in the same way you do.”
You squeezed his hand gently, encouraging him, your heart already clenching at the familiar, tender vulnerability in his voice.
“I want you,” he continued, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to fill the small space between you. “I want you here. With me. In every way. I want the quiet mornings, the chaotic afternoons, the nights where we fall asleep holding each other and wake up with a thousand little reminders that we’re together. That we’re… us.”
Your chest tightened, and you rested your forehead against your hand, thinking how much you’d wanted to hear this again.
“I’ll do everything I can to see you happy,” he said, voice thick with emotion, eyes glancing briefly toward you before returning to the road. “I mean everything. I want to see you smile, really smile—the way you do when no one else is watching. I want to hear your laugh, even if it’s at something silly I did. I want to be the one who catches you when life gets heavy.”
You swallowed, a tear slipping down your cheek, and he reached over slowly, brushing it away with his thumb.
“You’re my purpose now,” he whispered, voice trembling slightly. “I’ll move mountains. I’ll change my life. I’ll do whatever it takes, even leave things behind if I have to, if it means building a life with you. I want to wake up every day knowing I chose you… and I’d choose you again, every single day.”
You looked down at your hands in his, trembling slightly, and he lifted your hand to press a tender kiss to the back of it. “You don’t have to worry about me regretting it. About anything. I want this life—with you. All of it. The chaos, the quiet, the happy, the hard parts… I want it. With you.”
Your lips trembled, and he leaned slightly closer, voice dropping even further, almost a whisper you could only hear. “I know I can’t fix everything that’s happened. I can’t erase the past. But I can promise you this: I will spend every moment proving to you that you are the only person I want. The only life I want. That you are enough, and you are everything I’ve ever needed.”
You blinked rapidly, trying to hold it together, but the tears slipped freely now, your fingers tightening around his.
“I want our family,” he said next, almost breathless. “The kids we talked about, the chaos in the kitchen, the sand in our shoes from a thousand days at the beach… I want all of it. And I want to do it with you. Only you. Because you’re my home, my safe place. My heart.”
You turned to look at him, eyes wet, lips trembling. “Spencer…”
“I love you,” he whispered, leaning ever so slightly closer. “I love you so much. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you feel that, every single day. To see you happy, to see you smile, to make you feel safe, loved… wanted. I don’t just want a life with you—I want your life with me in it, fully, every piece of it.”
A quiet laugh escaped you through your tears, and he smiled faintly, brushing a hand over your cheek.
“And if that means leaving everything else behind… if that means changing everything… I’ll do it,” he said, voice strong but soft. “Because I’ve finally realized that nothing else matters as much as you. You are my life. My future. My family. And nothing… nothing is more important than making you happy, my love.”
He reached over carefully, brushing your fingers against his lips before holding your hand against his chest. Tentative kisses followed—soft, careful, lingering just enough to memorize each other again.
“I love you,” he whispered again, voice almost breaking. “I’m never letting go.”
And in that quiet, dark car, driving toward home, toward your shared life, toward the beginning of everything you’d always dreamed of, you felt it: the weight of fear lifting, the warmth of love anchoring you, and the fragile, beautiful certainty that maybe, just maybe, you were finally safe.
The morning light was soft, spilling through the blinds and painting warm stripes across the bedroom. You stirred first, still pressed against Spencer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. His arms held you tight, fingers laced over your waist, as if letting go could erase the last few hours, erase the safety and love you had just rebuilt.
“I love you so much, Spencer,” you whispered, voice low and trembling.
“I love you too,” he murmured, nuzzling into your hair.
Your chest tightened with the memory of last night. You remembered talking for hours in bed, voices soft but urgent, words spilling out of both of you in a way you never thought possible. He had admitted, again and again, that he loved you, that he had always loved you, and that JJ had never been anything but a shadow compared to you. You had confessed your fears, your insecurities, the jealousy and heartbreak you had carried silently for so long. And he had held you as if the world could crumble and he would still keep you safe.
You felt him shift, turning slowly to face you, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing over your skin with tender reverence. His lips met yours softly at first, brushing, testing, savoring. Then, slowly, the kiss deepened, becoming urgent, intense, full of all the words and promises neither of you could speak. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him, needing to feel him, as if that alone could erase all the hurt from the last week.
He pressed his body to yours, and the heat between you built—not just physical, but emotional, the kind of closeness that left you dizzy and teary and breathless all at once. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered “I love you” was a lifeline, a promise, a reassurance that you were his, wholly and irrevocably.
Hours passed in a blissful blur of whispered confessions, soft laughter, lingering touches, and kisses that left you both flushed and glowing. Finally, spent and satisfied, you curled against each other, falling into a deep, safe sleep, hearts still beating close and fast, the world outside forgotten.
When you woke again, the sunlight was brighter now, spilling across the apartment. Carefully, you slipped from the bed, not wanting to wake him, and made your way to the kitchen. You wanted pancakes—the ones he loved best, fluffy, golden, just sweet enough—and a quiet morning where nothing existed except the two of you.
Before you could even pour the batter, strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, chest pressing to your back. His warmth enveloped you, grounding you instantly.
“I thought you left,” he whispered into your hair, voice thick with sleep and lingering emotion.
“No,” you murmured, leaning back against him. “I’m making a late breakfast… pancakes. Your specialty, normally.”
He kissed the back of your neck softly, lingering, holding you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. Then, gently, he pulled back just enough to turn you in his arms, hands resting on your shoulders, eyes catching yours in the morning light.
Slowly, carefully, he opened one hand—and there it was, the engagement ring, sparkling in the sun.
“I know I asked before,” he said, voice trembling slightly, “but I need to ask again…. Will you marry me?”
Your chest tightened, heart skipping, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yea… yea, Spencer. I do,” you whispered, voice soft but certain.
He smiled, a mixture of relief and love washing over him, and gently took your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger with tender precision. He held it there for a moment, his thumb brushing across the band, before letting go and cupping your face in both hands.
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice thick, reverent. “I love you more than I can ever say. You are my home, my safe place, my everything. Always.”
You leaned into his touch, pressing your forehead to his, letting yourself absorb every ounce of his devotion. “I love you too, Spencer,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Always.”
Sunlight spilled over you both, warm and golden, as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, then your lips, lingering, full of promises, devotion, and all the love that had been built and rebuilt between you. The world outside could wait; for now, there was just this—the two of you, together, safe, and entirely yours.
★ Softdomme!Emily whose eyes soften once she detects even the slightest bit of discomfort coming from you.
"It'll be okay, sweet girl."
★ Softdomme!Emily who places a gentle hand on your back when you’re in public--unconsciously laying her claim.
★ Softdomme!Emily who chooses what you order at dinner. She knows what’s best for you, after all.
★ Softdomme!Emily who spoils you rotten. After, she demands you to model her purchase.
Emily manspreads at the edge of the bed, crooking a finger at you. Once you’re standing between her legs, her finger spins, signaling for you to do the same.
“Give me a show, sweetheart.”
★ Softdomme!Emily who, if you’re running your mouth, shuts you up with an arch of her eyebrow. Works like a charm every time.
“Uh-uh. Try again.”
★ Softdomme!Emily who loves quiet weekend evenings spent with you and soft jazz in the background.
★ Softdomme!Emily who is yours, and yours only.
NSFW:
★ Softdomme!Emily who praises you profusely after letting her use you.
"You did so good for me, baby. Such a good girl for me, yeah?"
★ Softdomme!Emily who rubs a thumb over your hip while you ride her strap, matte black, your tits bouncing with each hump and bounce.
★ Softdomme!Emily who, while at work, demands pictures of your pretty body in the same lingerie she bought you the other day. She tells you exactly what poses to do--how to please her best.
"Lay on your back and spread your legs for me, baby."
When you send a photo back doing the exact pose, she responds back immediately.
"Touch yourself. Record a video."
★ Softdomme!Emily who warships your body. Hands slide down curves, lips pepper along scalding-hot skin.
"Such a pretty girl.."
★ Softdomme!Emily who has a glass of water and clean towel on standby for when you're done.
Her gentle hands caress your sensitive body, efficiently cleaning the sticky mess in between your legs.
★ Softdomme!Emily who sends you pictures of her at work, black lace bra pulled down to reveal a soft, full breast. Nipple taut and erect.
★ Softdomme!Emily whose hand comes down on your ass with a loud crack as she pounds into you from behind. You yelp out, a long, loud cry of her name filling the room.
"Emily, fuck!"
She does it again, soothing the sting with soft caresses before coming back down. She knows what you can and can't handle.
Emily Prentiss deserves to be happy so I made it happen. Tooth-rotting fluff, Emily not knowing how to be loved, thank god for JJ and Penelope.
You and Emily reach for the same pastry, a shared danish and a month later, her best friends corner her at work. JJ and Penelope's interrogation bleeds into your lunch date, and it leads to the most horrifying moment of Emily's life.
The thing about secrets is that Emily Prentiss has always been good at keeping them. It's practically in her DNA. Years of diplomatic dinners where one wrong word could spark an international incident, followed by years in the field where silence could mean the difference between life and death. So when she meets you at that coffee shop three blocks from Quantico on a random Tuesday morning, she doesn't think twice about keeping it to herself.
It starts innocently enough. You're reaching for the same pastry in the display case, and when your fingers brush, you pull back with an apologetic smile that makes something in Emily's chest do an uncomfortable flip. You insist she take it, she insists you take it, and somehow you end up sharing it at a corner table while your respective coffees grow cold.
You're a librarian at Georgetown. You have paint on your jeans from crafting that morning. You laugh at Emily's dry observations about the other customers, and when she has to leave for work, you write your number on her napkin in neat, careful handwriting.
Emily stares at that napkin for three days before she texts you.
That was a month ago.
Now, Emily finds herself doing things she hasn't done in years, leaving work exactly on time, checking her phone between case files, and smiling at nothing in particular. It's terrifying. You're terrifying, in the way that genuinely good things often are when you've spent most of your life waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You text her pictures of your cat. You remember that she takes her coffee black with one sugar. You ask about her day and actually listen to the answer, even when she has to be vague about the details. Last week, you brought her homemade soup when she mentioned having a cold, showing up at her apartment with a thermos and a soft smile, not expecting to be invited in, not asking for anything in return.
It makes Emily feel physically ill when she thinks about it too long: this kindness, this sweetness, this complete absence of ulterior motive. She's spent so long armoring herself against the world that she doesn't quite know what to do with someone who approaches her with open hands.
So she doesn't tell anyone. Not the team, not her friends, not even after the fourth date, or the eighth, or the night you fall asleep on her couch mid-movie and she covers you with a blanket and watches you breathe for longer than she'd ever admit.
She should have known she couldn't keep it hidden forever. Not from profilers. Not from Penelope Garcia and JJ, who have made it their personal mission to know everything about everyone they love.
It's a Thursday afternoon, and Emily is in her office tackling the never-ending mountain of paperwork that comes with being Unit Chief, when her door opens without a knock. She doesn't need to look up to know who it is—she can hear the clicking of Penelope's heels and smell JJ's jasmine perfume.
"We need to talk," Penelope announces, closing the door behind them with an ominous click.
Emily doesn't look up from her report. "If this is about the budget meeting, I already told Strauss—"
"It's not about the budget meeting," JJ interrupts, and there's something in her tone that makes Emily's pen still on the page.
She looks up. Both women are staring at her with identical expressions: arms crossed, eyebrows raised, the kind of look that has broken hardened unsubs in interrogation rooms.
"Okay," Emily says slowly, setting down her pen. "What's this about?"
Penelope moves first, circling the desk to perch on the edge of it, while JJ takes one of the chairs across from Emily. They're boxing her in, Emily realizes. Classic interview technique.
"You've been different," JJ says simply.
"Different how?"
"Happy," Penelope supplies, and the word hangs in the air like an accusation. "You've been happy, and you haven't told us why, and we've been very patient, but it's been over a month, and Emily Prentiss, if you don't start talking right now—"
"There's nothing to talk about," Emily tries, but even she can hear how weak it sounds.
JJ leans forward. "You left at 5:30 last Tuesday. On the dot. You never leave at 5:30."
"You smiled at your phone during the briefing on Monday," Penelope adds. "A real smile. The kind that reaches your eyes."
"And you've been wearing that necklace," JJ continues, gesturing to the delicate silver chain at Emily's throat, a gift from you, given just last week, with a shyness that made Emily's heart ache. "I've never seen it before."
Emily's hand moves unconsciously to the necklace, and she knows she's been caught. She could lie, she's an excellent liar when she needs to be, but these are her best friends, and suddenly she's exhausted from the weight of keeping this to herself.
She sighs, long and deep, and slumps back in her chair. "Her name is Y/N."
The squeal that Penelope lets out is barely human. JJ's face breaks into a grin so wide it must hurt.
"Her?" Penelope gasps. "Oh my god, her? Tell us everything. Right now. Every single detail."
"There's not much to tell," Emily protests, but she can feel her cheeks warming.
"Lies," JJ says cheerfully. "Start from the beginning. How did you meet?"
Emily knows resistance is futile. She takes a breath and begins. "Coffee shop. About a month ago. We reached for the same pastry."
"That's adorable," Penelope breathes. "Like a meet-cute from a movie. What does she do? What's she like? Have you kissed her? Of course you've kissed her, it's been a month—"
"She's a librarian," Emily interrupts before Penelope can spiral further. "At Georgetown. She's... she's really sweet."
The way Emily says 'sweet' makes JJ's expression soften. "Sweet in a way that scares you," she observes quietly, because JJ has always been able to read Emily better than almost anyone.
Emily looks down at her hands. "She brought me soup when I was sick. She didn't even come in, just... dropped it off. She bakes bread from scratch. She has a cat named Victor Frankenstein. She remembers everything I tell her, even the small stuff. And she's just... she's good. Genuinely good. It's terrifying."
"Oh, Emily," JJ says, and there's so much understanding in those two words that Emily has to blink rapidly.
"How many dates?" Penelope asks, slightly softer now.
"I don't know. We don't really... we just see each other. Get dinner, or she comes over, or I go to her place. We went to a bookstore last weekend and spent three hours there. She bought me a first edition Dickinson and wouldn't let me pay her back."
"You're in deep," JJ observes.
"I'm not—" Emily starts, then stops. "Maybe. I don't know. I'm trying not to think about it too hard."
"Why haven't you told us?" Penelope asks, and there's no accusation in it, just genuine curiosity.
Emily considers the question. "Because telling you makes it real. And if it's real, then it can fall apart. And I don't... I'm not sure I can handle that right now."
"Or," JJ offers gently, "it's real, and it doesn't fall apart, and you get to be happy."
Before Emily can respond, her phone rings. Your name lights up the screen, and Emily's entire demeanor shifts. Her shoulders relax, her expression softens, and Penelope and JJ exchange a look that speaks volumes.
Emily reaches for the phone, then hesitates, glancing at her friends. They're watching her with barely contained glee, and she knows there's no point in asking them to leave.
She answers. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," your voice comes through, warm and slightly apologetic. "I'm downstairs. I think you forgot about lunch?"
Emily's eyes fly to the clock on her computer. 12:45. You were supposed to meet at 12:30, and she was supposed to come down, but she got so caught up in being interrogated that she completely lost track of time.
"Shit," she mutters. "I'm sorry, I got caught up in—"
"It's okay," you interrupt, and you sound like you mean it. "I know you're busy. I can just head back, we can reschedule—"
Emily looks at Penelope and JJ, who are both leaning forward in their seats like they're watching the season finale of their favorite show. She thinks about keeping you separate, keeping this thing precious and private and protected. Then she thinks about what JJ said, about being happy, about things not falling apart.
She takes a breath.
"Do you want to come up, actually?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line. "Up? To... to your office?"
"Yeah. If you want. No pressure."
"Are you sure?" You sound nervous, which makes Emily smile despite herself.
"I'm sure. Sixth floor. I'll let security know you're coming."
"Okay," you say, and Emily can hear the smile in your voice. "Okay, I'll be right up."
Emily hangs up and immediately looks at Penelope, who has her hand literally pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide and sparkling. "If you scream—" Emily warns.
Penelope makes a muffled sound that might be a squeal, might be a squeak, might be both. JJ is grinning so hard she looks like the Cheshire Cat.
"Be normal," Emily pleads, standing up to smooth down her shirt, then immediately feeling ridiculous for doing so. "Please, both of you, be normal human beings."
"We're always normal," Penelope protests, finally removing her hand from her mouth. "We're the most normal. I'm going to be so normal she won't even believe it."
"That's not reassuring."
"What's she look like?" JJ asks. "Wait, don't tell me. I want to be surprised."
Emily paces behind her desk, suddenly nervous in a way she hasn't been since she was a teenager. "Maybe this was a mistake. I should call her back, tell her—"
"Don't you dare," Penelope interrupts. "You invited her up. She's coming. We're going to meet the woman who made Emily Prentiss smile at her phone during a briefing, and it's going to be wonderful."
There's a soft knock at the door, and Emily's heart does something acrobatic in her chest. She crosses the room and opens it, and there you are.
You're wearing jeans and a soft green sweater that brings out your eyes, your hair slightly windblown, and you're holding two paper bags that smell like the Italian deli three blocks over. When you see Emily, your whole face lights up in a way that makes Emily forget, just for a moment, that there are two profilers watching this entire interaction with rapt attention.
"Hi," you say softly.
"Hi," Emily echoes, and she can't help it, she smiles, real and genuine and completely unguarded.
"I brought lunch," you continue, holding up the bags. "I got your usual, and I wasn't sure if you'd eaten, so I got extra in case...." You trail off as you notice Penelope and JJ for the first time. "Oh. You have company. I'm sorry, I should have—"
"No," Emily says quickly, stepping back to let you in. "No, it's fine. This is... these are my best friends. Penelope Garcia and Jennifer Jareau. They were just... we were just..."
"Interrogating her about you," Penelope finishes cheerfully, standing up and extending her hand. "Hi. I'm Penelope. I've heard absolutely nothing about you until fifteen minutes ago, but I already love you because you make Emily smile like that."
You shake her hand, looking slightly overwhelmed but charmed. "Y/N. It's nice to meet you."
"JJ," JJ introduces herself, also standing to shake your hand. "And ignore Penelope. We're not usually this intense."
"Yes we are," Penelope corrects. "But only because we care."
You look at Emily, who shrugs helplessly. "I told you about them," she says, and you laugh. That soft, genuine laugh that Emily has become slightly addicted to over the past month.
"You did," you agree. "The tech analyst and the one who saved you from a burning building. You didn't mention they were ambush specialists."
"It's a secondary skill set," JJ says, and Emily can see her doing what she always does, assessing, analyzing, forming opinions. But there's warmth in her eyes, approval, and Emily feels something tight in her chest loosen slightly.
"We were just leaving," Penelope announces, grabbing JJ's arm. "Leaving you two to have lunch. Alone. In private."
"We were?" JJ asks, then catches Penelope's meaningful look. "Right. Yes. We were. Lots of work to do. Cases to solve. Bad guys to catch."
They move toward the door, but Penelope pauses, turning back to you. "It was really nice to meet you, Y/N. I hope we see you again soon."
"Me too," you say, and you sound like you mean it.
When they're gone, the door clicking shut behind them, you turn to Emily with raised eyebrows. "So. That happened."
"I'm sorry," Emily says. "They cornered me, and then you called, and I just—"
"Emily," you interrupt, setting the lunch bags down on her desk and crossing to where she's standing. "It's okay. I'm glad I got to meet them. They clearly care about you a lot."
"They're going to tell everyone," Emily warns. "By the end of the day, the entire team will know."
You step closer, and Emily can smell your perfume. Something light and floral that she's come to associate with safety, with softness, with things that don't hurt. "Is that okay?" you ask quietly. "Me being... something people know about?"
Emily looks at you, really looks at you. At the hope in your eyes, the vulnerability, the way you're trying to seem casual about this when she knows it matters to you. She thinks about all the reasons she's kept this quiet, kept you separate, kept herself protected. And then she thinks about what it felt like to say your name out loud to her best friends, to stop hiding something that makes her happy.
"Yeah," she says, and means it. "Yeah, it's okay."
Your smile could power the entire building. "Good. Because I brought you the carbonara you like, and it's getting cold."
You eat lunch in her office, you sitting in one of the chairs across from her desk, Emily in her usual spot, and you tell her about your morning. A story about a patron who tried to check out seventeen books on beekeeping and got into an argument with the automated system. Emily tells you about the paperwork she's been drowning in, and you listen like it's the most interesting thing you've ever heard.
When you leave, forty-five minutes later, you kiss her at the door, brief and sweet and completely chaste, but it still makes Emily's skin warm. "Text me later?" you ask.
"I will," Emily promises.
She watches you walk down the hallway toward the elevators, and she's so distracted that she doesn't notice Penelope's head popping out of her office until she hears, "She's perfect. You're keeping her. This isn't a discussion."
Emily turns to find not just Penelope, but also JJ, Tara, and Alvez all standing in the hallway, various degrees of smugness on their faces.
"Really?" Emily asks. "All of you?"
"Garcia sent a 911 text," Alvez explains, grinning. "Said there was a development in the 'Emily's Secret Life' case."
"I hate all of you," Emily says, but there's no heat in it.
"You like her," Reid observes. "Your pupils are dilated, you're smiling, and you've touched that necklace twelve times in the last minute."
"I'm a profiler, Reid. I know what I'm feeling."
"And what are you feeling?" JJ asks, softer now, the teasing edge gone from her voice.
Emily looks down the hallway where you disappeared, then back at her team, her family, if she's being honest. "Terrified," she admits. "But... good. I'm feeling good."
"She brought you lunch," Penelope sighs dreamily. "And she has a cat named Victor Frankenstein. And she bakes bread. Emily, if you don't marry her, I will."
Tara claps Emily on the shoulder. "Happy for you, Prentiss. She seems great. Little young for you, maybe—"
"She's thirty-four," Emily interrupts. "That's not that young."
"Defensive about your girl," Alvez notes with a grin. "Noted."
They drift back to their respective desks eventually, but not before extracting a promise from Emily to bring you to the next team dinner. Emily agrees, mostly to get them to leave her alone, but also because the idea doesn't fill her with quite as much dread as it might have a few hours ago.
Back in her office, Emily sits down at her desk and sees that you've left a note on one of the napkins from lunch. It's simple, just a few words in your careful handwriting: Thank you for letting me in.
Emily reads it three times, then carefully folds it and tucks it into her wallet, right next to the first napkin you ever wrote your number on.
Her phone buzzes. A text from you: Your friends are lovely. Penelope already found me on Instagram and liked 7 photos. Should I be concerned?
Emily laughs out loud, alone in her office, and types back: That's actually showing restraint for her
Three days later, you're standing outside Emily's apartment with a bottle of wine and a container of tiramisu from the Italian bakery near your place. Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. Not quite racing, but not quite steady either.
You knock, and the door opens almost immediately. Emily's in jeans and a soft gray sweater, her hair down and slightly damp like she's recently showered. She looks younger like this, more relaxed, and the smile she gives you is warm and unguarded.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi." You hold up the wine and dessert. "I come bearing gifts."
"You didn't have to do that." But she's already stepping aside to let you in, and when you pass her in the doorway, you catch the scent of her perfume mixed with something cooking. Garlic, maybe, and tomatoes.
Emily closes the door behind you and takes the wine from you, fingers brushing yours. "Make yourself comfortable. Dinner's almost ready."
You follow her into the kitchen, which is small but efficient, and watch as she stirs something in a pot on the stove. "What are we having?"
"Pasta puttanesca. It's one of the few things I can make without burning down the building." She glances over her shoulder at you. "I hope that's okay."
"It's perfect."
And it is. The dinner is simple but delicious, and you eat at her small dining table with candles she lit without making a big deal about it. The conversation flows easily—you tell her about a difficult student you're working with, and she tells you about a case that's been keeping her up at night. Not the details, never the details, but enough that you understand the weight she carries.
"Do you ever get used to it?" you ask quietly. "The things you see?"
Emily's quiet for a moment, twirling pasta on her fork. "No," she says finally. "But you learn to carry it differently. You learn to find the good things and hold onto them."
The way she looks at you when she says it makes your breath catch.
After dinner, you insist on helping with the dishes despite her protests. You end up standing side by side at the sink, her washing and you drying, and it feels absurdly domestic in a way that makes your chest ache. Emily's shoulder bumps against yours as she hands you a plate, and neither of you moves away.
"This sweater looks good on you." Emily says softly.
You set the plate down on the counter, blushing a tad, "Thank you Emily."
When the dishes are done, you migrate to the couch with the tiramisu and two forks. Emily pours you both wine, and you end up sitting closer than strictly necessary, your thigh pressed against hers. The conversation shifts to lighter things, books you've both read, places you want to travel, the ridiculous names Penelope has apparently given to all her computers.
"She calls one of them 'The Oracle,'" Emily says, shaking her head. "I don't ask questions anymore."
You laugh, and Emily watches you with something soft in her expression. "What?" you ask.
"Nothing. I just—" She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table. "I'm really glad you're here."
"Me too."
There's a moment where neither of you moves, where the air between you feels charged with possibility. Then Emily reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek, and leans in.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like she's giving you room to pull away. But you don't. You lean into it, your hand finding the back of her neck, and the kiss deepens. She tastes like wine and something sweeter, and when she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, you're both breathing a little harder.
"You're terrifying," Emily whispers.
You blink, pulling back just enough to see her face. "What?"
"You're terrifying," she repeats, and there's something raw in her voice. "The way you make me feel. How easy this is. How much I want—" She stops, shakes her head. "It's terrifying."
You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "I'm the least scary person alive."
Emily laughs, the sound soft and a little breathless. "That's what makes it worse." Her thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "You're not supposed to be this easy to fall for."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Who says there are rules?"
"Fair point." Emily kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, and when she pulls you closer, you go willingly.
When you finally break apart, you're half in her lap, her hands steady on your waist. "Stay," she says quietly. "I mean—not like that, unless you want to, but just—stay. A little longer."
"Okay," you say, and settle against her side, her arm around your shoulders. "I can do that."
You stay until the candles burn low and the wine bottle is empty, talking and kissing and existing in the quiet comfort of each other's presence. And when you finally do leave, well past midnight, Emily walks you to the door and kisses you one more time.
"Text me when you get home," she says.
"I will."
"And maybe—" Emily hesitates, then pushes forward. "Maybe we could do this again? Soon?"
You smile, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'd really like that."
The next day, Emily makes it through her last meeting on autopilot. She's supposed to be reviewing case files, but all she can think about is the way you looked in her apartment, that stupid sweater, the taste of wine on your lips.
The second the meeting ends, she's out of her chair and heading straight for Garcia's office. She spots JJ in the hallway and grabs her arm without breaking stride.
"Garcia's office. Now."
JJ's eyebrows shoot up. "What—"
"Now, JJ."
Penelope looks up from her screens when they burst through the door, Emily closing it firmly behind them. "Well, well, well. To what do I owe this dramatic entrance?"
Emily paces the small space between the desk and the wall of monitors. "I'm in so deep."
"We know," JJ says, leaning against the desk with a knowing smile.
"No, you don't understand." Emily runs a hand through her hair. "No one makes me nervous. I've gone undercover with terrorists. I've stared down serial killers. But last night I hesitated. Me. I hesitated before kissing her because I was nervous."
Penelope's face softens into something unbearably fond. "Oh, honey."
"That's actually really sweet," JJ adds.
"It's terrifying," Emily corrects, but there's no heat in it. "I said she was terrifying and she laughed because—" she chuckled one, panicked, "God, she has no idea."
"So what are you going to do about it?" Penelope asks.
Emily stops pacing. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," JJ says slowly, like she's explaining something to a child, "are you going to keep having these perfect dates and pretending this is casual, or are you going to actually do something about it?"
"We're... I mean, we're seeing each other."
"Seeing each other," Penelope repeats flatly. "Emily Prentiss, I have seen you take down unsubs twice your size without blinking, and you can't even define this relationship?"
"I'm not—it's not that I can't—"
"Ask her to be your girlfriend," JJ says simply.
Emily's mouth opens. Closes. "I—"
"Your what?" Penelope prompts, grinning now.
"My girl—" Emily actually stutters over the word. "My girlfriend."
"Oh my God," JJ says, delighted. "You can't even say it."
"I can say it!" Emily protests. "Girlfriend. See? Girlfriend."
"Then go say it to her," Penelope says, shooing her toward the door with both hands. "Go! Right now!"
"I can't just show up at her job—"
"Yes, you can," JJ says, and physically pushes Emily toward the door. "You absolutely can. In fact, you're going to."
"But I—"
"No buts." JJ opens the door and gives Emily one more gentle shove. "Go get your girlfriend, Prentiss."
Emily stumbles into the hallway, turns back to argue, but JJ and Penelope are both making shooing motions, their faces bright with encouragement and barely suppressed laughter.
"You're both terrible," Emily says, but she's already pulling out her phone to text you.
"We're the best friends you've ever had!" Penelope calls after her.
Emily doesn't argue. She's too busy typing: Are you free? I need to ask you something.
Your response comes almost immediately: I'm always free for you.
And Emily, despite her nerves, despite the way her hands are shaking slightly, can't help but smile as she heads to gather her stuff.
The Georgetown library is quieter than Emily expected for a Thursday afternoon. Her footsteps echo too loudly on the marble floors as she makes her way through the main reading room, past students hunched over laptops and ancient texts. She's been here before, picked you up once after a late shift, but today everything feels different. More significant.
She practiced what she was going to say three times in the car. Then deleted the mental script entirely because it sounded ridiculous. Then tried to reconstruct it. Then gave up.
Your office is tucked away on the third floor, a small space you share with two other archivists. Emily knows you're usually there on Thursdays, cataloging new acquisitions. She also knows she's being slightly insane, showing up unannounced like this, but JJ's voice is still in her head: Go get your girlfriend.
Except you're not her girlfriend. Not officially. That's the whole point of this terrifying mission.
Emily finds your office door half-open, and through the gap she can see you at your desk, completely absorbed in whatever you're examining. The late afternoon light slants through the window, catching in your hair, a pencil tucked behind your ear.
Emily's heart does something complicated in her chest.
She knocks softly on the doorframe.
You look up, and your whole face transforms when you see her. That smile, the one that's just for Emily, the one that makes her feel like she's the only person in the world worth smiling at like that.
"Hey," you say, already standing, already moving toward her. "I didn't think you'd get here so fast. Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," Emily says quickly. Then, because she's apparently incapable of being normal about this: "Well. Not fine. I mean, nothing's wrong. Everything's good. I just—I needed to—"
She's doing this badly. She's doing this so badly.
You're watching her with that gentle, patient expression that somehow makes Emily feel both more nervous and more safe. "Do you want to come in? Sit down?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." Emily steps into the office and closes the door behind her, which suddenly feels like a very significant action. "I need to ask you something."
"Okay," you say slowly, and there's the tiniest hint of concern in your voice now. "You're kind of freaking me out a little."
"I'm freaking myself out," Emily admits. She runs a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she can't seem to stop. "This is—I had a whole thing planned. What I was going to say. But it all sounded wrong, and now I'm just—"
"Emily." You step closer, close enough that Emily can smell your perfume. "Whatever it is, just say it."
Right. Just say it. Like it's that simple.
Emily takes a breath. "I've been thinking about what we're doing. This—us. And I know we've been taking it slow, which is good, that's been good. But I also think—I mean, I know that I—"
She's doing it again. Overcomplicating it.
"I want you to be my girlfriend," Emily says, and the words come out in a rush, inelegant and graceless. "Officially. I want to be able to call you that. I want—I want this to be real. More real. I mean, it's already real, but I want it to be—"
"Yes," you say.
Emily stops mid-ramble. "What?"
"Yes." You're smiling now, that soft, devastating smile that Emily is absolutely not prepared for. "I want that too. I've wanted that."
"You have?"
"Emily." You laugh, and it's the sweetest sound Emily's ever heard. "I've been yours since that first coffee. I was just waiting for you to be ready."
Something in Emily's chest loosens, unfurls. "I'm ready," she says, and she means it. "I'm terrified, but I'm ready."
"You don't have to be terrified." You reach for her hand, lacing your fingers together. "It's just me."
"That's exactly why I'm terrified," Emily says honestly. "Because it's you. Because this matters."
You step closer, until there's barely any space between you. "It matters to me too."
Emily kisses you then, soft and sure, and it feels like sealing a promise. When she pulls back, you're both smiling.
"So," you say, a teasing note in your voice. "Does this mean I get to meet your team officially? As your girlfriend?"
Emily groans. "They're going to be insufferable about this."
"I can handle insufferable."
"You say that now." But Emily's smiling, and she can't seem to stop. "Fair warning: Penelope's probably already done a full background check on you."
"I like Penelope."
"Everyone likes Penelope." Emily squeezes your hand. "I should let you get back to work. I just—I needed to ask. In person."
"I'm glad you did." You kiss her again, quick and sweet. "Even if you did show up looking like you were about to defuse a bomb."
"It felt like defusing a bomb," Emily admits.
"Well, you did it." You walk her to the door, still holding her hand. "Text me when you get back to Quantico?"
"I will." Emily pauses in the doorway, looking back at you. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad you said yes."
Your smile is radiant. "I'm really glad you asked."
Emily makes it all the way to her car before she texts the group chat: I did it.
The responses are immediate and enthusiastic and exactly what Emily expected. She's still reading through Penelope's string of heart emojis when her phone buzzes with a text from you: For the record, you're the least scary person alive when you're asking someone to be your girlfriend.
Emily laughs, alone in her car, and thinks that maybe she's starting to believe that being vulnerable isn't the same as being weak.
She drives back to Quantico with the windows down and the radio up, and for the first time in a long time, Emily Prentiss lets herself be completely, unreservedly happy.
Tags: established relationship, fluff, grumpy emily, smitten drama queen emily, kisses, the bau being annoying, soft reader, no use of yn
Summary: Emily claims you haven't given her enough attention; dutifully, you try to remedy that. Requested here.
Word count: 1.1k
There's two, persistent points of heat boring into your cheek. You don't notice them right away—not until the weight of them starts to settle, tingling on your skin. When you turn, you immediately find the source.
Emily's arms are crossed, her brows ever so slightly drawn together, that same look in her eyes that she gets when she's trying to crack at a case. It's intense, a tad scary if you're honest, but you still find the laugh slipping out from your mouth.
"What?" You probe. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
She doesn't answer right away. Instead she gives you a long look, her eyes narrowing when you continue to stare at her blankly.
Eventually, a small furrow digs between her brows. "I'm seeing if you'll remember."
"Remember what?"
Her bottom lip pushes out. Just the slightest bit. "You really don't know?" She mutters.
"Emily," you say, twisting closer, "remember what? It's not your birthday," you list out on your fingers, "or our anniversary, and I didn't leave any food or laundry out." She grows more sorry looking. "Something about your mom? Did I miss an RSVP, or—"
"No, it's not about my mom." She huffs, a little snappy.
"Well then, what?"
"Nothing." She turns away, pursing her lips, "Forget it."
Rossi's expensive, ambient lighting does her well. Bright, warm gold traces along the elegant lines of her face, highlighting the bridge of her nose, the very tips of her thick lashes, the full, plush curve of her mouth. It's hardly pushed out, but you know from experience that this is the equivalent of a Prentiss pout. Her chin is soft with it, her fingers drumming a pattern on her still-crossed arms. She directs a sulk to the large, flat-screen TV playing on mute, mostly forgotten beneath the hum of conversation and jovial laughter.
You sidle closer to her on the couch. The two of you are on the far edge of the living room, a little more out of the way than the others where they're gathered near the middle. You're not concerned about anyone hearing you as you lower your voice, layer it sweet enough to ache.
"Honey," you coax, brushing over the rough denim draped over her thigh, "tell me."
Emily pretends to be entranced by the nature documentary on the screen. You brush your thumb over her hip in slow strokes and she breaks a few seconds later, sighing and pulling her eyes away from the TV. You smile as they meet yours.
"What did I forget?"
"Something stupid." She says scornfully.
You continue to hold her gaze. Hotch makes a comment about the stock market, and Emily sighs again, groaning as she presses her fingers to the spot between her brows.
"You didn't…" She trails off, stopping nearly as soon as she began. A soft pink colors her cheeks; it rolls over slowly, eating away at the pale, crawling up until it curls around her eyes. Your brows shoot up, but you hold your tongue.
Emily sighs for the third time. This one is rougher, more exasperated, pushing out with it a fast slur of words that takes you a minute to decode. "You didn't kiss me this morning, or before I left, or when I came back—and I couldn't even shower with you, and you spent so long getting all dolled up you made us rush out and it's kinda hard to kiss while I'm driving, if you hadn't noticed, and you've been talking to Garcia all night, and—god." She mutters, clasping a hand over her mouth, as useless as a stopper against a rushing river.
A giddy heat stirs in your stomach. Emily's cheeks are a deeper red now; you imagine they must be as hot as the blood rushing through you, suddenly humming.
"I just"—her eyes drop to the floor—"miss you." She says under her breath, glaring at her shoes.
Aw, you think.
"Oh," you say, your grin stretching so wide it hurts. "I'm very sorry." You murmur, squeezing her thigh in apology.
"Hm."
Again, the laugh just slips out. Emily's frown slots deeper—very nearly a scowl—until you gently pinch her chin and tilt her face closer. Her cheek is burning where you lay a soft kiss. "How many did I miss?"
"At least ten."
"That won't do." You say, tilting her chin so you can reach her other cheek. There, you brush two kisses, one just under her eye, and slide your hands up so her whole jaw is cradled in them. A kiss goes to either side of her temple.
There's warmth everywhere under your lips. Smiling, you dot a kiss right between her eyebrows, then drag your mouth down and stamp it on the very tip of her nose.
Emily's breath catches. She presses her hand to your chest, warning, but she doesn't push you back. "What are you doing?"
One on her flushed mouth, chaste and sweet. Another one right on the corner, tasting her intake of breath.
"I'm making up for my neglect."
"Here?" She hisses, her fingers curling into your shirt. "Jesus, if I'd known you'd do this I'd have just—"
"Woah, hey. We've got kids here." Morgan teases, his voice cutting over the hum. "Reid, close your eyes."
Reid makes a sound of protest. "I'm literally gonna be thirty in—"
"'Gonna be', see, that's exactly what I mean." He tuts. "The boy's already seen enough atrocities, he's scarred as it is—"
"Oh, shut it, you." Garcia trills, palpably vibrating with energy. "See, you embarrassed them! Oh, is that a blush I see, Mrs. Prentiss—?"
"It is not." Emily slaps her hand away where she tries to reach for the red on her cheeks, hard enough that Garcia pulls back with a wince. "The lighting you've got here is awful," she sniffs at Rossi, holding her chin high, "turns your skin all kinds of colors."
"Oh, the lighting here is awful." JJ parrots, a delighted gleam in her eyes. "That's a new one."
Emily levels her a glare. Hotch's lips are twisted into the smallest smile hidden into his glass, and Rossi is nodding sagely, as if he agrees. With JJ or with Emily you're not quite sure, but you wouldn't place the odds on your blushing wife.
"Okay, that's enough," you announce. "I won't have you all trampling over my wife's dignity. She's already gone through enough today."
With that, a whole new wave of noise erupts. Emily buries her face in her hands and groans, barely hidden over the din. Through her fingers you can see her blush going redder, matching the rosy shade of her ears and the skin where her blouse dips too low.
You rub her thigh consolingly and place a kiss just behind her hand, tucked into the space between her jaw and her ear.
IN WHICH : spencer feels helpless when he sees you cry for the first time
word count : 1.6k
category : fluff, established relationship with very emotional and empathic swetheart reader. crying (obvi) and overall lots of cuteness
a/n : this was originally supposed to be a blurb... but i'm so proud and happy about how it turned out ahhh !! please reblog and lmk if you wanna be tagged in my work ♡
you were an pretty emotional person by nature.
everyone in your life knew it. your family, your friends, hell - even your colleagues whom you weren’t that close to did. surely, you’d been born with the double edged sword of empathy in your hands, doomed from the beginning.
spencer reid fell in love with you for your heart, the extensive organ in your chest that had room not only for him - although mainly for him, but for all the beauty you saw in the world. what he noticed, in the early stages of your relationship, was how much you ached from caring too immensely.
about everyone, and everything, all the time.
but nothing could’ve prepared him for the first time he saw you cry.
lights dimmed, your legs resting on his lap, you were in his apartment tonight. he’d been rambling for days about a documentary that had just come out, insisting he wanted to see it with you.
now, if you had to pick a movie, you probably would’ve chosen the usual romantic comedy - but when you saw the way his eyes lit up when you asked him about the topic, you realised there was no way you could resist.
you just wish you would’ve listened to him instead of admiring his angelic face. maybe, then, you could’ve told him you didn’t want to hear this sad story. you could've brought up your immense hatred for emotional documentaries, and without a doubt, he would've logged into another streaming platform to watch a romcom with no complaints.
but you didn't.
the documentary, from what you understood after daydreaming and staring at your boyfriend for about half an hour, was about murder trial that happened a couple of decades ago. a young man, from a family of farmers, had been accused of killing his own brother in an act of mercy.
spencer had been enticed by the trial as soon as he'd read about it in the morning paper he always bought on his way to work. the way the court had handled the complex and intricate case, and how people from that small town had reacted to it.
he saw the cerebral aspect, and was utterly absorbed by every information he heard and micro-expression he analysed on the suspect's face, barely blinking while he gathered all the information.
you, however, frowned when you heard the testimony. he only realised how distraught and affected you were when he felt you hiccup against his shoulder.
“what’s wrong ?” he let out worriedly, hand flying to reach for the remote and hit pause.
the tear rolling down your cheek sent his brain into overdrive as he tried to think of what had caused it. he was quick to brush it off with the pad of his thumb, before asking.
“did i do something ? honey, what is it ?”
you looked up bashfully, glassy eyes meeting his. a chuckle escaped your throat at how silly this situation was.
“no, of course not ! i just… can’t believe that guy when to prison-“ you sobbed again, tugging at his sleeve to distract yourself from the fact that you were crying in front of your boyfriend for the first time.
“- just because he wanted to put his little brother out of misery.”
spencer’s arm slipped around your waist without you noticing, and he cradled the back of your head to gently pull you closer. he was used to see people weep, in interrogations room or hospital waiting rooms. but it never tugged at his heartstrings the way it did now.
because this wasn't a victim's friend or family member. it was you.
“actually-“ he stated, facts spilling out the way they always did when he was nervous, in hopes to reassure you “he was released on parole when another judge decided to investigate again.”
you sniffled, wiping your scarlet nose with the back of your sleeve. even his attempt at making you feel better only encouraged the tears to keep flowing. everything about this felt embarassing to you.
“i knowww,” he raised a brow, listening to your high pitched, emotional voice. “but it’s just so sad”
spencer frowned, his lips turning downwards into that adorable shape that usually made you smile. it didn’t, though. he kept running his fingers through your hair, absolutely unsure of what to do.
never in his life had he comforted someone before.
or if he had, he’d never been really good at it. social cues weren’t his thing, and apart from trying to calm his mother down during one of her episodes, or giving a ted talk to one of the members of the team after a rough case, he didn’t have much experience with it.
had he done something wrong ?
no. you’d just told him what you were crying about, but still. he was the one who suggested watching the documentary in the first place. he should’ve let you pick a stupid movie instead. in this relationship, you were much better at reading the room and setting the mood.
“i know, love…” he spoke again, hesitantly. the last thing he wanted was to say something that would worsen it.
“but actually, he didn’t stay in prison very long. and given the circumstances, he was lucky enough to just get a fifteen year sentence. according to the law-“ and there he was rambling again, until you cut him off with his name rolling off your tongue in a scolding tone.
“spencer !”
“sorry.” the apology was earnest, although you looked nothing but fearsome with your watery eyes and flushed cheeks, and that’s when you noticed how terribly lost he looked in that moment.
amidst the tears that had rolled down your cheeks, you’d forgotten to explain yourself. shoot. you had no way out of this now.
“it’s not you, spence." you said after a moment. "it’s not even the documentary..”
“it’s not ?” he asked, looking at you with a tilt of his head.
“no,” you continued, shifting on the couch so that you were leaning against him, seeking his warmth. “i just… feel too much, i think.”
he simply listened, instinctively holding you closer. all he wanted was for you to smile again, or even to chide him for suggesting a work-related topic for what was supposed to be a romantic saturday night.
he would take any emotion from you and cherish it, as long as it wasn't sadness.
“for everyone, and everything. all the time. and it’s good, you know ? apparently it means i have a good heart.” you told him, clearly not looking convinced.
“but i cry a lot, too. and that guy’s story just broke my heart… so i guess... yeah, that's all.”
spencer sighed next to you, relieved in a way words couldn't express. he felt a blue veil lift off his chest, lighter now. so, it really wasn’t his fault. but he perked up at the last part, wanting to know more.
“really, you cry often ?”
a chuckle escaped you, gosh, he had no idea. and maybe it was time for you to be honest now, to accept the fact that he loved you, all of you, including the strange quirks and emotional tendencies.
“actually, i cried when i came home from our first date. and the day you wrote me a letter. you know, the one you slipped in the first page of Pride and Prejudice ? and also when you went away for that case in virginia, right after we got together.”
his brows knit together in pure confusion, nose scrunching slightly as he recalled all of these memores, the fundamental chapters of your shared history. the letter was a reference to your irevocable love for the Jane Austen novel, that he gifted you when you two were geting to know eachother.
"letters are so romantic," you'd told him during a late night phone call as he soaked your every word, "i wish people stopped reading too much into a double text and truly opened their heart instead, the way it used to be back then."
to say he took it by the letter - pun intended, was an understatement. he'd sat at his desk and pulled out a pen as soon as you hung up, and the following week, the gorgeous vintage copy he'd bought you was in your hands, envelope carefully tucked in it.
a loving smile creeping up his face at the memory, he was instantly snapped out of his thoughts when you sniffled once more. you were still looking at him bashfully, awaiting a response.
he could only say three words now, his talent for writing and expressing himself long forgotten between the pages of a romance novel.
"i love you."
your eyes widened, clearly surprised by the unexpected declaration. in months of dating, none of you had spoken those magic words yet. not that you didn't feel it, no - your love for him was pure, and unquantifiable.
it resided not only in your wide heart, but your entire body and soul, consuming your thoughts and emotions in a way that made it hard to breathe sometimes. spencer reid had seized your entire self in the palm of his hand the first time you met, without even having the slightest idea.
just as you were about to pour your feelings out in return, your lips parted without any sound getting out, he cut you off anxiously.
“was our first date really that bad ?”
you laughed, your previously tear stained cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. he really did collect every word you spoke like precious gemstones, analysing them under the magnifying glass of his sharp mind.
“no, dummy. i cried from happiness when i realised that i love you, too”
and maybe, you do feel too much. for everyone, and everything, all the time. but those emotions, no matter their extent and intangibility, are nothing compared to the way you feel about spencer reid.
please reblog and leave a comment, likes do very little to promote a fic !!
🛸hates when people call him „fox“ and we know he even said he makes his parents call him mulder. secretly adores it though when you call him “fox“ or try to annoy him by saying „foxy/foxie“. especially loves it during sex 😝
🛸always acts super confident with women but is actually super shy when he’s really interested in someone. acts really awkward around you and tries to impress you pulling the stupidest stunts
-> you also had to take a lot of first steps in the relationship, though later on when you are more secure he gains confidence in your relationship.
🛸no matter how secure you two are he will always be the jealous type. he trusts you obviously and knows you would never cheat on him. still, every look from another person will have him pull you just a little closer to him.
🛸ig you’re working with him on the x-files he always tries to protect you. he never wants you to follow a lead alone/without a weapon. he knows he can be a little overbearing sometimes but just really cares about you and wants you to stay safe and in his life.
-> he himself is always reckless though and following every lead possible. secretly loves it when you get mad at him after finding out what he did, if you get loud it will also turn him on to see this protective side of you.
🛸terrible cook. and i mean really terrible. he always tries to cook you a warm meal for a cozy night in, though they always end with take out and a very apologetic mulder.
he will definitely try to learn how to cook but still fails most of the time. after a while he will have the basics, but he can never go beyond that.
🛸loves to take you out and show you off. you’ve been to almost all of the restaurants in your area and every time he sees a new one opening he takes you there as soon as possible.
-> ofc he also wants to treat you well and to get you anything you want.
🛸will definitely SPOIL you, he knows a lot of other people would love to have you, so he knows how to treat you right. new shoes? got it. new computer game? got it? something you randomly mentioned once? GOT IT!
🛸if you’re not working with him on the x-files and he’s away on a case he’ll call you at all times of the day and night to hear your voice. especially if a case is stressful he tries to make time for you, ask about your day and your plans. every time he talks to you it relaxes him so much and gives him what he needs to let the day rest.
🛸will definitely take you to a lot of hangouts with the lone gunmen, if at some point not all of them just to spend time with you as well. you found them very odd at the beginning but get used to them. unfortunately you will also have to get used to the men constantly trying to flirt with you, no matter how often mulder tells them off.
a/n: short and sweet but hope you liked this, if so please leave some notes, likes, reblogs and comments! feedback is very appreciated!
please also consider supporting my ao3: @ softestqueeen
"what would you do without me?" "perish." | s. reid
summary: your boyfriend is more than happy to take care of you while you recover from a hip injury.
relationship: spencer reid x chronically ill fem!reader
genre: fluff
word count: 2.9k
tags: established relationship, reader is implied to have hEDS because i am nothing if not a self-indulgent writer, totally not inspired by my recent bedridden & injured state of being, are tags really necessary when this is 100% fluffy?, i think that is all
You’re sprawled on your sofa, looking a bit like a pretzel as you attempt to keep weight off your right hip. A few days ago, you partially dislocated it. What were you doing? Walking. Literally just walking. Leave it to your shitty connective tissue disorder to make even the simplest tasks a waking nightmare.
It’s early Wednesday morning, and you’ve had to call out of work while you rest. Doctor’s orders and all. You’re usually not up this early unless you’re getting ready for your commute, but you haven’t been getting much rest, what with the killer pain in your leg. So, you’ve resigned yourself to tapping away on your Kindle, indulging in some smutty romance to entertain yourself.
There’s a knock at your door, and your head whips in the direction of the sound. You aren’t expecting anyone; if you were anyone else, you might be embarrassed to have your reading interrupted mid-sex scene, but you’re as shameless as they come. You keep scanning the screen as you call out. There’s very few people on this earth that could drag you away from this book.
“Who is it?” you yell, suppressing a delighted giggle at a particularly good line.
“Spencer,” your boyfriend’s voice shouts in return. “Do you have a spare key out here?”
As immersed in your reading as you are, Spencer’s number one on your list of people you would drop everything to hang out with (not that you would openly admit this to him). You shut off your tablet and carefully sit up, not wanting to get a head rush.
“No,” you answer. Once the threat of a blackout has passed, you rise to your feet and announce, “Coming!”
“No, don’t! I’ll have the landlord—hello,” Spencer cuts himself off as the door flings open, revealing your pajama-clad form. You grin brightly.
“Hi!” you reply happily, excited to see him.
“You’re not a very good listener, you know that?” Spencer says flatly, crossing his arms across his chest. His sass does little to dampen your spirits.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” you ask.
“Okay, first of all, it wouldn’t be unexpected if you answered your phone,” Spencer points out, stepping across the threshold into your entryway as he adds, “Second, ignoring me when I call you a bad listener only helps me build my case.”
“And you’re suing me on what grounds, exactly?” you question, quirking a brow and locking the door behind him.
“Criminal negligence. My ego is facing irreparable damage,” Spencer declares with an exaggeratedly dejected sigh.
“That’s your own fault. Confidence is key,” you chide. “Never let someone else have that much power over you, even someone as hot as me.”
Spencer’s eyes trail down your body, and he pretends to be unimpressed as he meets your gaze.
“Those are the frumpiest pajamas I’ve ever seen,” he deadpans, and you click your tongue.
“You can’t faze me,” you decree, tossing your mussed hair over one shoulder. “See? Confidence.”
“Fascinating,” Spencer says sarcastically. “Now, if only there were a way to make your joints as strong as your horribly misplaced faith in your fashion sense.”
“I dunno what you mean. I’m fine,” you say with a shrug. You’re lying, of course. You’ve been in such unbearable pain these past few days that you’ve been reduced to tears on more than one occasion. Still, Spencer has literally been shot at work, so you would feel a little ridiculous complaining to him. His eyes fall to your feet, noting the way in which you’re obviously heavily putting weight on your good leg.
“Your flamingo impression is impressive, by the way,” he muses.
“Thank you,” you reply kindly, ignoring his sarcasm and pretending like he’s paid you a genuine compliment. “I’ve also recently mastered ‘pogo stick’. Wanna see?”
“That’s okay,” Spencer declines. Unfortunately for him, you’re a stubborn thing, and you decide to demonstrate, anyway. You turn on your heels and hop away from him on your good foot.
“Boing, boing—ah! Hey!” you exclaim as you’re lifted off the ground. Spencer throws you over his shoulder like you weigh no more than a bag of groceries, carrying you toward your bedroom.
“You’re gonna kill yourself,” he chastises, careful not to jolt your hip as he maintains his hold on you.
“Unhand me!” you command, kicking your legs like a petulant child.
“Sure, I will,” Spencer promises. “In your bed. Where you should be.”
He reaches your bedroom and shoves the door open with his foot, depositing you next to the side of the bed he knows you prefer. You know he’s expecting you to lie down, but you’re a bit miffed by being manhandled—even though the fact that he can carry you so effortlessly is rather attractive—so you just stand there and glare at him.
“God, who invited the fun police?” you scoff.
“Hopping around on one foot because your other leg is hurt is fun to you?” he retorts, gesturing with a flourish toward your bed. You ignore him.
“It’s not that hurt,” you argue, though you don’t even sound convincing to your own ears. Spencer huffs, shaking his head at your antics.
“Is that an official prognosis?” he inquires with narrowed eyes.
“Yes,” you affirm. “I’m a doctor.”
“And in another world, you might actually be a medical one,” Spencer replies unenthusiastically. He raises his hands to your shoulder and attempts to coax you into bed, gently guiding you toward the mattress. “Now, sit.”
“Woof,” you say flatly, obediently sinking onto your bed. Spencer looks like he’s resisting the urge to facepalm.
“Jesus—you’re impossible,” he remarks with another shake of his head.
“Oomph,” you sigh, flopping down. You rest your head against your mountain of pillows and watch Spencer assess the room with an intent gaze.
“Where’re your painkillers?” he asks. You wordlessly respond by pointing to the living room. He starts to head out the door, and then warns over his shoulder, “You better not move.”
“Yes, Daddy,” you tease, speaking as sweetly as you can. Spencer grimaces.
“Ew,” he gags. “A nod or something would’ve been fine.”
“But so much less fun,” you reply, pulling back the covers to make yourself more comfortable.
“Uh-huh,” Spencer responds noncommittally from the living room. You hear the rattle of a pill bottle as he retrieves it from the coffee table. Moments later, he’s reappearing in your doorway.
“You’re back,” you state.
“Bearing gifts,” he answers, holding up the bottle for emphasis.
“I missed you,” you complain. You sound a bit sarcastic, but the sentiment is genuine. You love Spencer more than you’ve loved anyone else before, and he knows it, despite your constant joking and teasing. Part of what makes your banter so enjoyable is that it’s all in good fun. You would never needle at his actual insecurities, nor would he at yours. When you peel back the layers of quips, there’s genuine affection there, more potent than you feel for anyone else in this world.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Spencer tuts, though his cheeks flush slightly, betraying his nonchalant demeanor. “When was your last dose?”
“Half past nunya,” you stubbornly joke. Spencer squints at you.
“Which is your oh-so-polite way of saying, ‘Why no, Spencer, I haven’t yet taken my medication. Thank you for reminding me. I’m so lucky to have you. Have I mentioned how handsome you’re looking today?’” he retorts without missing a beat. He practically shoves the pill bottle into your hands before rounding the foot of the bed and flopping down beside you.
“I thought flattery got me nowhere,” you argue, turning to face him. “Are you done kissing your own ass?”
“Maybe,” he concedes.
“Thank God. A big head doesn’t suit your gangly shoulders,” you declare, uncapping the bottle.
“Gang—take your damn steroids,” Spencer says exasperatedly. You sigh dramatically before popping the prescribed dose into your mouth.
“Fine,” you huff, your response garbled by the pills in your mouth.
“Thank you, baby,” Spencer praises as you sip some water, swallowing your medication.
“Ah.” You open your mouth as wide as you can and stick out your tongue to prove that you’ve swallowed the pills. It’s not like he asked you to do this; no, you just feel like being annoying.
“So charming when you actually follow directions,” Spencer coos sarcastically, lifting a finger to your chin and encouraging you to close your mouth. You snap your lips together and snuggle deeper into your pillows. Despite the obvious answer being that you’re about to sleep the day away, Spencer asks, “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked. I was thinking of doing some squats, maybe going for a bike ride—” you start, staring dreamily at the ceiling.
“Do you have a sarcasm filter?” Spencer interrupts.
“It’s in my hip. In other words, it’s not working,” you reply quickly. He huffs with amusement.
“Smartass,” he remarks. Then, he cracks his knuckles, as if preparing for some kind of major adventure. “So, I was thinking we could catch up on Survivor, or maybe I could do some cleaning for you while you read, or—”
“We?” you cut him off.
“Well, yeah. I took the day off,” Spencer shrugs. That probably should’ve been obvious, in hindsight. He’s not dressed for work, and it’s now well past the time that either of you would have to leave this apartment to make it to headquarters on time. Apparently, you were just too distracted by your excitement at seeing your lovely boyfriend to take any of this into consideration.
“To torment me,” you sigh.
“To take care of you,” Spencer corrects. “Ya know, since you’re too stubborn to do it yourself.”
“I resent that,” you whine, though he’s absolutely correct.
“They hated Jesus for speaking the truth, too,” he replies confidently, and you snort.
“Heh. Alright, fine, you’re very thoughtful,” you cave. “I maintain that I’m okay, but I am not opposed to having you all to myself. Or whatever.”
“Sweet. So, TV?” Spencer asks, already reaching for the remote. He turns on your TV and flips through your streaming services as you reply.
“Only so I can ogle Jeff Probst,” you say sarcastically. Spencer narrows his eyes at you in a sidelong glance.
“Remember who you’re talking to,” he threatens lightheartedly. You pout in mock apology.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you called dibs on him,” you reply, intentionally misinterpreting his warning.
“You’re very annoying when you’re pretending to not be in crippling pain,” Spencer complains, opening the CBS app on your television.
“Aw, Spence. It’s so cute how you can read my mind,” you beam, leaning over to hug his arm and press your weight against him in a dramatic show of affection. “We’re just two little peas in a pod.”
“Pea pods typically hold five to ten peas, actually,” he responds, abandoning his faux annoyance in exchange for that familiar, excited tone he uses when he gets to tell you a fun fact. Like always, you’re absolutely fascinated that he just knows these things, but you’re too preoccupied being a smartass to shower him with compliments.
“Okay, and? I evicted the others. Fuck them,” you declare, gesturing in a shooing motion.
“Alright, sure,” Spencer concedes. Then, because you’re practically shoving him off the bed, he demands, “Move over. Carefully.”
“Fine, fine,” you oblige, scooching back to your side of the bed and making a conscious effort not to jostle your hip. “Make yourself comfy.”
Spencer notices your awkward shimmy just as easily as he notices literally everything about you. He turns to you, concern etching his features.
“Do you need anything? Would a heating pad help? I can go buy some lidocaine patches, or—” he starts to ramble, but you cut him off.
“You know those don’t help,” you remind him. You feel a bit guilty when he responds with a dejected frown. Really, you don’t have anything to feel guilty about, since you would much rather prefer if lidocaine did help, and it’s not your fault that it doesn’t. You add, hoping to cheer him up a bit, “Thank you, though.”
“Of course. I hate seeing you in pain. And—”
“I’m—” you interject, but Spencer goes on.
“Stop interrupting me,” he directs. Your lips part, stubbornly trying to finish your sentence, but he continues, “And don’t try to convince me you’re not in pain. If it was bad enough for you to go see a doctor last night, I’m sure anyone else would be crying like a baby with that hip.”
You’re flattered that he seems to think you’re some sort of badass with an insanely high pain tolerance. You want to argue, to remind him that you’re just used to living with pain, and that you’re not actually that tough at all, but something about his sentiment gives you pause. You shoot him an amused glance.
“Even you?” you tease with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, especially me,” Spencer replies, nodding solemnly. He’s pretending to be more serious than he is, you know that, but you’re still comforted by the notion, regardless. You still feel pretty ridiculous complaining about a sore hip, but maybe being honest about it won’t be as humiliating as you’ve been imagining.
“...I considered going to the hospital and demanding their finest opioids,” you mumble, trying not to sound as vulnerable as you feel. You hate that your entire life has (and perhaps always will be) a struggle between being too sick to function “normally”, yet not feeling sick enough to be valid in being miserable. As much as you doubt yourself and put yourself down, though, Spencer’s always there to lift you up.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he says sympathetically, lifting a hand to run his fingers through your hair. “Hopefully, you’ll start to feel better when the inflammation goes down.”
“Yeah,” you shrug, leaning into his touch. His fingers trace your jawline, moving to cup your cheek.
“You look tired,” he notes softly. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“A, you’re supposed to think I look beautiful at all times,” you retort, though you are tired, so your attempted sass falls a bit short. “B, no.”
“You do look beautiful, baby,” Spencer assures you, leaning down to press a light kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls back and assesses the—surely very noticeable—dark circles under your eyes. “Just a little… sleep-deprived.”
“I need a cursed spinning wheel,” you sigh, dropping your head against his shoulder. You’re not even pretending to watch TV; you’re too exhausted.
“Oh, but I would miss you if you fell asleep for a hundred years,” Spencer responds, smoothing your hair as you curl against him.
“Well, I would hope so,” you mumble into his shoulder. “Just kiss me after like, a week or two.”
“Too long,” Spencer decides. You snort, lifting your head just enough to look up at him incredulously.
“A week is too long? What would you do without me?” you question, quirking a brow at him.
“Perish,” he declares, sighing heavily. You huff.
“Dramatic ass,” you tease. “I like that answer, though. Very devoted.”
It isn’t long until you’re drifting off, relaxing against him. Your brain feels foggy, and you vaguely register people’s voices emanating from the TV. You’re not sure how long you’ve been laying here like this, but eventually, Spencer pats your shoulder and whispers to you.
“Baby, roll over, please,” he requests.
“Mngh,” you grumble, not wanting to be disturbed. You were so damn comfy, what the hell is he bothering you for?
“You’re laying on your hip, just—” Spencer points out, trying to gently guide you into a different position. When you refuse to move, he groans. “Ugh.”
“‘M comf’,” you mumble, nuzzling impossibly further into his side.
“‘Comf’ or not, you’re gonna regret it,” he asserts, slowly extracting himself from beneath you.
“YOLO,” you declare, lazily pawing at his arm as he pulls away from him.
“Yes, dear,” Spencer chuckles softly, pulling his arm away from you and looking at you as sternly as he can muster. “Help me help you improve the quality of said life by getting off that hip.”
Knowing he’s not going to relent, you sigh a dramatic “hmph” and roll onto your good side. You’re immediately grumpy, given the fact that your back is now to Spencer and you’ve lost your favorite pillow (his arm).
“Thank you,” he says, squeezing your shoulder. You crane your neck to look over at him.
“We have to switch spots,” you decree.
“Why?” Spencer asks.
“I don’t like facing away from you,” you explain in a near-whine. Spencer’s perplexed look fades into a fond smile, and he rises from the bed without another question.
“Alright, hon,” he concedes, rounding the bed once more to slip into the other side. Once he’s laying beside you, you press up against him, smiling contently—and sleepily—as you rest your head on his chest. “Better?”
“Yes,” you hum approvingly, eyes fluttering shut.
“You going back to sleep?” he inquires.
“Mm,” you reply tiredly.
“Sleep tight,” he whispers into your hair. For the first time in days, you feel something other than pure pain as you’re overcome by sleep.
(in progress lol) starting my own list so I can find them easily! tired of scrolling through my likes for eight million years to find a specific fic.
there are 18+ works in here. interact at your own peril. i've marked most of the explicit ones but sometimes i'm forgetful.
updated december 27, 2025
angst
beneath the surface by @slashire
intertwined, sewn together by @pathologicalreid
hang on to the night by @clementineinn
love me in now by @mggluvrsblog
out of the woods by @cherryblossomfairyy
pulse point by @mariasont
undercover by @luvendiary
when chaos ensues by @luvendiary
fluff
a little more by @girldeadsworld
checkmate by @thoughtwriter
closer by @blaysreid
coffee and journals by @i-get-obsessed-fast
comfort by @little-jana
confession by @gf2bellamy
cuddlebug by @mandarinmoons
cuddly by @blaysreid
for all of the universe by @nerdiculous
lemongrass by @siriuslylantsov
little things by @spotlessminded
love letters in the margins by @moonlight-joy
memory serves by @brattyspence (18+)
miss independent by @mandarinmoons
missing kiss by @spidercatweb
morning flusters by @little-jana (18+)
operation: keep it together (fail) by @iamgonnagetyouback
out like a light by @pathologicalreid
plath and dostoevsky by @rosemarysroom
rooms without heat by @blaysreid
save it for a rainy day by @gummy-cat-writes
shooting stars by @nerdiculous
star maps by @esote-rika (18+)
statistically yours by @iamgonnagetyouback
stuck like glue by @cherrygarcia-07
sweet dreams by @loved-reid
the bau's secret weapon by @moonlight-joy
the l word by @pathologicalreid (18+)
the universe, briefly interrupted by @mariasont
the wish list by @spelledbyreid
weighted blanket by @cherrygarcia-07
hurt/comfort
angel kisses by @writingviv04
apparent loss or modification of information by @luveline
a simple favor by @monzabee
bruises by @moonstruckme
buzz by @pencil-n-pen
crave by @galesbabygirl
cry about it by @mandarinmoons
cryptic by @pathologicalreid
feeling better by @spidercatweb
ice packs by @l0vergirlwrites
i'm so over feeling lonely by @apples-and-all-that
insecurities by @evilincoperated
in the face of death by @mytherapyisreading14
just close your eyes by @void-kisses
overwhelmed by @bringmeanangel
pillow talk by @little-jana (18+)
pressure points by @gghostwriter
soothing touch by @bringmeanangel
spencer x intern!reader by @moonstruckme
the ones we can't save by @lov3lyl3tters
through sickness and health by @blaysreid
unspoken care by @bringmeanangel
you can let it go by @reidrum
smut (all 18+)
breakfast in bed by @whisperedmeg
casual tendencies by @oneofreid
chemical reaction by @cuzxai
fyeo (for your eyes only) by @pathologicalreid
gentle devotion by @goofygubegubler
on neurotransmitters and receiving pleasure by @miedei
statistically significant by @verricherri
the alchemy of us by @eternlmoonshine
summary: spencer has spent so long being the one who steadies you, up until an unsub he sees too much of himself in knocks him off-balance. he asks for space but ends up at your door anyway, and you become the tether you didn’t know he needed.
genre: hurt/comfort tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, canon-typical violence: unsub is killed (suicide by cop), mentions of trauma & bullying (reid’s goalpost story from 3x16), brief mentions of parental mental illness/neglect, needy clingy spencer, kissing, emotional intimacy, non-sexual nudity (showering together), no use of y/n
a/n: i pulled inspo for this fic from s3e16 “elephant’s memory” — the case/unsub isn’t meant to be exactly the same, but you’ll recognize key parts of 3x16 here (and there’s a slight canon divergence where you have to pretend Reid & Morgan’s bullying convo in that ep never happened). next greenaway!reader fic is coming later this month (sneak peek) before my event and will be a BIG one, so stay tuned! | GIF by eva @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
The unsub’s hands are shaking.
He can’t be older than nineteen. He’s too thin for the coat he’s wearing, swallowed by it, shoulders hunched like he’s been bracing for impact his whole life. The rifle looks huge and wrong against him, like a prop someone handed the wrong person. He looks like a kid. He is a kid.
Spencer is ten feet away with his palms up. His voice is low and steady in that way that always makes your chest ache — like he thinks if he stays gentle enough, the world will be gentle back.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I know you’re scared.”
The kid’s eyes flicker. Focus, then blur. Like he’s looking at Spencer and through him at the same time.
Around you, the perimeter holds its breath: uniforms, SWAT, Hotch’s stillness. Everyone waiting for the moment the situation inevitably tips.
Spencer keeps going.
“You’ve been hurt,” he says. “You’ve been humiliated and you didn’t deserve any of that.”
The kid’s mouth twitches, and a sound catches in his throat.
He doesn’t lower the gun, but for a second—just a second—his shoulders drop like he wants to believe Spencer.
“Look at me,” Spencer says. “You’re not a monster.”
The kid blinks fast. Wet lashes, red-rimmed eyes.
“Don’t,” he croaks, voice cracking around the word like it hurts. “They tortured me! Every day, this town found new ways to tear me down. Don’t act like you know what that’s like.”
Spencer’s throat works. “I do, though. I know exactly what it feels like to be the kid everybody watches and nobody helps. And if you put down that gun and let me walk you out of here, I promise we can get you some help.”
For a moment, the kid pauses, and it almost looks like he’s considering doing what Spencer asked. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks around, looks back at Spencer with a fleeting flicker of hope. But then he blinks again and tightens his grip around the rifle like it’s too late to change course. Too late to make a different decision.
You see it before Spencer does. Or maybe he sees it and refuses to believe it.
The kid’s gaze skates past Spencer, and with a sudden, almost deliberate motion, he lifts the rifle.
“Wait—” Spencer says, voice rising for the first time, cracking. “No— no! Don’t—”
A loud crack cuts through the air and sends the kid to the ground.
Spencer doesn’t move. He’s still standing with his hands up, frozen, staring at the unsub’s body as blood pools around him.
Hotch says his name. “Reid.”
Spencer lowers his arms slowly, like he’s fighting gravity.
His gaze is still locked on the kid on the ground. On the rifle lying useless beside him, like it was never the point at all.
“He— he was listening to me,” Spencer says under his breath, hoarse. “He was listening. I thought—”
You reach for him, careful, and when your fingers brush his elbow you feel it — his whole body trembling, the way he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“That kid was trying to force our hand. That was always his plan. He wanted to die,” someone says nearby, too loud, too blunt. A cop trying to make it clean and simple.
Spencer’s head turns sharply.
“He just wanted it all to stop,” he says, voice razor-thin. “He couldn’t see a way out. It’s not the same thing.”
Then Spencer turns back to the body like he can rewind time if he stares hard enough. Like he can change the outcome.
For a second, you can’t tell if he’s breathing.
He’s so still it’s unnatural — still frozen in the moments before the shot. Like the part of him that reached for the kid hasn’t caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to reach for.
You step in closer until you’re at his shoulder, but his eyes still don’t leave the blood, because he isn’t just seeing the boy on the pavement.
He’s seeing a version of himself that didn’t make it out.
—
The jet is dim and humming, the kind of soft, constant noise that usually helps your nerves settle. Tonight it just makes everything feel underwater.
The team is scattered in their usual places: Rossi reads, Prentiss has her eyes closed, Morgan’s listening to music, Hotch and JJ skim through files.
Spencer is sitting across the aisle.
Not beside you.
Even after cases that leave you both scraped raw, he always ends up beside you. But tonight, he doesn’t.
That’s the first wrong thing, and it makes you itch.
The second wrong thing is the book in his hands. It’s open, yes, but his eyes keep sliding over the same line like it’s written in a language he’s forgotten how to read. His knee bounces. His fingers drum a pattern on the page — tap tap pause, tap tap tap.
You wait. Five minutes. Then ten. The itch under your skin keeps getting worse.
Finally, you lean across the aisle and keep your voice low. “You’re not fooling me.”
He doesn’t look up. “What?”
“You’re pretending you’re reading,” you say, “but you’ve been on the same page since we hit cruising altitude.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m reading.”
You blink slowly. “Okay.”
Silence stretches. The engine hum fills the gaps.
You try again, softer this time. “You almost had him, Spence.”
His head snaps up, eyes sharp, bright with fatigue and something else that makes your chest pinch.
“Stop. Don’t,” he says.
It’s clipped and sharp and immediate, like you stepped on a wire.
You hold still. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it sound like that was—” He stops, throat working. “It wasn’t a win.”
“I’m not saying it was a win,” you whisper. “I’m saying you did everything you could.”
Your fingers curl around the armrest. You pick your next words carefully, like they’re glass.
“You’re allowed to be upset,” you say. “It’s normal to—”
“Can you not do this right now?” he cuts in sharply.
Your stomach drops. His face immediately shifts, like he realizes how it sounded, but he doesn’t pull it back. He can’t. He’s too far out on the ledge.
You stare at him for a beat.
Then, because it’s true and because you’re not going to sugarcoat him into thinking this is fine:
“You’re being kind of a dick,” you say, quiet enough that only he can hear. “And I know you’re not a dick. So what’s actually going on?”
He flinches, and for a second you think he’s going to shut down, fold himself into that seat and lock you out completely.
Instead he exhales, long and shaky, and his eyes flick to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. “I just… I can’t talk about this right now.”
“I’m not asking you to pour your heart out at thirty thousand feet, Spencer. I’m asking you to stop pretending you’re fine, and to let me be there for you.”
His throat bobs. He looks back down at the book. His fingers tighten around it until the pages crinkle.
“I really thought I was getting through to him,” he says finally, voice so low you almost miss it. “For a second I really thought I’d get him out of there alive.”
Your chest aches.
“I know,” you say softly.
He sits there for another beat, frozen between wanting space and wanting you.
Then he closes the book, stands, and crosses the aisle.
He drops into the seat beside you like it’s the only place left in the world.
His knee bumps yours and he stares straight ahead, jaw tight, one hand settling on the armrest between you.
You let your knuckles brush his for half a second. He shifts just enough that his hand presses against yours, not quite holding, but not letting go either.
You look out of the dark window and swallow the worry until it’s quiet.
—
By the time you get home, your body is running on muscle memory and fear.
Keys. Lock. Shoes kicked off in the general direction of the mat. You flick on a lamp and the living room blooms into soft light that doesn’t match the way your chest feels.
It’s too quiet. There’s too much room for your brain to start replaying the last twenty-four hours like it’s trying to find the exact frame where everything went wrong.
On the tarmac, Spencer had walked with you all the way down the stairs, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours once. You’d let yourself believe, for half a second, that he was going to get in your car like he usually does after cases. That you’d end up back here together, washing the week off in the shower, trading exhausted jokes in the kitchen, falling asleep with your bodies tangled because neither of you knows how to do distance anymore.
Instead, he’d stopped and said:
“I think I need some space tonight.”
You blinked.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he added quickly, like that made it better.
You didn’t argue. You could’ve; you wanted to. But you swallowed it down because you’re trying — really trying — to be the kind of girlfriend who doesn’t make everything about her issues. To be the kind of person who can hear I need space without hearing I’m leaving.
So you nodded, kept your voice steady. “Okay.”
Now you’re alone in your apartment, staring at the empty space on the couch where his long legs usually end up, and you hate how fast your brain starts building stories out of nothing.
You drag your fingers through your hair. You should shower. You should eat something. You should do anything that isn’t standing in the middle of your living room like a ghost in your own life.
Eventually, you move into the kitchen and fill a glass with water you don’t drink and lean your hip against the counter.
Your phone stays face-down on the table where you can’t stare at it.
If he said he’d call tomorrow, he’ll call tomorrow. Spencer Reid is a lot of things, but he’s never careless with promises.
Still, your chest aches, dull and persistent, like a bruise you keep pressing to see if it still hurts.
You’re halfway through convincing yourself to move again when the knock comes.
Two soft taps that signal, immediately, that they don’t belong to anyone else.
You’re at the door before you can think.
Spencer stands in the hall, cardigan wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes shining like he hasn’t blinked enough since the case ended. He looks… smaller, somehow.
For a second he just stands there, like he’s waiting for you to tell him he shouldn’t be here.
“Spencer,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean it to.
His throat works. He swallows like it hurts.
“I know I said I—” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.
You grab his sleeve and pull him inside with one decisive motion, like the question was never whether he could come in, only how long it would take you to get your hands on him. The door clicks shut behind him and the sound is weirdly final, like you’ve shut out everything except this.
He exhales — one shaky breath that feels like a surrender, and you slide your palms up his arms, grounding yourself in the reality of him: warm, solid, here. You tip your chin up and kiss him once, slow and soft and steady.
When you pull back, he keeps his forehead close to yours, eyes closed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“For what?” you ask, because you need him to say it.
His eyes open. They flick over your face like he’s counting you, making sure you’re real.
“For being a jerk on the jet. For needing—” He stops, jaw tightening. Then, quieter: “For not being able to do tonight by myself.”
Something in your chest loosens at that.
“That’s okay,” you say. “I’ll make some tea.”
He lets go of you so you can walk towards the kitchen, but follows you like a shadow. Like if you step too far away, he might slip back into the dark.
“Green?” you ask. “Or black? Chamomile maybe?”
He hovers in the doorway for half a beat, then he steps closer.
“Whatever you’re having.”
You open a cabinet with more force than necessary. The mugs clink. The sound makes you flinch and he flinches with you, like your nervous systems are wired together now, some odd little Bluetooth connection you never knew you were agreeing to.
You can feel him behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body presses into your back without him actually touching you. You’d tease him on a normal night — ever heard of personal space, Dr. Reid? — but tonight you don’t.
The kettle starts to fill. Water rushes over metal, loud in the quiet.
“You said you needed space,” you say lightly.
“I know I did,” he murmurs.
You glance at him over your shoulder.
He looks miserable. Not dramatic-miserable, but Spencer-miserable.
“But?” you prompt.
His eyes flick to yours. He holds them. That alone feels like a confession.
“I needed you,” he admits, and it’s so quiet you almost miss it.
Something in you softens at that.
“Okay,” you say. “So you’re here.”
You turn back to the counter and set the kettle on its base. The click is sharp. You reach for the tea tin and—
—and his arms come around you.
His forearms lock across your stomach and he bends to press his face into the side of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to recalibrate. Like he walked all the way here on instinct and now that he’s got you, he doesn’t know what else to do except hold on.
You let out a slow breath and lean back into him, giving him permission without words.
“I’m here,” you whisper.
He makes a sound — half exhale, half something he wanted to say but swallowed back instead — and his arms tighten again.
Your heart does this stupid, tender ache that makes you want to punch a wall.
You tilt your head just enough to brush your mouth against his temple. A kiss that says stay.
He shifts, lips skimming the side of your jaw in return.
When you reach for the tea again, he doesn’t let go.
He just follows the motion, glued to your back, moving with you as you drop the tea bags into the mugs, as you pour the hot water, as you add honey without asking because you know he likes it that way.
It would be funny, on any other night. A tall, lanky, genius of a grown man clinging to you in your kitchen like a lost kid at the county fair.
Tonight, it just makes your throat burn.
“Breathe,” you say softly.
“I am,” he murmurs, but you can hear the lie in it.
So you inhale, slow and deliberate, and hold it just long enough for him to feel it before breathing out.
His chest rises against your back, uneven at first — then, gradually, his breath matches yours.
There. That’s something, at least. You feel it in the way his hands stop flexing, in the way his shoulders drop a millimeter, as if you’ve coaxed him down from some internal ledge.
When you finally turn in his arms, mug in each hand, he doesn’t step back.
You hold his gaze and tip your chin. “Couch.”
He nods, finally releasing you long enough to let you lead him into the living room.
You set the mugs down on the coffee table. Before you can move to the other end of the couch to sit, his fingers catch your wrist, gentle but firm.
“Don’t go far,” he says.
Your chest tightens again, that same sweet bruise.
You step closer, slide your palms up his arms, and kiss him once more, a little deeper this time, because you want him to feel it.
When you pull back, his eyes stay shut for a second, like he’s memorizing the shape of the moment.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him.
And for the first time since the gunshot, the tension in his face eases just enough that you can see the person underneath it again.
He sits, knees spread, forearms on his thighs, mug cooling on the table untouched. You settle beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his.
For a while, neither of you speaks. Then, quietly, he says, “I wasn’t lying when I said I knew what it was like.”
Your throat tightens.
“On the scene,” he adds, still not looking at you. “When I was talking to the unsub.”
You nod once, slow, but you don’t speak. You’ve learned — through the job, through him, through yourself — that people say more when you let the silence simmer.
Spencer swallows. His fingers knit together and then unknot again. You feel his knee start bouncing again, that familiar frantic tempo, and you press your palm over it. The motion stutters, then slows.
“Before we cleared the area,” Spencer says, “I saw him scan the crowd for threats the same way I used to scan school hallways.”
Your chest gives a small, aching jerk.
“You used to do that?”
“Of course I did,” he murmurs. “I learned pretty early on that if you can predict who’s going to hurt you, you can… you can minimize the damage by avoiding certain people. Certain places. Certain tones of voice.”
He finally looks at you then, and it’s devastating, how sad his eyes are. Like he’s been carrying this feeling around forever and today he got reminded of the weight.
“And earlier, watching him, I just kept thinking—he and I learned the same skill, but where I learned to adapt, he learned to—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight. “To retaliate.”
You shift closer, your thigh fully against his now. Your hand slides from his knee to the inside of his wrist, thumb finding his pulse.
“I don’t think it’s just watching him die that got to me,” he says. “We see unsubs get taken down all the time.”
“Spence,” you murmur, a warning and a comfort wrapped together.
He closes his eyes.
“It was that when he looked at me,” Spencer continues, voice dropping, “it felt like… like he recognized me.”
A beat passes, then another.
“Like he was looking in a mirror,” he adds. “And… he wasn’t wrong to see that.”
The admission sits between you, heavy and terrible.
You want to say a hundred things. You want to tell him he’s not anything like that. You want to list all the ways he’s different, all the ways he’s good, all the ways he’s Spencer, your Spencer.
But you know him too well. If you come at him with reassurance right now, he’ll dodge it like it’s a thrown object.
“Talk to me,” you whisper instead.
He looks at you again, and something passes over his face — fear, maybe. Or relief. Or both, tangled together.
“I keep thinking,” he says, “if I’d had one more minute… if I’d just said the right thing… if I’d been better at it…”
“You were good at it,” you cut in, gentle but firm. “You were amazing at it. You’re the only one of us who could’ve even come close to getting through to him.”
His jaw clenches. “And yet he still died.”
You slide your other hand up to the side of his face, fingers brushing his cheekbone, grounding him in something human.
“Spence,” you say, and it comes out soft in a way you don’t always allow yourself. “Look at me.”
The hurt in his eyes makes your own burn. You blink hard, once, and refuse to let it spill. You need to be the solid one right now.
“You can’t save everyone,” you say quietly. “Even if you do everything right.”
“I know that,” he says. “Logically, I understand that’s true.”
“Okay,” you reply. “Then this isn’t logical. So tell me what it is.”
He stares at you for a long second like he’s deciding whether to let you see something he normally keeps locked behind his teeth.
Then he exhales, slow.
“It’s terrifying,” he admits. “To—” His voice catches, and he clears his throat, angry at his own body. “To stand there and realize that the person in the room who you have the most in common with is the bad guy. To… know just how close you were to turning into him. How close you still could be.”
Your stomach drops. You keep your hand on his face. You don’t let him drift away.
He swallows again, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like he’s seeing a different room.
“I was in the library,” he begins. “And Harper Hillman comes up to me. She tells me that, uh, Alexa Lisbon wants to meet me behind the field house. Alexa Lisbon was, like, easily the prettiest girl in school.”
You can almost see it: young Spencer, book-bag slung over one shoulder, heart doing something stupid and hopeful despite everything he knew.
Your chest aches so hard you feel it in your teeth.
You keep your voice quiet, steady. “So what happened? Alexa wasn’t there?”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second, then away.
“She was there,” he says. “So was the entire football team.” His jaw tightens. “They… stripped me naked and tied me to a goalpost.”
The words are blunt, clinical, like he’s trying to numb them by making them factual.
But nothing about this is numb.
“So many kids were there,” Spencer continues, voice rougher now. “You know, just… just watching. Nobody tried to stop them.”
Your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair gently, like you’re holding him in place.
He keeps staring into nowhere, blinking too fast.
“I begged,” he says, and the word is barely a whisper. “I begged them to, but they just…” His throat works. He swallows hard. “They just watched.”
Your stomach twists violently. You press your forehead to his temple for a second, a quiet, involuntary gesture of I’m here.
Spencer inhales shakily.
“And finally,” he says, “they got bored and they left.”
He laughs once, empty. “It was like midnight when I finally got home, and my mom didn’t—” He stops, eyes squeezing shut. “My mom was having one of her episodes, so she didn’t even realize I was late.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Your mind keeps trying to build an image and rejecting it because it’s too cruel to hold. Spencer, barefoot on cold grass, rope burns, humiliated, alone. Spencer walking home in the dark to a mother too confused to notice.
You feel something feral rise in you, hot and protective and murderous, but you put that anger aside because you know he doesn’t need you to hunt down Harper Hillman and Alexa Lisbon and the entire football team right now (no matter how badly you want to). That’s not why he’s telling you this.
Your hand tightens on the back of his neck. Your other hand slides down his arm and finds his hand, prying his fist open slowly until his fingers uncurl into your palm.
“You never told her, did you?” you say quietly.
Spencer shakes his head. “I thought—” His voice cracks. “It’s one of those things that I thought if I didn’t talk about it, I’d just forget, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”
Your throat burns. You swallow.
You shift until your knees tuck against his thighs and your arms can wrap around him properly. His hands hover for a heartbeat — uncertain, like he’s forgotten how to be held without it meaning he’s weak.
Then you guide him, gentle and firm, and he folds into you. He leans his head against your shoulder and lets you pull him closer.
He exhales against you, shuddering. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and you can tell he means it for a hundred things at once.
“Stop,” you say. You pull back just enough to look at him. “Don’t apologize to me for… surviving, or for telling me about it.”
His eyes flicker. The shame tries to reassert itself.
You don’t let it.
“Hey,” you murmur. “Look at me.”
He does, and you take a long breath, pushing back against the part of you that still wants to run from honesty and closeness; the voice inside your head that, while much quieter now than it once was, still tries to convince you that letting him all the way in is a bad idea.
“You are the safest person I’ve ever known, Spencer Reid,” you say slowly, letting him feel every word. “And you’re sitting here acting like you’re dangerous because you understand first-hand what pain can do to people.” Your thumb traces his pulse at his jaw. “But… you understanding that is the whole point. It makes you good at this job. It makes you human.”
He stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe you.
“I’ve never told anyone that story before,” he says quietly.
The weight of it presses down, intimate and terrifying. You feel it in your ribs: his trust, his choice.
He swallows. “You’re the only person I've ever wanted to tell. And I didn’t… I didn’t want to be alone with it.”
Your heart does something painful and tender at the same time.
“You don’t have to be alone with anything anymore,” you murmur. “Not if you don’t want to be.”
His eyes shine. He doesn’t blink.
“I don’t think I really realized how much I need you until tonight,” he says quietly. “I’ve always wanted you, obviously. But I need you, too.”
Your breath catches.
You slide your fingers into his hair, hold him close.
“You have me,” you say. “Okay? You have me.”
—
Time passes in small, quiet ways.
In the tea that goes cold on the coffee table because neither of you remembers to drink it. In the way the city noise outside shifts from restless to sleepy. In the way Spencer’s grip on you loosens — not because he wants to let go, but because he doesn’t feel like he has to hold on for dear life anymore.
At some point, you stop counting his breaths and start trusting them.
He stays curled into you on the couch for a long time, forehead tucked against your shoulder, one hand spread at your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Every so often his fingers flex, as if he’s checking you’re still there. Every time you slide your palm over his knuckles in answer.
You don’t talk much. There isn’t a clean follow-up line to they tied me to a goalpost that makes the world make sense again. There’s just… being.
You feel him come back to himself in increments. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. The tightness behind his eyes softens into something tired instead of broken.
When he finally lifts his head, it’s careful, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.
His eyes meet yours.
“There you are,” you say softly.
A tiny smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Hi.”
He reaches up, thumb brushing your cheekbone where you’d wiped away a tear earlier that you’re refusing to acknowledge.
“I’m sorry,” he starts again.
You catch his wrist gently. “Don’t be.”
You sit up slowly, stretching your legs, and he follows your movement immediately like his body has decided you’re the North Star and he’s not fighting it anymore.
“Do you want to shower?” you ask.
He hesitates for half a beat, then nods. “Yeah.”
In the bathroom, you move around each other the way you always do. It’s a familiar routine. Toothbrushes side by side, your sweatshirt abandoned on the counter, his fingers catching yours when you reach for the same towel.
The shower steam turns the harshness of the day into something blurred at the edges. You wash your hair and he stands behind you, hands resting gently on your hips, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder like he can’t help himself. Like the nearness is still a need, even now that he’s steadier.
You turn, water sliding down the sides of your face, and he’s looking at you in that quiet, intent way he always does when he’s thinking too hard.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head, almost embarrassed. “Nothing.”
You don’t let him get away with it, but you also don’t press like an interrogator. You just step closer, palms flattening against his chest, and tip your chin up.
He leans down and kisses you, slow and sure, like he’s re-learning what it feels like to be held without punishment. You kiss him back until the tension in his shoulders fully releases, until his hands slide up your back and settle there like they belong.
When you pull away, he stays close, nose brushing yours.
“You’re…” he starts, then stops, as if he can’t find a word that isn’t too big.
You grin, trying to lighten the air around him. “I’m what? Your perfect, wonderful, super hot girlfriend?”
He laughs for a second — an actual laugh, warm and surprised.
“Well, yes,” he admits, a little helpless. “That’s true too.” His gaze drops for a beat, then returns to yours. “But I was going to say that you… you make it quieter. All of it.”
Your throat tightens, because you know what he means. You quiet his self-doubt, his self-criticism, his fear.
“You make it easier to breathe,” you answer, and it comes out softer than you expected. Honest in a way you don’t usually allow yourself to be. “Like I can stop bracing for the worst all the time.”
His eyes flicker — surprise, something bright and almost shy — and then he smiles softly. “Good,” he murmurs.
When you get out, you hand him a towel. He reaches for it but uses it to tug you in instead, wrapping it around both of you for a second like a makeshift shelter.
You rest your cheek against his skin and let his warmth sink into your bones.
In your bedroom, the routine continues.
He moves around your space like he belongs there, and he does. It’s etched into all the quiet details: the drawer you emptied for him months ago, the small stack of books he keeps on your nightstand, the fact he knows where you store your extra pillows and you know which side of the mattress he drifts toward in his sleep.
You watch him for a moment as he stands at the edge of the bed, shirt in his hands, hair damp, skin still flushed from the shower.
There’s something about seeing him like this — unarmored — that always makes your chest go tight. Like you’re witnessing something you weren’t supposed to get access to.
He catches you staring and raises his eyebrows faintly as he pulls the fabric over his head. “What?”
You shrug, attempting casual and failing. “Nothing.”
He gives you that small, knowing smile and climbs into bed. When you follow, he reaches for you immediately — an arm around your waist, pulling you in until your back is against his chest.
You settle with a sigh you didn’t realize you’d been holding in all day. His hand slides up your side, slow and grounding, then comes to rest over your ribs where your heartbeat keeps thudding like it’s trying to prove something.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair.
“For what?”
“For coming to the door,” he says quietly. “For not making me explain before I could even think straight.” His arm tightens once, steady. “For letting me be here.”
You turn in his arms, just enough to look at him. In the dark, his eyes catch what little light there is, and they’re softer now.
“Like I was gonna leave you out there in the hall,” you murmur, thumb skimming his jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
His mouth twitches, almost a laugh.
“I didn’t know what I needed,” he admits. “But it was you. I just needed you.”
“I know,” you whisper. “You have me.”
For a second, he almost looks like he might say something bigger. Something he can’t take back. But instead, he swallows it and leans in to kiss you again, the kind of kiss that still makes your stomach flip even after everything. Like you’re still new to each other, like you’re still learning, like you’ll never be done.
When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice already thick with sleep, “I’m going to be better.”
You hold his face between your hands for a moment, grounding him the way he’s grounded you so many times.
“You don’t have to be,” you say softly. “Just… be here.”
His eyes close on a slow exhale.
“I’m here. I’m yours,” he says, and the words are so devastatingly sincere that you feel them settle in your bones.
You settle back against him as his arm tightens around you, and then his breathing evens out, sleep taking him.
You lie there in the dark with him warm at your back, his hand over your heart like he’s using it to keep time, and you let yourself absorb the quiet.
It’s not total silence or stillness, not really. Not with his breathing in your ear or his palm rising and falling over your ribs.
You shift a fraction, and his arm tightens around you like he can’t bear to let you drift too far, even in sleep. It makes your throat burn with a feeling you refuse to name tonight, so you settle for staring up at the ceiling until your eyes go soft.
Tomorrow will arrive with its teeth. The job will soon enough hand you another case that chips away at your soul.
But tonight, Spencer found you anyway.
And you let yourself believe — just for this one quiet stretch of night — that if the world ever tries to pull you apart, he’ll still reach for you in the dark. That you’ll still reach back.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
& don’t forget to send in requests for my 2k event, greenaway!reader marathon, happening next month!
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
— ★ your relationship with spencer is taking its next steps—sharing subway rides, washing his hair, spending time in his apartment, and late night phone calls—all of which reveal new things about the two of you.
pairing: spencer reid x sweetheart!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: scars, prison, secret relationship ( they're still hiding their relationship from the team ), mention of spencer being bullied in school, one small mention of diana's episodes and how they affected spencer, shirtless spencer ( non - sexual )
a/n: this is so long i'm so sorry. i have no idea what happened. also, if you feel the need to read into their interactions, you're more than welcome to. that was exactly my intention with this part <3 gif credits to @reidgif <33
masterlist
Spencer stood on the platform of the subway station, his breath forming little clouds in the freezing air. He checked his phone again, worry biting at him. Just as he was about to tap your name on his screen for the third time, you emerged from behind a man in a heavy coat. A small puff of relief escaped him, visible in the air.
“Hi, I’m here,” you gasped, slightly out of breath, snow dusting your shoulders and hair like powdered sugar.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t pick you up,” he said as you stepped into his arms. He set the coffee cups down on a bench briefly, his hands coming up to meet you, reciprocating the hug you reached for. His fingers gently brushed the fresh flakes from the shoulders of your jacket.
The snowfall had been heavier than forecasted, turning the roads quite dangerous. Wisely, you’d decided to forgo driving. A call to Spencer revealed he was already at his station, apologizing profusely and already offering to trek all the way back for his car. You’d assured him the subway was simpler, that you’d meet him and ride together. He’d agreed instantly, then immediately ducked into the station kiosk to buy two coffees, missing his original train without a second thought just to wait for you.
“No worries,” you muffled into his scarf. You leaned back, your cold hands coming up to frame his face and stretched up to press a kiss to his lips.
He returned your kiss happily. When you parted, he handed you your cup. “Thank you,” you shuddered, wrapping your fingers around the blessed heat. You wore thick gloves, but the cold had seeped deep into your bones.
“I woke up quite late today,” you confessed, leaning your weight against him. Spencer adjusted, slipping his arm around your shoulders, his hand rubbing over your upper arm. “I barely had time to get ready, and then I saw the snow, and then I had to run through the snow,” you sighed, a little exasperated with the morning.
Spencer listened. Carefully, he brushed away the melting snow from your coat, then lifted his hand to gently pick a few flakes from your hair.
“I look terrible,” you mumbled, tucking hair behind your ear.
“You look beautiful.”
A small smile touched your lips, and you turned to nuzzle closer into his side, making him smile.“When’s the subway coming?” you asked, taking a sip of the hot coffee.
“Two minutes,” he said, checking the overhead display.
Spencer knew that the air was bitingly cold. He felt it in the way your body trembled slightly against his side. His hand moved up and down your arm. But, he couldn't feel the cold himself. Not the sting on his cheeks, not the chill seeping through his coat. A warmth had settled in his chest, radiating outwards, insulating him completely. The source was currently taking a careful sip of coffee and he found he couldn't look away.
He stared down at you, utterly captivated, his own coffee forgotten and cooling in his hand. You were watching the rails, but then your gaze, always so observant, a trait he adored, drifted to a businessman nearby. He saw you quint slightly, trying to decipher the small label on a folder in the man’s hand. Spencer had to press his lips together to suppress a fond smile.
Your attention then wandered, drifting slowly downward until you were staring at Spencer's shoes. You stayed like that for a long moment, and Spencer’s heart sped up. He realized exactly what you were doing. You were trying to get a glimpse of his socks without having to ask.
Obliging, he pushed one foot forward slightly, angling it to give you a clear view of his sock. He repeated the motion with the other foot. He knew you were aware of his habit of wearing mismatched socks, and the fact that you took such genuine interest in which patterns he’d chosen today made him incredibly happy.
“Snowflakes and snowmen,” you mumbled. Then you looked up, your eyes meeting his. “They’re so cute, Spencer.”
“They seemed seasonally appropriate,” he smiled softly at you.
You were a remarkably fast coffee drinker. He wasn’t shocked at all to see you drain the last of it just as the approaching train began to vibrate through the platform. A trait that even he regarded with awe.
As the train’s lights appeared in the tunnel, he took your empty cup and tossed your cup into a nearby bin. You thanked him with a delighted smile, already reaching for his hand.
The subway car was relatively empty. Spencer led you to a pair of seats near the middle, a spot he favored for its view. Given you didn't spend much time on the subway, he wanted you to have the window.
"Here," he said softly, gesturing for you to take the seat by the glass before settling in beside you. He finally took a long sip of his own, now lukewarm, coffee. As the doors shut, he noticed you looking around carefully.
Spencer understood instantly. He leaned in closer. "The team doesn't take this subway."
You turned to look at him, your expression one of mild surprise. A guilty smile touched your lips. "Oh. Okay."
Some of the tension seemed to leave your shoulders. You let out a small sigh and slowly lowered your head to rest your cheek against the his coat. He could still see your eyes, though now half-lidded, continuing to track the other passengers.
Only when he felt your body truly relax, did he carefully shift. He lifted his arm from the seatback and draped it around your shoulders, drawing you in a little more.
You pressed closer, turning into him, burying your face i his chest. Spencer's free hand now came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through your hair. He pressed a kiss to your crown.
Feeling you grow heavy against him, he whispered into your hair. "Hey, don't fall asleep on me." He knew you were a deeply groggy waker. Once sleep claimed you, even for ten minutes, it would take you ages to reorient yourself. A state he loved but knew was less than ideal right before a workday.
"Okay," you mumbled. You didn't move an inch.
Spencer smiled to himself, utterly endeared. He held perfectly still, even as his muscles began to protest. He finished his coffee one handed. When the cup was empty, he scanned the car, spotted a small trash bin by the doors, and leaned just far enough to deposit it without jostling you.
“Do you need help with your files today?” Spencer asked softly, turning his head to press his lips to your crown once more.
You thought for a moment. “I think you’ve been helping enough,” you smiled against his chest before raising your head to look at him
“I could always do more.”
“Mmm, no, that’s fine,” you said softly. “Don’t want the others to notice just yet.” You were still keeping your relationship under wraps after all. “Besides, I really don’t have many to work on today. Thank you though.”
Spencer nodded. His gaze remained fixed on you, tracing the lines of your face as the weak winter sun streamed through the grimy window lighting up your profile. The subway car was nearly empty. One of the small perks of being two overworked FBI agents keeping unconventional hours. You smiled, watching him watch you.
He lifted a hand, his fingers tenderly framing the side of your face. Gently, he pulled you closer and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you,” he mumbled against your skin.
You hadn’t seen each other over the weekend. It was unplanned. Spencer had wanted to call, but he’d overthought it. You’d spent most of the previous week together. Three evenings at his apartment lost in books and takeout, followed by two intense days side by side on a draining case. By Friday, doubt had crept in. He wasn’t sure if you’d want more of him so soon.
“I missed you too,” you murmured, your eyelashes fluttering slightly at the tender contact.
He stared at you then, his expression softening. He knew he was looking at you with what Garcia would call “heart eyes,” but in this moment, he didn’t have the capacity to feel self conscious about it. It was nice, more than nice, to know that someone had genuinely missed his presence. Because so often he couldn’t even stand his own.
“Wait,” you mumbled suddenly, pulling away slightly. You turned in your seat and began to rummage through your handbag. “I went shopping this weekend and found something.”
His heart did a funny little skip when you finally let out an “aha!” and pulled out a small object. “Here.”
It was a keychain. A simple one, featuring the iconic Starfleet insignia from Star Trek.
“You mentioned,” your voice softening, “a few months ago, that you used to watch Star Trek with your mom when you were younger. And I saw the DVD sets in your living room.” You looked up at him. “I thought you might like this.”
Your tone held a note of nervousness. You were worried it might seem silly, or that remembering such an offhand detail from a conversation long before you started dating might come across as strange, maybe even intense.
But for Spencer, it was anything but intense. Weird? No. It was the opposite of weird. You had not only listened, but remembered.
He lifted it closer, his thumb brushing over it. “Thank you,” he breathed out, the words feeling utterly insufficient. “That’s really… that’s incredibly thoughtful of you.” He managed the sentence without a single stutter, a victory considering his heart was hammering against his ribs.
You smiled softly, still slightly nervous. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” Spencer mumbled, his gaze still locked on the keychain. He loved that it came from you.
Then, he grabbed his satchel. He turned it, found a metal ring on the strap, and carefully clipped the keychain into place. You watched the entire process with a delighted smile.
Finally, he looked up, meeting your eyes. He was completely smitten. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for thinking of me.”
“You’re welcome,” you replied, your own smile now matching his joy.
The two of you seemed to live in these comfortable silences and shared stares. You smiled softly, breaking the quiet.
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
You rummaged through your bag again and pulled out a small tube of lip gloss. “Help me?” you asked, handing it to him.
He held it carefully in his palm. He glanced at your gloved hands, then back at the tube.
“Can’t really do it with my gloves on, and I’m freezing—I don’t want to take them off,” you explained, shooting him a grin that was just a little too bright to be entirely innocent.
Spencer squinted his eyes slightly. He had a distinct feeling you weren’t freezing that much anymore, tucked against him as you were. He also had a strong suspicion that you were perfectly capable of applying lip gloss while wearing gloves. It seemed you wanted him to do it. And who was he to deny you anything?
He stared at the lip gloss for a moment before slowly uncapping it. He handed you the cap, which you took, your smile widening. You turned your body slightly towards him.
Spencer held the open tube, examining it. Then his gaze flicked up to your lips. “I’ve never done this before,” he mumbled.
“I know,” you grinned, utterly unhelpful.
He suppressed his own smile. He knew you were doing this on purpose. He lifted his free hand to cradle your jaw, turning your face just slightly towards the light. As he did, your eyes dipped to his neck. Yep. A blush was creeping up above his collar.
“Hey,” you said softly. You took the chance to brush a hand over his thigh. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just some lip gloss. We can reapply it any time.”
He nodded. Right. He was treating this too seriously. He just wanted to do right by you, that was all.
He then softly tilted your chin upward with his thumb. He started at one corner of your upper lip, his eyebrows furrowing in deep concentration as you watched him, your own lips barely holding back a smile. He traced the bow of your lip, then gliding it slowly across. He never wavered, though his hand jerked for a second when the train gave an unexpected lurch.
When he was done, he pulled back slightly, studying his work. “I think I'm done.”
There was no mirror. You’d forgotten your compact in your rush, having packed it in your overnight bag instead of your handbag for what was supposed to be a simple paperwork day. You smiled softly, your lips feeling pleasantly slick “Thank you, Spencer,” you said, taking the lip gloss from his hand and tucking it into your coat pocket.
Spencer’s eyes, however, remained fixed on you. Or, more specifically, on your lips, now gleaming softly.
“What?”
He blinked, his focus shifting to your eyes. “Is it… okay if I kiss you?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing again, this time in genuine uncertainty. He seemed to be confused if it would smudge his work.
“Yeah, of course, but—” you started.
It was too late. The sight of you was irresistible. He leaned in and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, his own parting slightly against the slick surface.
You let him kiss you, before you pulled away first. You stared at him. He stared back, confusion and a flicker of worry replacing the earlier satisfaction in his eyes.
“What?”
You bit your lip, not replying, just waiting.
He was about to ask again when he felt it. A tingling sensation on his lips. He immediately bit his own lip, as if to test the feeling, then his fingers came up to tentatively touch his mouth.
“My lips are… burning,” he stated plainly.
You bit your lip again, this time failing to hide your giggle. “I was trying to warn you before you kissed me,” you managed, watching as he brushed the back of his hand over his lips.
“Ouch,” he mumbled to himself.
You giggled again, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound.
“How do you apply this every day?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern as he continued to rub his tingling lips together.
“You get used to it,” you shrugged. You reached up and gently pushed his fidgeting hand away. Leaning closer, you used your thumb to softly wipe away the excess shine from his skin. Sweeping over his top lip, his bottom lip, paying special attention to the corners where the gloss had strayed.
“Thank you,” Spencer mumbled, the words slightly muffled as you worked.
Once you were done, you giggled again and Spencer responded with a long sigh. He pulled you back into his arms, this time pressing a safe kiss to your temple. He kept his face nestled against your hair.
“When am I allowed to kiss you,” he asked, “without feeling like my lips are spontaneously combusting?”
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. “Usually it mellows out in about 15 to 30 minutes.”
Spencer let out the most dramatic sigh imaginable and you giggled again, nestling closer. You knew he wouldn’t be able to last that long without stealing another kiss.
You were sprawled on your stomach on Spencer's bed, chin propped on a pillow, slowly turning the pages of a book.
It was a children’s book, one Spencer had had since he was small. He hadn’t exactly handed it to you. You’d discovered it peeking from a shelf earlier, and when you’d held it up with a questioning glance, he’d simply nodded, before he’d vanished into the bathroom.
You were deeply curious about tiny Spencer. You traced the illustrations, wondering which parts had captivated that brilliant young mind the most. On the inside of the back cover, you saw a slightly faded sticker. A perfect pink heart. You could almost see the focused little boy, tongue peeking out in concentration, pressing it there.
A moment later, the mattress dipped beside you. Spencer's warm hand came to rest on your back on top of your sweater. You turned your head, resting your chin on your shoulder to look up at him.
“Interesting book,” you smiled.
He smiled back. “It was my favorite.” His hand began moving along your spine, then slipped beneath your sweater to rest against the bare skin of your waist. You shivered.
“Cold,” you mumbled, though you made no move to pull away, turning your gaze back to the book. His hands were always cold.
He just squeezed your waist apologetically, before his hand retreated to rub circles over the fabric again.
“I’m going to wash my hair,” he announced after a moment. “And then I’ll do yours, okay?”
Earlier, when you’d first arrived, you’d caught him sliding a book under a stack of papers. With a little teasing, he’d reluctantly showed you it. It was a book on simple hairstyles for fathers and their daughters. He’d confessed that he’d noticed you often experimenting in front of his mirror and sometimes seen you sigh and give up on a particularly tricky braid or twist.
“I just thought… I could make it easier for you. Be an extra set of hands,” he’d admitted. “So far, I’ve only truly mastered the basic three strand braid.” (He’d practiced, you later learned, on wool from his knitting supplies.)
You closed the book placing it on the nightstand before rolling onto your back. Spencer’s hand, which had been resting on your back, shifted to accommodate the movement, his hand now resting on your stomach.
You propped your head up on the pillow to look at him. He was watching you, waiting for your ‘okay’ to go start his routine.
“Do you need any help?” the words slipping out before you could overthink them.
“Help?” Spencer’s hand stilled. His brow furrowed slightly. “It’s just a quick wash.”
You sat up, drawing your knees to your chest. Spencer’s hand drifted from your stomach to rest on your pulled up knees. “I know,” you murmured. You reached out, your fingers gently tucking a curl behind his ear. The gesture made his eyes soften. “I just thought… I could help.” You tilted your head, offering a small smile.
Spencer’s eyebrows knitted together more deeply. The concept seemed to genuinely puzzle him. In, wash, out, back to you in under ten minutes. That was his usual routine. He’d never considered it a two person activity.
“If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” you added quickly, seeing the gears turning in his head. You didn’t want him to feel pressured.
But he was already shaking his head. “No, it’s okay,” he replied. “You can help, if you want to.”
“I’d love to,” you smiled.
You swung your legs off the bed and stood. Spencer, still looking adorably perplexed, remained seated for a second before you reached for his hands. He took them , letting you pull him to his feet. You led him to the bathroom, flipping on the light to reveal the neat space.
You both stared at the bathtub for a moment. “Should I get you a chair?”
Spencer shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I can sit on the floor.” He gestured toward the bath mat.
You bit your lip, your concern obvious.
“The floor is clean,” he said softly, his gaze holding yours. He knew you were wondering if he was forcing himself to push past his germaphobia just to indulge you. He gave your hand a little squeeze. “I cleaned it thoroughly two days ago.”
“Okay,” you relented. “Do you want to lean forward?” you asked, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows in preparation.
But Spencer shook his head. “No,” he said softly. Instead of kneeling to face the tub, he settled on the mat, sitting with his back against its side. He was tall enough that by tipping his head back, it could rest perfectly over the rim, his neck cradled by the porcelain edge.
You knelt beside him, resting your weight on your bent legs. Spencer’s head was tilted back, his eyes looking up at you from an inverted angle.
“Does this not hurt your neck?” you asked, unable to hide the concern in your voice.
“No,” he replied. You still looked doubtful but didn’t press further.
Spencer fell quiet, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this. Having his hair washed by someone else? Was it a normal thing for couples to do? The last time had been his mother, when he was thirteen and had the flu too badly to manage it himself.
He was slightly bewildered by everything, yet he felt fuzzy and warm. Logically, he could have done this himself, more efficiently and in less time. Yet, he wanted you to continue. So he stayed perfectly still.
You stood up and gathered a stack of hand towels, returning to kneel beside him. “Lift your head for a second,” you murmured. He complied, and you carefully bundled the soft cotton beneath his neck. He immediately let out a relieved sigh.
You smiled softly at the sound, though it felt a bit strained. Nerves of your own were beginning to flutter. You bit your lip, focusing on the task. Gently, you combed your fingers through his loose curls, spreading them out over the edge of the tub to ensure they were all gathered.
“Would you like to take your sweater off?” you suggested softly, your hand drifting from his hair to rest lightly on his chest. “You might get wet.”
“No.”
The word came out louder and harsher than he’d intended, startling both of you. His own abruptness made him flinch.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately. He cleared his throat. “No, I’d… I’d prefer to keep it on.” His hand came up, his long fingers gently covering yours where it still rested on his sweater. He’d half expected you to pull away after his sudden loudness, but you didn't.
“Okay.” Your fingers squeezed his before you slowly withdrew your hand. “I’m going to turn on the water, okay?” you asked softly, reaching for the shower head. Spencer gave a soft hum. You arranged the bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the tub’s ledge, then finally turned the knob.
You stood, bending over as you tested the temperature on your inner wrist before directing the stream onto his crown. He flinched, but instantly stilled as your fingers followed the water, smoothing his curls and shielding his forehead.
After a while, you glanced down and found him watching you. You smiled and a smile immediately spread across his face.
After a couple of minutes, you turned the water off, setting the shower head aside to apply the shampoo. But you paused, your forearms leaning on the edge of the tub as you looked at him.
“Spencer.” You said his name so sweetly he almost melted right there.
“Hm?” He turned his head slightly toward the sound of your voice. The only sounds were the drip… drip… from the shower head and the soft patter of water falling from his hair onto the porcelain.
“You can close your eyes,” you whispered. “It’s just me.” Your thumb stroked across his temple. “I won’t hurt you.”
You couldn’t know for certain, but you could imagine. You could imagine what showering in a place like prison had been like for him. The constant vigilance. You wondered if the bloodshot eyes he had had when you interrogated hadn't just from sleep deprivation, but from shampoo stinging his corneas because closing his eyes for even a second felt like a risk.
Spencer stared at you, utterly caught off guard. “I know you won’t,” he whispered back after a while.
You could see him thinking it over. Your hand drifted down, coming to rest softly on his chest. He didn’t seem to care that your palm was damp. You waited, giving him all the time he needed. And then, he let his eyelids fall shut.
In the quiet, he could practically hear your proud smile.
When you turned the water back on to rinse, he flinched again, his eyes flying open. But your hand was there, brushing over his chest, and he let his eyelids drift shut once more. Your hand then drifted back to his hair, working through his curls.
Five peaceful minutes passed, filled with the sound of running water and the soft scent of his shampoo. You bent lower, your lips near his ear. “You okay?”
Spencer’s response was a thumbs up. The gesture was so unexpected that a giggle escaped you.
At one point, you got momentarily distracted reaching for the conditioner bottle. Your grip on the shower head shifted and a sudden shot directly across his cheek and into his nose.
Spencer bolted upright with a gasp, water streaming down his face.
You stared at him in utter horror, your free hand flying to your mouth. “Oh, Spencer, I’m so—”
But before you could finish the apology, he chuckled. He swiped the water from his eyes, blinking rapidly, and looked down at his now thoroughly drenched sweater. A genuine laugh followed.
Your own panic melted into relieved giggles. “I’m so sorry!” you laughed.
“It’s fine,” he chuckled, shaking his head like a wet puppy, sending a few droplets your way. “Really. Just… a bit of a shock to the system.”
He settled back against the tub, rearranging the towel under his neck with a wry smile. “Don’t try to drown me again, please.”
“I’ll try my best,” you grinned, before you went back to work.
After a while, a comfortable quiet settled over the bathroom, broken only by the patter of water. Spencer’s hand, which had been absently resting on your calf, would occasionally give a gentle squeeze, making you smile. But after about ten minutes, the touches stopped. His hand went slack against your leg.
You glanced over, your gaze drifting from his pretty face to the watch on his wrist. Ten minutes. Exactly. The ten minutes he’d been allotted and had forced himself to adhere to in a very different place.
Spencer’s eyes were shut tight now, but not in peace. You could see the clench of his jaw. He was trying to force the memories back. He remembered scrubbing his skin raw and red, convinced it was the only way to scour away not just dirt, but the pervasive feeling of violation.
He squeezed his eyes tighter, until you turned the shower head off.
“Spencer.” Your whisper was so soft.
“Yeah?” he kept his eyes shut, afraid of what you might see in them if he opened them.
“You’re in your bathroom,” you murmured. “I promise, nothing bad will happen here.” You let the assurance hang for a moment. “We can take all the time we want washing your hair. It’s okay. There’s no timer.” Your wet hand came up to his cheek, your thumb brushing tenderly over his skin.
Spencer’s eyelids fluttered, then opened, meeting your gaze. What he found there wasn’t pity or impatience, but tenderness that made his throat feel tight.
“It’s just us,” you whispered again.
A flush of embarrassment tried to warm his cheeks, but it evaporated before it could fully form, chased away by the pure affection he saw in your eyes. He didn’t dare be cocky, but he knew things,he was a genius, after all, and he knew the meaning of that tender look. A shaky smile touched his lips.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“Nothing to apologize for.”
He also noticed that you didn’t stand up after that. You remained kneeling on the floor beside him, your knees brushing against his thigh.
Spencer appreciated that more than words could express. His heart felt too large and too tender for his chest, and a wave of emotion threatened to crest behind his eyes. It was a kindness like yours he hadn't allowed himself to experience in years, maybe ever. He was certain a tear had escaped, mingling with the bathwater on his temple, and he was equally certain you had seen it, because one of your hands slipped from his hair to the skin of his neck, your thumb stroking his pulse point.
In that moment, he resisted an almost overwhelming urge to pull you into his lap and simply hold you and not let go until morning. The thought that someone like you would devote such care to him…
Twenty minutes passed. It was only when you finally turned the water off for the last time that Spencer connected the dots. He’d seen you glance at his watch. Not just once, repeatedly. You had stopped at the twenty minute mark. Not ten.
You hadn’t just wanted to help. You had done this on purpose. You had seen the prison schedule he still imposed on himself and you had deliberately broken it for him. You had shown him it was safe to take his time, that the old rules no longer applied here. His heart ached with a gratitude so intense it was almost painful.
As you let your fingers drift through his rinsed curls, checking for any lingering shampoo, he raised his head. Water dripped freely from his hair onto his already damp sweater, but he didn’t care.
Then, he gently took the shower head from your hand. You gave it over, a look of confusion knitting your brows. What you certainly didn’t expect was for him to flick the water back on and direct a spray right at your shoulder and chest.
You let out a startled yelp, jumping back slightly. “Spencer!”
He turned the water off, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “Revenge,” he stated simply. He was about to set the shower head back in its cradle, when you snatched the shower head right back. With a quick flick of your wrist, you sent a spray directly at his hip. A surprised laugh burst from him, and just like that, a full blown water war erupted in the bathroom.
For the next five minutes, you both ducked and weaved, trying to gain control of the spray until Spencer finally held it high above your head, both of you utterly drenched from head to toe.
He finally placed the shower head back in its cradle. He sat on the edge of the tub and you slumped down next to him. A contented sigh left you as you leaned your dripping head against his shoulder. “Guess we both just took a shower,” your voice still laced with giggles.
Spencer pressed a kiss to your wet hair. “You started it.”
“I guess I did,” you grinned.
He just leaned his cheek against the top of your head, a serene smile on his face as he soaked in the moment. After a while, you lifted your head to start tidying, putting the caps back on the shampoo bottles and lining them up on the tub’s ledge.
As you were rearranging them, Spencer’s hand came to rest on your arm. “You’re freezing,” he mumbled concerned.
He took your chilled hand in his and led you, dripping a trail on the floor, back to the bedroom. There, he went straight to his dresser, pulling out a soft sweater. “Here,” he said, handing it to you.
You didn’t need telling twice. You hurriedly peeled off your soaked shirt and pulled his sweater over your head. As you buried your nose in the collar, you heard him rummaging in the closet for a dry one for himself.
“I’ll just put this in the wash bag,” you said, holding up your wet shirt before padding back to the bathroom. You took a moment to wring it out over the tub before dropping it into the hamper.
When you returned to the bedroom, Spencer had his back to you, his damp shirt already off. He had his bare back to you, a towel in his hands as he roughly ruffled it through his hair, his other hand clutching the curls at his nape as if wringing out the last of the water.
The sight was unexpected and you panicked. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like this. You immediately averted your eyes.
You turned on your heel and retreated back into the bathroom, pulling the door almost shut behind you. You would wait for the call of your name or the sound of a drawer closing, before you ventured back out.
You certainly didn’t expect him to follow you. But a moment later, the bathroom door nudged open wider, and Spencer stepped in, dropping his own wet shirt into the bag. He came to stand quietly behind you.
“Is my sweater warm enough?” he asked softly, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. He gently turned you around to check for himself, his gaze scanning for any goosebumps.
When you faced him, he was still shirtless. Your eyes, wide with surprise, flew to his face instead of letting your eyes wander. You were confused, extremely so. But Spencer seemed… fine. More than fine.
“Yeah—yeah, it’s warm,” your voice quieter than you intended. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You kept your eyes locked on his, until he gave a small smile and walked past you.
He went to the bathroom cabinet behind the mirror, opening it to retrieve some cream.
Without overthinking, the words left your lips. “Do you need help?”
Spencer met your eyes in the mirror’s reflection, and his answer was devoid of his usual hesitation. “Yes.”
You moved to stand beside him as he leaned back against the sink, offering you the tube. You took it, your fingers brushing his. “Where exactly?”
He didn’t speak, just lifted a hand and pointed to the left side of his ribcage. The place where the worst of the blows had landed in prison. The bruises were no longer visible, but pain still flared up during stressful days in the field.
You squeezed a small amount of the cream onto your fingertip. “Is that enough?” you asked, holding it up.
He nodded, a slight nervousness finally flickering in his eyes as he watched you. The last time he’d been shirtless in front of someone, was prison.
As you began to apply the cream to the spot, your slightly wet hands made contact with his warm skin. He shuddered for a second and you smiled apologetically.
While you worked, Spencer’s own hands came up to touch your hair. His fingers combed through the damp strands, brushing them back from your forehead before twirling a single curl around his index finger. He smiled softly, watching you with an expression of such tenderness it made your heart skip. You were so pretty, he thought, and so sweet, your brow furrowed in concentration as you tended to him with a care he hadn’t known in years.
He lifted his hand from your hair to gently frame your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. Your eyelashes fluttered at the touch, but you didn’t pull away, your hands still working gently on his side. You reached for a little more cream.
Spencer's chin dipped to his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure what had shifted in him during those twenty minutes under the water. But suddenly, standing here shirtless before you didn’t feel as scary as he thought it would be. You had been so tender while washing his hair, that he couldn't imagine feeling this vulnerable, with anyone else.
He let his hand fall away from your face, giving you back the space to finish.
You worked until the last of the cream was absorbed, then closed the tube and placed it back in the cabinet. Before you could even ask if he needed anything else, his arms were around you, pulling you into a hug.
You didn’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around him in return. Your hands slid up and down his bare back chasing away the last of the chill from the bathroom. Spencer buried his face in the curve of your neck, breathing in the scent of his own sweater on your skin, holding you so tightly around the waist.
“Thank you so much,” Spencer whispered into the warmth of your neck. “For everything.” He nuzzled even deeper. “I appreciate it more than you know.”
Your hands continued their path up and down the bare skin of his back. “You’re welcome,” you whispered.
You pulled back just enough to frame his face with your hands, your thumbs stroking his cheeks. The smile you gave him made him smile right back. He leaned in, closing the small distance to kiss you. You kissed him back, your hands now falling to rest lightly at your sides.
Spencer broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch. His hands came up to cradle your face. “You can touch me,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
You nuzzled into his palm, smiling softly before your gaze drifted down, drawn back to the place on his ribs. “Does it hurt a lot?” your hands lifted, coming to rest lightly on his waist.
He shook his head, his own hands moving to thread gently through your damp hair, brushing it back from your forehead. “Only when I twist my torso too much.”
You nodded, your attention still focused on him. Your thumb came up to brush over the area of the old injury. “You have a birthmark here,” you mumbled, your finger drifting to the opposite side of his ribs.
Spencer glanced down. “Yeah,” he said, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched you trace your thumb over it.
“Cute,” you mumbled, almost to yourself, before finally looking up to meet his gaze again. His smile combined with the affection in his eyes, suddenly made you shy. And you ducked your head, stepping back into his arms and pressing your face against his chest.
Spencer hugged you back instantly. One arm around your waist, while his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.
Five minutes later, with a soft sweater now covering his torso, Spencer settled you in front of him on the bed. He sat with his legs parted, creating space for you to sit between them, your back to his chest. He gathered your hair in his hands, thankfully not so wet anymore.
He began to brush it in a way that made your eyes drift shut. “Do you want one braid or two?” he asked, his voice close to your ear.
“Two? If that’s okay with you?”
“Yeah. I think I can manage that.” His hands drifted from your hair to your hips, giving them a squeeze, siletly asking you to scoot back closer to him. You immediately complied, settling more firmly against his chest and crossing your legs in front of you.
Spencer parted your hair down the middle, dividing it into two equal sections. He started with your left side, while you busied your hands by toying with the fabric of his sweatpants around his knees.
“You have really pretty hair,” Spencer mumbled, almost to himself.
You turned your head to look at him, causing him to quickly grip the half formed braid. You smiled at him as your free hand drifted up to touch a curl at his own temple. “So do you.”
Spencer’s response was to lean forward and press a sweet kiss to your lips, his smile transferring from his mouth to yours. You grinned against his lips before turning your back to him once more.
In the comfortable quiet, he suddenly spoke. “Do you like puzzles?”
He finished the first braid, securing the end with a small hair tie he’d produced from the pocket of his sweatpants. You tilted your head back to rest against his shoulder, looking up at him. “I think so. I haven’t done one in a while, but I used to love them when I was a kid,” you smiled, letting yourself relax into his chest.
Spencer’s arms immediately came around your waist, holding you gently against him. “Would you like to do one with me?” he asked, his tone hesitant. “Sometime? Whenever you feel like it?”
You glanced up and caught a certain tiredness in his eyes. Wanting to let him rest, you slowly sat forward again, giving him better access to your other side so he could finish the second braid more quickly.
He continued, his fingers starting on the second section of hair. “I saw one with a sunflower field in the store,” he said. “And there was another one with two swans. I think you’d like those. They’re only five hundred pieces, so it wouldn’t take us too long.”
You were about to agree to his plans, but he just kept on talking. “Did you know that swans mate for life? They perform these elaborate courtship dances—dipping their heads underwater, ruffling their feathers, and nudging each other.”
Because you loved the sound of his voice, you didn’t immediately realize he was rambling because he was nervous. It wasn’t until you noticed the second braid was taking much longer than the first, his fingers fumbling slightly over the strands, that you understood.
You looked over your shoulder. “Spencer.”
He stopped talking immediately, his hands stilling in your hair.
“Why are you so nervous?” you whispered.
Spencer dropped his hands from the half formed braid, realizing it was uneven anyway. He let out a sigh as you turned in his arms, shifting so you were facing him, your knees bumping against his thighs. His gaze was somewhere over your shoulder, unable to meet your eyes.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. A faint blush colored his cheeks. “You make me nervous.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed again, the words tumbling out in an embarrassed whisper. “You’re really nice to me, and you’re really pretty.” He chanced a quick glance at your face before looking away again. Obviously there was much more he wanted to say, but his fear of being too much remained. So, he stuck with these two adjectives. “And sometimes I think I’m dreaming.”
He swallowed, his voice dropping even lower. “I just… I can’t believe you’re here. And sometimes I worry that you won’t be one day.” He finally met your eyes.
You tilted your head even further, and for a split second, something flickered in your eyes, pain? he wasn't sure, but it was gone so quickly Spencer was sure he’d imagined it.
“I’m here as long as you want me to be, Spencer.”
Spencer could have sworn, for just a moment, that your smile seemed pained around the edges, but then your hands came up to gently frame his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
“You don’t have to be nervous around me,” you murmured. “I like you just the way you are. And you’re really wonderful, Spencer Reid.”
Spencer felt dizzy from the sheer kindness you offered so freely.
“And I’d love to do a puzzle with you,” you continued, your smile warming again. “The swan one seems lovely.”
The tension seeped out of his shoulders. He nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “Okay.” he whispered, the word full of happiness.
You smiled softly. “Okay,” you whispered back.
You stared at each other for a while, just smiling. Mostly, it was him gently twirling the one finished braid that rested over your shoulder, his fingers playing with the end of it, before you finally turned back around.
He pressed a kiss to the patch of bare skin on your shoulder. You knew it was his wordless way of thanking you. You just squeezed his knee beside you as his fingers began weaving the second braid.
Once he was done, you immediately scrambled up from the bed. “Be right back!” you chirped, padding quickly to the bathroom to see yourself in the mirror.
Spencer remained sitting cross legged on the bed, listening. A moment later, a delighted squeak echoed from the bathroom, and he couldn’t help the proud smile that spread across his face. That smile only grew when you bounded back into the room, still beaming, and launched yourself onto the mattress beside him with a happy bounce.
“You are a professional, Spencer Reid!” you declared, your eyes shining. You knelt on the bed facing him, taking his face in your hands. “I’m so proud of you.” Then you proceeded to cover his face in kisses, one on his lips, another at the corner of his smiling mouth, a final peck on the tip of his nose.
Spencer’s heart hammered against his ribs. It was an almost disorienting happiness. A part of him still couldn’t reconcile that this domestic bliss was supposed to be his life.
You finally plopped down beside him, sinking into the pillows with a contented sigh. You gazed up at the ceiling for a second before lifting a hand to gently feel the braids, a soft smile playing on your lips.
Spencer watched you for a long moment. Then, he quietly got up and moved to the door, flicking off the main light. The room was only illuminated only by the two small nightlights on each side of the bed.
He settled into bed and you didn’t hesitate to curl into his side. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close until your legs tangled with his. Spencer rested his head against yours, his damp hair cool against your temple.
You squirmed playfully. “Your hair is still wet,” you mumbled, as a few stray droplets dripped onto your cheek.
In response, Spencer just shook his head more vigorously, a mischievous grin on his face.
You giggled, trying to wriggle away from the damp assault. He stopped immediately when you managed to put a few inches of space between you, turning his head to look at you with a soft smile. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he conceded.
He pulled you back by the waist, settling you against him once more.
Spencer’s favorite thing, he realized in that moment, was how wonderful silence could be with you. He used to despise it more than anything, the silence only amplified his own loneliness. But prison had been filled with terrifying noise. Afterward, he had craved his silence. Yet that, too, had its cost, leaving him alone with his own thoughts.
Having you in his arms was the perfect solution. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn't quiet, either. You were someone he loved being around, someone who, without even trying, quieted the storms in his mind.
Overwhelmed by a surge of pure gratitude, Spencer pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. Then another. And another, until a trail of gentle kisses dotted your hairline.
You simply smiled into his chest.
After a while, you shifted, propping your chin on his chest to look up at him. “Where else do you have birthmarks?”
Spencer tilted his head on the pillow to look at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Why?”
“Just curious,” you smiled, your fingers playing with his sweater.
He thought for a second, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. “You saw the one on my ribs,” he mumbled.
You nodded, your hand wandering to the hem of his sweater, your fingertips brushing the skin just above his waistband. You glanced up at him, waiting for permission. Spencer looked down at your hand, then back at your face, and gave your waist a squeeze.
Slowly, you slipped your hand under the soft fabric, pulling it up just enough to reveal the small mark you’d seen earlier. You brushed your thumb over it. “Pretty,” you mumbled.
He shivered at the touch, his breath hitching slightly before he spoke again. “I think there’s one on my hip, too.”
You glanced down, letting your hand drift lower until you found it. “Oh yeah,” you smiled. He watched your face, his own smile soft.
“Do you have any birthmarks?” he asked, his fingers splaying over the small of your back.
“Yeah,” you smiled. You tugged at the hem of your sweater pulling it up to reveal your side. You pointed to a spot just above your waist. “Here.”
He leaned in closer, squinting in the dim light. “It looks like a little heart,” he mumbled. He slowly let go of you to prop himself up on one elbow, peering at the mark.
“Yeah, it kinda does,” you agreed, your smile widening as he traced its outline with the very tip of his index finger. You let your hand drift back into his hair, combing through the still damp curls at his temple.
“Any others?”
You lifted the sweater a little further, guiding his attention to a spot between your ribs. Spencer’s eyes found it immediately. He touched it softly. You kept your hand in his hair, gently brushing it back from his forehead.
His fingers stilled and his expression shifted subtly. “Where did you get that scar from?” he asked, his finger moving to gently trace a thin line a few inches below the birthmark on your ribs.
You looked down, your own hands drifting to cover his where they rested on your stomach. “P.E.,” you mumbled, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips. “In high school. Tried to be impressive on the uneven bars. It… didn’t go well. Hurt like hell.”
Spencer’s face immediately fell into a sympathetic pout. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the old scar once more, as if he could somehow soothe the long ago hurt. He laid back down next to you.
Your hands drifted beneath his sweater. “You have scars, too,” you mumbled. You’d seen them earlier, but hadn’t commented. But now, with him asking about yours, you felt you could gently broach the subject.
Your fingers found the ridge of one just above his hip bone. You didn’t lift his sweater, but you knew where it was from your earlier glimpse.
“Yeah,” he breathed, the word slightly breathless, more from the tenderness of your touch than from any discomfort. You traced the first one, asking the question with just a gentle touch.
“Prison.” was all he said.
You could feel your own fingers twitch for a second, before you consciously softened your touch again. He saw you bite your lip, realizing how long and deep it was.
His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers brushing up and down through your hair. Then, his other hand came up and slowly pulled the hem of his own sweater up, baring his entire torso to the soft light. He seemed surprised by his own action, and so were you. He leaned his head back against the pillow, tilting it so he could keep watching your face, his hand remaining on the back of your head.
You traced the scar for a while, before your fingers moved to another, this one on the soft skin at the side of his waist. You looked up at him waiting.
He hesitated, his breath catching. But as he stared at you, taking in your sweet eyes, the way you subconsciously leaned into the hand cradling your head the adoring look on your face, the words felt less dangerous.
He swallowed. “School,” he whispered. He bit the inside of his cheek nervously, but your expression didn’t change. “I was pushed around by a couple of students during lunch. Ended up on a metal fence.” The admission was almost lost in the rustle of the sheets, but you heard it. You heard the old, buried humiliation.
He had just admitted to you that he’d been bullied in school. For some reason, that felt harder. He knew you knew about the violence in prison. But for you to also know he’d been pushed around, hurt, as a boy… it shamed him. Embarrassment crept up his neck. He was a grown man, an FBI agent, yet it felt like nothing had changed. He had always been a victim, the one shoved against fences, the one overpowered, never quite able to save himself. and now he'd told you about it. Exposed himself.
You traced the scar softly, your touch unbearably gentle, before looking up at him. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Spencer shook his head, brushing his thumb over the curve of your skull. “Not your fault,” he whispered back, his voice thick.
Then, slowly, he took your hand with his free one, guiding it away from his side and laying it flat over his heart, before tugging the hem of his sweater back down. You saw the shadow of shame that had fallen over his eyes.
You probably thought his reluctance was about the bullying scars, about not wanting to revisit any more of that. And that was part of it. But it wasn’t all of it.
There was another mark, a small one, tucked just under his ribcage. He didn’t want you to see it. Not tonight. It was tiny, almost insignificant, but he knew with your eye for detail, you’d find it, and you’d ask. And he couldn’t tell you that story.
Not the story of how his mom, in the middle of an episode when he was ten, had lashed out with a hand that usually only stroked his hair or turned the pages of a book. It wasn’t her fault. She had no control. He’d never blamed her, not for a second. But the tiny scar was a relic of a home life that could be physically fraught, too.
He knew your empathy had no bounds. He’d already asked so much of it tonight. He couldn’t lay this at your feet, too.
And more than that… he wanted you to meet his mom one day. He dreamed of it. He wanted you to see for yourself what a wondrous, brilliant, sweet person she was, to hear her laugh and discuss literature with her. He didn’t want that future meeting to be shadowed, even in the slightest, by your knowledge of that one small mark. He wanted you to know her, not the illness.
Spencer looked down as you settled more heavily against his chest. He brushed the hair away from your forehead with the very tips of his fingers. He could feel it in the way your head would lift slightly, then sink back down, as if fighting to stay awake just a moment longer.
He knew that sign. You were about to kiss him goodnight. You never went to sleep without it.
Anticipating you, he immediately tilted his head down, accommodating you so you wouldn’t have to stir too much. He nudged his nose gently against yours. You smiled, your eyes still closed, and met his lips in a slow kiss.
He kissed you back, his hand cradling the back of your head, and he let the kiss linger, stretching it out.
When you pulled back, a happy sigh escaped you, your eyes remained shut, a serene smile on your lips. Spencer nuzzled his nose against yours once more.
Then, you dropped your head back onto his chest, tightening your hold around his waist. His hand wandered down to rest on the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing up and down in a way he knew usually helped lull you to sleep.
It worked. It didn’t take five minutes before your breathing deepened, your body going completely limp against his.
Spencer smiled to himself, his eyes tracing your face in the soft glow of the nightlight. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight. He rarely did, not truly. The ghosts were often too loud.
He held you a little tighter, resting his cheek against the top of your head. You were just too bright, he thought. Maybe, tonight his ghosts would stay away.
Spencer was just sliding the last plate into the cupboard when his phone chimed. A glance at the screen made him smile. He swiped to answer, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“Hi.” He could almost feel the smile in your voice when he answered.
“Hi, Spencer.” In the background, he detected the subtle rustle of fabric. Bed sheets, he deduced. You were in bed.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” you murmured, and he heard another shift, as if you were pulling the covers closer.
“Never,” he replied instantly. He put away a glass. “I was actually just thinking about you.”
“While doing your dishes?” you asked, skepticism coloring your words. You’d clearly heard the sound of glass.
A chuckle escaped him. “Yes. Specifically, while rinsing out the mug you used for your tea earlier.” He held the ceramic cup for a moment, tracing the rim with his thumb.
On the other end, he heard the sound of a smile. “Oh.”
A comfortable silence settled between you. Then, you whispered, “I miss you.”
The admission, coming just four hours after you’d hugged him goodbye at his door, made his heart swell.
“I miss you, too.”
As he closed the empty dishwasher and wiped his hands on a towel, the quiet of his apartment amplified your absence. It seemed colder too.
He could hear you shifting again. “Are you sure you’re not tired of me yet?” you mumbled. “I feel like I’ve been practically living at your place lately.”
“No,” he said firmly as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’m not tired of you. I never could be.” He closed a cupboard before adding, “And I love having you here. I already miss you messing up my bookshelf.”
Your embarrassed giggle made him smile. “Sorry,” you said, not sounding sorry at all. “I just… I really love looking at the things you love.”
For a fleeting second, a thought danced on the tip of his tongue. A quip about how if you wanted to see what he loved, all you’d need was a mirror. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and gave a slight shake of his head. It was too soon, too much.
“I don’t mind it at all. Really.” He pushed off from the counter, the conversation making the empty apartment feel a little less vast. “In fact, it’s starting to look a little too perfect in here. You should come over tomorrow and fix that.”
He could hear you smiling into the phone. He could almost see it. The image was so clear in his mind it made his own smile deepen as he slowly made his way to the bathroom.
“What are you up to?” he asked softly, setting the phone on the speaker setting and placing it on the sink.
“Oh, just laying in bed,” you said, your voice muffled slightly as if you’d turned into your pillow. A yawn followed the words. “I’m tired, but… I wanted to hear your voice before I drifted off.”
He smiled as he squeezed a stripe of toothpaste onto his brush. “Did you get a chance to continue your new book?” Spencer asked, beginning to brush his teeth.
He could hear you lighting up immediately. “Yes! It’s honestly amazing so far. Which, you wouldn’t necessarily think, considering it’s high fantasy, but the world building is so easy to understand. The first few chapters aren’t confusing at all. It’s fascinating really! The author…”
Spencer loved this. Listening to you talk so passionately about the things you love. He rinsed, spat, and wiped his mouth. By the time he was finished, he joined your ramble by asking a bunch of questions.
A comfortable silence settled between you again as he chose his sleepwear. “Which pyjamas did you choose?”
Of course you were listening that intently. He finished changing and slipped into bed. “Just a white t-shirt and some loose brown pants,” he said, pulling the covers up to his waist.
He heard you let out a wistful sigh. “And you look so handsome in those, and I’m missing out.”
The comment was so bold, that it startled a loud laugh from him.
“Is that so?” he managed, his voice still laced with laughter as he settled deeper into his pillows, the phone resting beside his head. You just giggled in confirmation.
Spencer’s phone buzzed loudly against his ear, making him flinch slightly. He pulled it away just enough to see a notification flash across the screen before settling it back against his cheek.
“Who’s texting you?”
“Garcia,” he said, shifting to lie flat on his back, his gaze fixed on his bedroom ceiling. His phone buzzed again.
“Why?” you asked, surprise coloring your tone. It was a fair question. Garcia was many things, but she was also deeply protective. After his time in prison, she’d become meticulous about his boundaries, offering outings but never pressing when he declined.
“She wants me to go out to a bar tonight,” Spencer sighed. He traced on his duvet with his finger.
“Really?” you sounded genuinely taken aback.
“Yeah,” he hummed. “She says it’ll be ‘good for me to mingle with people outside the BAU.’” He quoted her likely text verbatim, just as his phone buzzed a third time.
A silence stretched on your end of the line this time. He could almost feel the shift in the atmosphere. His heart sped up.
“Hey,” he said, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. “You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” Your reply came after a beat, and then you added, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the static, “Garcia wants to set you up.”
Spencer’s eyebrows knitted together. “No, she doesn’t,” he countered immediately. “She just wants me to… meet people. Socialize.”
“Girls,” you corrected gently. “She wants you to meet girls, Spencer.”
“No, I—I don’t think that’s what she meant,” he stuttered, the rational part of his brain already connecting the dots he’d been trying to ignore. Garcia’s unusual insistence, the specific venue of a bar, the phrasing about ‘mingling.’
“Yeah,” your voice so quiet that it made his stomach twist. “It is.”
The line went quiet again, but this silence was heavy. Spencer felt a cold dread pool in his gut, scrambling his usually precise thoughts. The only thing that felt clear was the need to erase that tone from your voice.
“I’m not interested,” he finally blurted out. “I don’t… I don’t want to meet any girls.”
This time, he could hear the weak sound of your smile returning. “Well,” you said, and the soft warmth was seeping back into your tone, “that’s good to know.”
Relief washed over him. He bit his lower lip, a nervous habit, and tugged at the edge of his covers. His inexperience was showing as he nervously waited for you to say something else. You didn't.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Are you… are you upset?”
“Upset?” you repeated, genuine concern in your voice. “Why would I be upset?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. He could feel his cheeks warm, grateful you couldn't see him. His lack of experience in relationships was showing again. “I just… I wanted to make sure.”
“I’m not upset, Spencer. I promise.”
A long pause followed. An extremely long one. Spencer didn’t break it. He sensed you were gathering your thoughts, on the verge of saying something more.
“But,” you began, then hesitated. “If you were interested in meeting other girls… I wouldn’t be mad at you.”
Spencer froze. His brilliant brain short circuited. “What?” he asked, the confusion in his voice utterly genuine.
“I’m just saying—” you continued softly, and he heard the faint rustle of your sheets as you shifted. “If you had any interest in wanting to meet someone else, you could. It’s… it’s okay.”
Okay? Nothing about that concept felt okay. A jumble of emotions, confusion, hurt, frustration, overcame him. He sat up abruptly in bed, the comforter pooling around his waist as he pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Why would I want that?” The question came out sharper than he intended.
He heard your small intake of breath. “I don’t know,” you said quietly, pulling back as you clearly registered the tone in his voice. “Forget I said anything.”
Spencer immedaitely felt guitly. He hadn’t meant to sound so irritated. He was just… he wasn’t comprehending. The reason behind you offering him an out ,he didn’t want and had never asked for, eluded him.
The silence stretched again. His phone buzzed against his ear and then buzzed again a moment later. The intrusive sound highlighted the quiet on your end.
He rested his elbows on his knees, phone still pressed to his ear. He brushed a hand over his face, trying to find the right words.
“I like you,” he said slowly. “Only you. And you’re my girlfriend.” He bit his finger nail nervously before pressing his palm against his knee “I have no interest in being with anyone else but you. Zero. None.”
He held his breath after the declaration, his free hand once again moving to rub over his brow, waiting. He was about to say your name, to check if you were still there, when you finally spoke.
“Okay.” It was a whisper. And you sounded… off. Choked up.
His own throat constricted in response. Had he said something wrong? Had he been too blunt? But then you spoke again, and your voice sounded normal again.
“Thank you.”
He bit his lip nervously, his fingers finding the edge of the comforter and twisting the fabric around his knees. The confusion wasn't fully gone. Spencer slowly laid back down.
“Don’t bite your nails. Please.”
You let out a disbelieving giggle. “How’d you know?”
“Because I know you,” he said simply, The sound of your laugh was a profound relief.
Your giggle subsided into a contented sigh. “Yeah,” you mumbled, your voice thick with affection. “You do.”
He heard the faint rustle of you turning onto your side, followed by a few soft taps. He imagined you placing your phone on speaker and setting it carefully on the pillow beside your head.
“Are you going to sleep now?” he asked, his voice softening, not wanting to intrude if you were drifting off.
“Yeah,” you breathed out. “Are you?”
Spencer hesitated. The truth was, he was far from sleepy. Like most nights, he was in bed more out of routine than rest. He knew the restless turning, eventually leading him to abandon his bed and pad to the living room for a book, or to his study to lose himself in work. It was the same cycle every night. But he didn’t want to burden you.
“Yeah,” he lied.
You stayed quiet for so long he thought you might have already slipped away. But then your voice came again. “That’s good.”
He smiled faintly in the dark, his fingers toying with the edge of his comforter. “What are you wearing?”
He could hear the smile in your voice when you answered. “Some purple shorts… and your sweater.”
“My sweater?” he asked, though he’d heard you perfectly.
You hummed in affirmation. Spencer’s smiled. The image of you curled up in his clothes, miles away, made him feel utterly happy.
“Will you stay on the phone with me until I fall asleep?” you asked, your words beginning to blend together with drowsiness.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Spencer.”
“Good night,” he whispered back, settling more deeply into his own pillow.
“Night,” you whispered back.
Spencer kept the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes open in the dark, listening. He could soon hear your breathing even out. He remained perfectly still, afraid even the rustle of his sheets might disturb you.
The earlier conversation about Garcia, about you offering him a permission he never wanted, replayed in his mind, making his stomach twist unpleasantly. He bit his lower lip, gnawing on the worry.
He liked you. Only you. The concept of being interested in anyone else felt so deeply wrong that it made his stomach turn. Why would he look elsewhere when right now, he had the pleasure of listening to you sleep and knowing that you wanted his voice in your ear until you were dreaming. It was all he wanted. All he needed.
So why had you suggested otherwise?
Had he done something wrong? Failed to communicate something essential? He brushed a hand over his face frustrated.
He couldn’t get up, couldn’t pace, couldn’t lose himself in a book to quiet the chaos in his mind. Any movement risked waking you. So he remained in bed.
He re-analyzed every word, every pause, from the last hour. He over-analyzed his own actions over the past weeks. All he could do was lie there in the dark, listening to the sound of your sleep, and wonder what he’d missed.
The next morning, you were barely out of the bathroom, when a knock sounded at your apartment door. Frowning, you padded across the cool floor. You weren’t expecting anyone. You peered through the peephole and immediately let out a surprised sound.
You fumbled with the lock and pulled the door open. "Spencer!"
He stood there, a shy smile on his lips, his eyes taking you in. "Good morning." The smell of fresh coffee and bagels drifted into your apartment.
You self consciously reached up to brush through your hair at your temples. "This is a surprise," you said softly, stepping aside to let him in.
He moved past you. "A good one, I hope?" he asked, glancing back at you as he set the coffee and bagels down on the small table in your hallway, next to your scattered keys and mail.
"The best," you assured him, closing the door. You watched as he removed his jacket, finding an empty hook on your coat rack. He then bent to untie his shoes, lining them up neatly by the door.
Finally, he turned to face you fully. Without a word, his arms came around your waist, drawing you into a tight hug. He buried his face in the curve of your neck with a happy sigh. "I missed you last night," he mumbled, his breath warm against your skin. "And I woke up thinking I'd bring you some breakfast."
You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his back. You could have stayed there all morning. "That's so sweet of you," you whispered, your smile pressed against his shoulder.
He gave you one last squeeze before pulling back, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment before he turned to retrieve the paper bag. "Where would you like to eat?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over your small apartment.
You hesitated, a flicker of something, nervousness, maybe, crossing your face. "I, uh…" You bit your lip, thinking. "The living room is fine," you decided, leading the way. "As long as we promise not to get any crumbs on my couch." You threw him a sheepish look over your shoulder.
Spencer followed. While you had practically become a resident of his apartment, his visits to yours were less frequent. He let you sit first, his eyes watching to see which spot on the couch was your preferred one. Once you'd settled into the corner, curling your legs beneath you, he sank down beside you.
He carefully arranged the coffee and bagels on your coffee table, distributing napkins. But before he handed you your cup, he turned, his expression suddenly serious. “Is it really okay that I’m here?” he asked uncertain. “I know it’s unannounced and i don't want to intrdude.”
You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “No, no, you’re more than fine, Spencer. It’s really okay,” you said, your tone sincere. “I missed you, too. So, I’m very glad you’re here.” You gave him a reassuring smile, hoping it would erase the slight crease of worry between his brows.
Spencer stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding only genuine warmth, his shoulders relaxed. He finally handed you your coffee, his fingers brushing yours.
“So,” you began, “which bakery did you go to?”
And just like that, he was off. He told you every single thing he saw on the way to your apartment. You listened, sipping your coffee.
A significant amount of time slipped by. The coffee cups were empty, the last crumbs of the bagels swept away. Now, your head was pillowed against the side of the couch, and your legs were draped partially across Spencer’s lap.
One hand rested gently on your shin, his thumb drawing circles on your skin. His other hand was softly brushing the hair back from your forehead. He’d smooth a strand back, then let his thumb drift down to trace your eyebrow, messing it up and then carefully smoothing it again.
“And you finished two books this morning?” you mumbled sleepily, your eyes half-closed.
“Well, yes,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “They were relatively short novels. I started re-reading War and Peace as well, but I didn’t get to finish it yet.” His thumb continued its gentle path over your eyebrow.
“Right,” you hummed, a sleepy smile playing on your lips. You scooted closer, your body seeking his warmth. Now your knees were settled more fully over his thigh, and you turned your head to rest your cheek against his shoulder, looking up at him. “How early did you wake up, exactly?” you asked, your tone teasing.
Spencer’s motions paused for a second. He hesitated, his gaze fixed somewhere on the far wall before it dropped down to meet yours.
“Not that early,” he finally said, the words deliberately vague. He wrapped his arm a little more firmly around your shoulders, pulling you closer against his side.
“Hm,” was all you hummed in response.
Spencer’s hand moved from your shoulder to cradle the back of your head, his fingers gently threading through your hair as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. Your hand began to trace the soft knit of his sweater, drifting up to the curve of his shoulder and down to his stomach.
After a moment, you tilted your head back, your movement causing his chin to slip from its perch. He looked down, and your eyes met.
“You look so handsome,” you mumbled. “Even this early in the morning.”
Your gaze drifted downward, and a grin touched your lips as you saw the blush creeping down his neck. Your grin widened when you flicked your eyes back up to confirm the blush was now staining his cheeks, even if it was fainter there.
“You are blushing, Spencer Reid,” you declared, your grin turning triumphant as you brought your hands up to gently frame his face.
“I am well aware, thank you,” he shot back.
“Are you mad?” you teased, your thumbs softly stroking his warm cheeks.
For just a split second, a flicker of genuine panic flashed in his eyes. The idea of you thinking that such a simple joke could make him angry, scared him. Reminding him that he was still utterly terrified of being seen as someone with a potential violent past because he'd been to prison. But then he saw the playfulness in your eyes and he relaxed, chastising himself internally for panicking.
“No,” he said softly. He leaned into your touch, his eyes holding yours. “I’m not mad.”
“You know,” you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper, “you look even more handsome when you’re blushing.”
That did it. With a groan, he launched his counterattack. His hands darted to your ribs, finding all the spots he’d memorized over previous tickle wars.
You shrieked with laughter, squirming against the cushions as he tickled you. Your defensive grabs at his wrists were futile. The force of your wriggling and his gentle pushing finally made you tumble backwards, landing flat on your back on the couch cushions.
He didn’t let up. Now towering over you, braced on one arm beside your head, he continued his merciless campaign with his free hand, his own smile bright-
“Stop, Spencer!” you laughed , your sides aching. And, he finally relented.
You looked up at him, breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly, a big smile on your face. His own smile was just as wide. “You’re still blushing,” you whispered.
Spencer squinted his eyes at you, the effect utterly ruined by the persistent flush on his neck. Then, without a word, he leaned down and captured your lips with his. Your hands immediately came up to tangle in his soft curls, and he carefully supported himself on his forearms to keep his weight off you.
He pulled back just enough to stare at you, his face inches from yours. You smiled up at him, soft and dazed.
He grinned. “You’re getting flustered, too.”
“What? No, I’m not!” you protested immediately.
“Yeah, you are,” he countered, his grin widening. “You always get this little, breathless smile right here,” he murmured, brushing his thumb ever so gently against the corner of your mouth. “And—” He paused, watching your face with rapt attention as you unconsciously tugged at your bottom lip with your finger. “You do that, too,” he finished, sounding immensely pleased with himself.
You promptly dropped your hand from your mouth, which only made his laughter bubble up. He buried his face in between your neck and shoulder, his body shaking slightly with laughter. You grumbled, but let your hand come up to card through his hair, your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp.
He melted into the touch, his laughter subsiding into a deep sigh as he relaxed his full weight against you. “You smell nice,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by your sweater.
“Well, yeah,” you chuckled. “I’m wearing your sweater, Spencer. Just complimenting yourself there, buddy.”
The moment the word left your lips, he went still. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. “Buddy?” he repeated, his tone carefully neutral, but one eyebrow was arched.
“It’s just an expression,” you smiled, trying to shrug it off.
“Don’t like it,” he hummed. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. “Boyfriend’s better.”
A grin spread across your face. “Okay,” you whispered, your heart doing a happy little flip. “My bad.” To make amends, you gently guided his head back down to the dip of your neck with one hand. With your other, you pressed softly against the small of his back, an invitation for him to settle more fully on top of you.
You felt him shift, his body aligning with yours, but he was careful, even now. He rested against you completely, yet he kept just enough of his weight braced on his elbows and knees to not press you too deeply into the cushions.
“What are you planning for tomorrow?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. You meant his classes at the university. You knew he had a seminar to teach.
“Collective efficacy,” Spencer mumbled into your neck, his voice already slurring slightly with drowsiness as he allowed himself to relax more fully against you.
“How it’s an alternative to the broken windows theory, which argues that efforts to prevent small crimes like vandalism and public drinking reduce the likelihood of more serious crime,” he began talking directly into the curve of your shoulder.
He rambled on and you listened, while continuing touching the soft curls at the nape of his neck and down the long line of his spine.
When he finally finished, he lifted his head to look at you. He found you smiling. He was utterly delighted that his ramblings could earn that look from you.
“What are you going to do tomorrow?” he asked, shifting just enough so he could see your eyes. Tomorrow was your first full, proper day off. Today was technically one too, but he knew you could never truly unwind the first day after a case. The adrenaline took longer to fade. He’d also noticed the now closed case file on your coffee table, a pen neatly laid across it. You’d finished your reports. He hoped, fiercely, that you’d actually rest tomorrow.
You proved him right. “Oh, I have a big day planned.” One hand still rested in his hair as he leaned down to press a long kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder where his sweater had slipped down.
“I’m going to wake up at noon,” you declared. You felt his lips curve into a smile against your shoulder. “And then I’ll order in, probably. Just a bunch of fries and pizza, maybe.” You scratched his scalp lightly, earning a hum from him. He began to pepper slow kisses along the ridge of your collarbone.
“And then,” you sighed with bliss, “I’ll watch really trashy TV. All day.”
Spencer’s trail of kisses migrated to the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Trashy TV?” he mumbled against your neck.
“Oh, you know,” you said, a grin in your voice. “The bad reality shows where all they do is argue about things that don’t matter, wear clothes that are too sparkly, and cry in limousines. It’s glorious brain off time.”
Spencer pressed a long kiss to your neck before lifting his head. He looked at you, his expression one of genuine confusion. You just smiled, reading his face effortlessly.
“You’re not familiar with it, are you?” you said, your fingers scratching affectionately behind his ear.
He shook his head, an apologetic wrinkle forming between his brows.“Hm, that’s okay,” you mumbled, shifting to brush your thumb over that little wrinkle until it smoothed away. “Just imagine a camera crew following people around the clock, and producers gently… encouraging drama to get more people to watch.”
“Sounds… entertaining,” Spencer said, and while his tone wasn’t exactly convincing, the effort to engage with your interests was. You smiled anyway, touched by the attempt.
“I hope you have fun,” he mumbled, leaning in to press a sweet kiss to your lips, still carefully holding his weight on his forearms.
“Same goes to you,” you smiled against his mouth.
He loved that you told him to have fun teaching, not just to ‘get through it’ or ‘good luck.’
“Don’t work tomorrow, okay?” Spencer mumbled, the words a soft command against your lips. He was already planning on taking every case file in your apartment with him when he left, ensuring you’d have no choice but to relax.
“Okay,” you agreed easily, pulling him back for another kiss.
Spencer was just about to ask if it would be alright to call you after his class tomorrow, when your phone rang.
Spencer interrupted the kiss with a soft sigh, reaching over to snag your phone from the table. He handed it to you. Your free hand remained tangled in his hair as you glanced at the screen, your expression softening. You mouthed a silent ‘sorry’ to him.
He just shook his head. As you swiped to answer, bringing the phone to your ear, Spencer didn’t pull away. Instead, he bent his head, nuzzling back into the crook of your neck, placing kisses along your jawline.
“Hi, JJ,” you said into the phone, your voice slightly strained as you tried to focus. You gave the back of Spencer’s head a gentle smack, knowing exactly what he was doing. After all, the team still didn't know about the two of you. He just grinned against your neck and continued.
He kissed a soft trail along your jaw, feeling you sigh and relax into the couch, until he felt you suddenly freeze beneath him.
“I, uh—” you stuttered into the phone.
Spencer immediately lifted his head. He stared down at you, watching the color drain slightly from your face.
“No, I can do that. That’s fine.” he saw you bite your lip and his stomach dropped. He knew something was wrong, when your hand fell away from his hair and you began to sit up, gently pushing at his shoulder. He scrambled off of you instantly.
“Yeah. I’ll be there at 9:30,” you said, your voice now carefully neutral. You ended the call and simply sat on the edge of the sofa for a moment, your back to him. You turned your phone off and set it down on the coffee table.
Spencer moved slowly, scooting over to sit beside you. He placed a hand on your back. “What was that about?” he asked quietly
“Oh, um.” He could see the effort it took as you plastered a smile on your face, turning to look at him. “JJ just needs someone to babysit Michael tomorrow. Her and Will are taking Henry to some comic convention that Michael has absolutely zero interest in.” You gave a hollow laugh, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Then you stood up abruptly, You grabbed the empty coffee cups and the crumpled bakery bag, hurrying toward the kitchen. “It’s no big deal.”
“What—what about your plans?” Spencer asked, following you, worry knitting his brows together. “Your day off?”
“Oh, that’s fine,” you called over your shoulder. You busied yourself in the kitchen, not looking at him. “I can do that anytime. Henry seemed really excited about the convention; I could hear him talking in the background. Wouldn’t want to ruin his plans.”
Spencer reached out, his hand gently closing around your upper arm, stopping your frantic cleaning. “Hey,” he said softly, turning you just enough to face him. “You can still change your mind. You were looking forward to your day.”
You shook your head, avoiding his eyes. “No, JJ needs my help. And I don’t want to disappoint Henry. It’s fine, Spencer.” You gave his chest a pat. “I can watch trashy TV any time.” Your smile was weak.
Spencer opened his mouth to point out that she asked you, and that ‘no’ was a complete sentence, especially on your first real day off in weeks. But you spoke quickly.
“Spencer, really, it’s fine. Michael’s a sweet kid. It’ll be fun.” You gave him a look that clearly said Please, drop it.
He closed his mouth, the argument dying on his tongue. He didn’t want to seem overbearing or like he was telling you what to do. He wanted to respect your choice, even if every instinct screamed that you were sidelining your own happiness. So he swallowed his concern and simply nodded, his hand falling from your arm.
The morning passed by. Spencer fought the urge to change your mind the entire time. JJ has a lot of friends, fellow parents, trusted sitters. She would understand. It’s your first day off. You were so excited.
He noticed the way your gaze lingered on the couch, aching for the day of glorious nothing you had planned, before you forced yourself to look away. His jaw tightened, words pressing at the back of his throat. But then the overthinking crept in. He didn’t want to push. He didn’t want to be too much.
Spending Christmas morning alone was never part of your plan, but neither was showing up at Emily Prentiss’s doorstep with a gift. Little did you know, Emily had a "gift" of her own to give.
tw: smut, age gap, power dynamics
words: 5155
The house was cold when Emily woke up. The central heating hummed faintly, but it always seemed to struggle against the chill of her old townhouse in the winter. She reached out to the other side of the bed instinctively, a habit she hadn’t been able to shake after years of sleeping alone. Empty. Always empty.
Emily sighed, running a hand over her face before sitting up. It was Christmas morning, but it felt like any other day. The quiet was oppressive, the kind that reminded her just how solitary her life had become outside of work. She loved her team, they were family, but Christmas mornings like this always reminded her of the stark contrast between the bustle of the BAU and the stillness of her own life.
She got up slowly, pulling on a thick sweater over her pajama top before shuffling to the kitchen. Coffee was her first priority, the smell filling the space and warming it in a way that the heating never could. As she poured herself a mug and leaned against the counter, her gaze drifted to the small Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. She’d decorated it half-heartedly a few weeks ago; ornaments, a few strings of lights; but it only served to amplify the sense of loneliness in the room.
Emily sighed again, taking a sip of her coffee and mentally preparing herself for the long day ahead. She slipped out of her pajamas and into slack pants and a comfortable silk blouse, but she had no plans, no calls to make. Just her and the quiet. She was about to retreat to the couch with yet another mug of coffee when a knock at the door startled her.
She froze for a moment, her brow furrowing in confusion. Who would be visiting her? Rossi, maybe? No, he had his family to celebrate with. Curious and admittedly a little cautious, she set her coffee down and made her way to the door. Peeking through the peephole, her breath hitched.
It was you.
You were bundled up against the cold, holding a small, neatly wrapped gift in your hands. Your cheeks were flushed from the winter air, and you looked almost hesitant, like you weren’t sure if this had been a good idea after all. Emily’s chest tightened as she opened the door.
“Y/N?” she asked, her voice thick with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Your eyes lit up when you saw her, and that simple reaction made something in her chest ache. “Merry Christmas,” you said softly, shifting the gift in your hands. “I, um… I didn’t want you to spend the day alone. And I figured out that, well, I have no one to spend the day with as well… so yeah, that we could maybe spend it together?” You rambled.
Emily blinked, momentarily stunned. She had spent years building walls, learning how to be okay on her own. But here you were, standing on her doorstep with a shy smile and a gesture so kind it made her throat tighten. “Come in,” she said finally, stepping aside to let you in. “You must be freezing.”
You slipped past her, your coat brushing against her arm, and she closed the door behind you. The sudden warmth of the house seemed to relax you, and you unwrapped your scarf as you glanced around. “Your tree is cute,” you said, nodding toward the corner of the living room.
Emily huffed a small laugh, crossing her arms. “That’s generous of you. I haven’t had much time for decorating.”
You turned to her, holding out the gift with both hands. “This is for you.”
Her eyes flicked down to the box, and she hesitated before taking it. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said, her voice softer now.
“I wanted to,” you replied, your gaze earnest. “You deserve something nice.”
Emily swallowed hard, her thumb brushing over the edge of the wrapping paper. The sincerity in your voice caught her off guard, and for a moment, all she could do was stare at you. “Thank you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
You waved her off, looking down at your boots. “It’s no big deal.”
She smiled faintly and motioned toward the couch. “Come on, sit down. I’ll make us something warm to drink.”
You followed her into the living room, perching on the edge of the couch as she headed back to the kitchen. She busied herself making tea, the rhythmic clinking of mugs grounding her as she tried to process what was happening. It wasn’t often that people went out of their way for her, especially not someone like you. You were the youngest on the team, vibrant and full of life in a way that made her feel both protective of you and oddly envious.
When she returned, she handed you a steaming mug and sat beside you. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, the warmth of the tea and the faint glow of the Christmas lights creating a rare moment of peace. After a while, Emily glanced at you, her curiosity finally getting the better of her.
“You don’t have family or a boyfriend to spend Christmas with?” she asked, her tone light but genuinely curious.
Your eyes flicked up to hers, and she saw something flicker there, something vulnerable, but not quite sad. “No family close by,” you said finally, setting your mug down on the coffee table. “And no girlfriend”, you corrected her lightly.
Her heart gave an involuntary leap at your words, though she quickly pushed the thought aside. “Well,” she said, her voice softer now, “I’m glad you’re here.”
You looked at her then, your doe eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her feel like the air had shifted. “Me too,” you said quietly.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the heater. Emily wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to navigate the emotions swirling in her chest. But she didn’t want to break the moment, didn’t want to pull away from the warmth you had brought into her home.
Emily sat back on the couch, her hands resting on the unopened gift in her lap. Her fingers brushed over the wrapping paper absently, as if hesitant to disturb it. You noticed her quiet reluctance and leaned forward slightly, smiling.
“You can open it, you know,” you said softly, nudging her with your knee.
Her dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “I guess I’m not used to getting presents,” she admitted, a bit sheepishly.
Your heart gave a little tug at that. “Well, you’d better get used to it,” you teased lightly, leaning back against the cushions.
Emily chuckled at that, her defenses lowering just a little. “Alright,” she said, carefully peeling the wrapping paper back, taking her time as though the gift was far too precious to rush.
When she opened the box, her breath caught audibly. Inside was a necklace you had chosen: a delicate gold chain with a small, elegant charm that glimmered softly in the light. Emily stared at it for a moment, her thumb brushing against the charm, before looking up at you.
“Y/N,” she murmured, her voice low and full of something you couldn’t quite place. “This is… it’s beautiful.”
You felt a flush creeping up your neck, but you kept your voice steady. “I noticed you always wear necklaces like that, and, well… it just reminded me of you. I thought you’d like it.”
Emily’s gaze softened; her usual stoic expression replaced with something gentler, more vulnerable. “I love it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
You waved a hand dismissively, trying to brush off the praise even as warmth spread through your chest. “It’s no big deal, really. I just wanted to give you something nice.”
Emily shook her head, a small, almost wistful smile playing at her lips. “Oh, but I don’t have anything for you,” she said, her tone apologetic.
You waved her off again, laughing lightly. “I don’t need anything, Emily. I’m just happy to be here with you.”
For a moment, Emily didn’t say anything. She simply looked at you, her eyes searching yours as though trying to understand why you would go out of your way for her. Finally, she cleared her throat and held up the necklace. “Would you help me put it on?”
The question caught you off guard, but you nodded quickly. “Of course,” you said, taking the necklace from her as she turned around on the couch, her back to you.
You hesitated for a moment, your breath catching slightly as your eyes fell to her salt-and-pepper hair. Reaching out, you gently brushed her hair to the side, the soft strands slipping through your fingers as you exposed the nape of her neck. Her skin was warm, and you swore you felt a slight shiver run through her as your fingertips grazed her.
You fumbled slightly with the clasp, your nerves getting the better of you, but you managed to secure it after a moment. “There,” you said softly, letting your hands fall away from her as you smoothed her hair back into place.
Emily turned back to face you, her fingers instinctively brushing over the necklace as she smiled. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice thick with emotion.
Before you could reply, she reached out and took your hand in hers, her fingers warm and firm against yours. The gesture sent a jolt through you, and you froze, your gaze snapping to hers.
The air between you seemed to shift, crackling with an intensity that made your heart race. Emily’s grip on your hand was steady, her dark eyes searching yours with an almost unreadable expression. There was something there, something unspoken but undeniable, and it took everything in you not to look away.
“Y/N,” she began, her voice soft but certain, as though she was on the edge of saying something she couldn’t take back.
The tension hung heavy in the air, a palpable, electric charge that neither of you dared to break. Emily’s fingers brushed softly against yours, her dark eyes locked onto your face as though searching for permission, or perhaps reassurance.
She leaned in slowly, her dark eyes searching yours, hesitating for just a moment as though giving you the chance to stop her. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The second her lips brushed yours, it was as if the world stopped spinning. Her kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost uncertain. But when you responded it was like something inside her shifted. The tentative softness gave way to something deeper, more assured.
Emily’s hand slid up to cup your cheek, her palm warm against your skin as her thumb brushed gently along your jawline. The contrast between her gentle touch and the intensity of her kiss sent a shiver through you. Her fingers threaded into your hair, tugging slightly to tilt your head. Her lips moved against yours with a quiet hunger, her dominance clear but never overbearing.
You melted into her completely, your hands instinctively finding her waist and clinging to her as though she were the only thing grounding you to the moment. The faint scent of her perfume filled your senses, mixing with the faint taste of coffee and nicotine on her lips. It was intoxicating. You couldn’t get enough.
When her tongue traced your bottom lip, asking for access, you didn’t hesitate. You opened to her, allowing her to take control as the kiss grew deeper, more desperate. She explored your mouth with a slow rhythm that left you breathless. Her dominance was palpable, the way her hand in your hair tightened just slightly, the way she leaned into you, pressing you back against the couch as though she wanted to consume you entirely.
There was an unspoken understanding in the kiss, a shared loneliness that neither of you wanted to name. Maybe that’s why you didn’t pull away, why you didn’t remind yourself of the things that made this complicated: the age gap, the power dynamics, the fact that she was your boss. None of that seemed to matter right now, not when her lips were on yours and her hands were grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.
When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads pressed together as the weight of what had just happened began to settle over you. Your chest heaved, your lips tingling from the intensity of her kiss, and yet, your mind was a blur. Emily’s dark eyes searched yours, her gaze flickering with a storm of emotions; desire, vulnerability, and a touch of self-reproach.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Despite her words, her hand stayed where it was, cradling your face like she couldn’t bring herself to let you go.
Her words made your stomach twist, a pang of fear slicing through the haze of warmth and intimacy. Your mouth opened to say something, anything, but your thoughts jumbled in the mess of emotions swirling inside you. “I– Emily, I…” you stammered, your cheeks burning as you tried to form a coherent response.
Before you could finish, her thumb brushed lightly across your bottom lip, silencing your attempt. Her eyes softened, the corners of her lips quirking upward in the faintest of smiles. “But I don’t regret it,” she said softly, her voice low and rich with meaning. “Not even for a second.”
Your breath hitched, and the words you’d been struggling to find seemed to evaporate entirely. You stared at her, wide-eyed and flustered, your heart pounding so hard you were sure she could hear it. “I… I don’t know what to say,” you admitted quietly, your voice trembling with the weight of the moment.
Emily let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating against the quiet of the room. “You don’t have to say anything,” she murmured, her hand cupping your face gently. “Let me...”
Before you could process her words, she leaned in again, capturing your lips in another kiss. This one was different, bolder, more certain. The hesitation from before was gone, replaced with a quiet confidence that only Emily seemed to possess. Her lips moved against yours, coaxing you into responding despite your overwhelmed state.
Your hands found their way to her shoulders, clutching at her blouse. Every nerve in your body seemed to hum with electricity as her hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically straddling her lap. The intimacy of the position made your cheeks burn, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Not when her kisses made you feel like you were floating, like nothing else mattered except the two of you in that moment.
She broke the kiss briefly, just long enough to whisper against your lips. “You’re trembling,” she said softly, her hands squeezing your waist gently, grounding you.
“I-I am not…” you started, only to falter when her lips brushed your jawline, trailing soft, featherlight kisses down to your neck. The sensation was enough to steal the air from your lungs, and you felt yourself melt further into her touch.
Emily chuckled softly at your obvious lie, the sound low and warm, vibrating against your skin. “Liar,” she teased gently, her breath hot against your throat as her lips lingered there. “I can feel it.”
You closed your eyes, overwhelmed by the way her words sent a ripple of warmth through you. Your hands clung to her blouse, desperate for an anchor as her lips continued their gentle exploration of your neck. She took her time, her movements unhurried, as though savoring the moment. It wasn’t just the physicality of her touch—it was the tenderness behind it, the care in the way her hands steadied you even as her kisses ignited a fire under your skin.
Minutes seemed to pass in a blur, the two of you losing yourselves in each other’s warmth. Emily’s hands moved with care but purpose, sliding under your sweater to trace the soft skin of your lower back. You shivered at the contact, your fingers instinctively tangling in her salt-and-pepper hair, holding her close as your lips moved together in a rhythm that felt natural and electric all at once.
But as the intensity built, you felt a shift, a need for more, for closeness beyond what the couch could offer. Emily must have sensed it too because she broke the kiss just enough to press her forehead against yours. Her breaths were uneven, her lips still brushing yours as she spoke. “Come with me,” her voice low and inviting.
Somehow, in the haze of kisses and soft touches, the two of you found yourselves moving. You weren’t entirely sure who led the way, Emily’s hands never left you, and your lips kept seeking hers, desperate to keep the connection alive. Her touch guided you, grounding you as the overwhelming emotions threatened to sweep you away.
The journey to her bedroom was a blur, your focus entirely on her, the way her lips moved against yours, the way her hands traced gentle patterns along your back and sides, steadying you yet igniting sparks everywhere they lingered. Between kisses, you stumbled slightly, letting out a soft laugh against her mouth when you nearly tripped over your own feet.
Emily chuckled in return, the sound rich and warm. “Careful,” she murmured, her arm wrapping securely around your waist to steady you. “Can’t have you injuring yourself now.”
“Sorry,” you breathed, though your grin betrayed your lack of concern. “You’re a little distracting.”
Her lips quirked into a smirk as she pressed another kiss to your temple. “Good,” she said simply, her voice low and teasing.
The doorway to her bedroom appeared before you, though you barely registered it, too lost in the haze of her touch and the way her presence filled every corner of your awareness. Emily nudged the door open with her foot, her hand slipping from your waist to brush against your cheek, guiding your gaze back to her.
You found yourself standing at the edge of the bed, your breath hitching as Emily pulled back just enough to look at you. Her dark eyes were full of unspoken words, a flicker of hesitation mingling with the undeniable heat. She brushed a strand of hair away from your face, her fingers lingering against your skin as though committing the moment to memory.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. There was a tenderness in her tone, a care that made your chest ache.
You nodded, though your voice caught in your throat. “I’m okay,” you managed, your hands gripping the sides of her blouse as though afraid to let go.
Her lips curved into a small smile, her thumb brushing gently along your jaw. “We don’t have to–”
“I want this,” you interrupted, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. “I want you.”
For a moment, she simply looked at you, her expression softening into something you couldn’t quite name. Then, without another word, she leaned in again, capturing your lips in a kiss that felt like a promise. She guided you onto the bed, her touch steady, cradling you as though you were something fragile and precious. The care in her movements made your chest ache in the most beautiful way, and you couldn’t help but surrender to her completely.
You gasped softly as her lips began to trail down your neck, the warmth of her breath sending shivers through you. Her hands were steady, sure, sliding beneath the hem of your sweater. She took her time, lifting the fabric inch by inch until it slipped over your head and was cast aside.
The layers between you fell away one by one, her touch gentle yet purposeful as she helped you out of each garment, stripping hers away in the process of it all. Her hands moved with a confidence that left no room for doubt, her fingertips grazing your skin in a way that made your breath hitch. Your shirt, your jeans, even your bra, each piece was removed with care, as though peeling back not just clothing but the walls you’d both held up for so long.
Her lips followed her hands, placing soft, lingering kisses along your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, and the hollow at the base of your throat. Her hands, warm and sure, slid down your sides, pausing to rest at your hips as her lips ventured lower, setting your skin alight with every soft press.
By the time she finally pulled back, you were left bare beneath her, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Emily paused, her dark eyes meeting yours, and the intensity in her gaze stole whatever words you might have spoken. There was desire there, yes... but there was also something deeper, something raw and unspoken.
“You’re incredible,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion as her thumb brushed over the curve of your hip. Her words, so simple yet so genuine, sent a warmth flooding through you, chasing away any lingering doubts.
Before you could respond, her lips found yours again, her kiss slow and deep, pulling you further into the warmth and safety of her presence. Her hands moved along your sides, steady and reverent, as if grounding you in a reality that was almost too overwhelming to grasp. The soft press of her bare body against yours sent heat flooding through you, leaving you breathless and trembling beneath her touch.
Emily kissed you with an intensity that made time seem irrelevant, her lips a perfect blend of softness and urgency. She shifted, her body pressing closer to yours, and you felt the heat of her skin against your own; the delicate golden necklace you’d given her catching the faint light as it rested against her bare collarbone. The sight of it, the only thing she still wore, made your chest ache with a mix of desire and tenderness.
She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her dark eyes searching yours. There was something in her expression, a rawness, a depth of emotion that left you unable to look away. Emily hovered over you, her body straddling yours with a mix of dominance and tenderness that made your heart race. Her eyes roamed over your bare form with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.
“This,” she murmured, her voice low and husky, “is my gift for you.”
Her lips found your jawline, soft and warm, leaving a trail of kisses that descended to the curve of your neck. She lingered there, her tongue flicking out to taste your skin before her lips continued their journey lower. Her mouth was gliding over your collarbone and down to the valley between your breasts. Her warm breath ghosted over your skin, her lips brushing the sensitive area with featherlight kisses that made you tremble beneath her.
One hand came up to gently cup your breast, her fingers splaying out to knead the soft flesh with care. Her mouth descended to the other, her lips placing a series of teasing kisses around your nipple before she finally took it into her mouth. The warmth of her tongue against the sensitive peak sent a gasp tumbling from your lips, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you as a wave of pleasure coursed through you.
Emily hummed softly against your skin, her free hand tracing gentle patterns along your side as she lavished attention on your breasts. She alternated between sucking gently and swirling her tongue over the hardened nub. When she switched to the other breast, her hand moved to replace her mouth, her fingers brushing lightly over the wet, sensitive skin she’d just left. Her lips and tongue began the same reverent exploration of your other breast, her gaze flicking up occasionally to watch your face, as if to ensure you were as lost in the moment as she was.
You couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped your lips, your body arching further into her touch. The way she moved, the way she worshipped your body with such tenderness, made it impossible to feel anything but adored. Emily’s name left your lips in a trembling whisper, and the sound seemed to fuel her. She hummed softly, the vibrations against your skin sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. Her lips left your breast with a wet, lingering kiss, and she shifted her attention lower, her hands gliding down your sides slowly.
Her dark eyes met yours briefly, filled with a mix of desire and tenderness that made your breath catch. “Spread your legs for me, baby,” she murmured, her voice low and commanding, yet laced with a softness that left no room for resistance.
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, your legs parting under her gaze. The warmth of her hands slid along the insides of your thighs, steadying you and sending sparks of heat coursing through your veins. Emily’s lips curled into a faint smirk, her fingers squeezing gently. “Good girl,” she praised.
Her mouth began its descent again, her lips brushing soft, teasing kisses along the sensitive skin of your stomach and hips. She took her time, savoring each moment as though it were a gift for herself as much as for you. Her fingers trailed light, maddening patterns on your thighs, her touch both soothing and electric, her movements slow enough to make you ache for more.
“Emily…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, laced with need.
“I know,” she murmured against your skin, her lips pressing a kiss just above where you needed her most. “Let me take care of you.”
The sincerity in her voice unraveled something deep inside you. Her hands gripped your thighs firmly, spreading you further, and she glanced up at you once more. The raw intensity in her gaze sent a fresh wave of warmth flooding through you.
Then, without hesitation, Emily lowered herself fully between your legs, her lips finding you with a softness that stole the breath from your lungs. Teasingly, she run her tongue along your slit, tasting your arousal. Your hips buckled up at the first contact of her warm tongue with your wetness and a soft moan escaped your lips.
Emily hummed against your heat, the vibrations sending shivers through you. She continues her lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your folds, occasionally dipping her tongue inside to lap at your sensitive walls. “So sweet”, she hums, her fingers gently spreading your lips apart to give her better access.
Her tongue delves deeper, fucking your pussy with slow strokes. She sucks on your clit, rolling it between her lips as she eats you out. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as she devours you. Each flick of her tongue, each gentle suction against your clit, sent electric jolts through your body, your moans filling the room with a symphony of pleasure.
“That’s it baby, let me hear how good I’m making you feel,” she murmured against you, her voice thick with desire, her breath hot against your slick, sensitive skin. Her words sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach, as her tongue continues it’s tantalizing dance, alternating between firm flicks against your clit and slow, deep thrusts inside you.
Your hands found their way into her salt-and-pepper hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you tried to ground yourself. “Emily…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.
Emily’s name was a sacred mantra on your lips as she worked you into a frenzy. She could feel your walls fluttering around her tongue, your juices flowing freely. With a growl, she buried her face deeper between your thighs, sucking hard on your clit.
Your hips bucked involuntarily, but Emily’s firm grip kept you in place. “Stay still for me, baby,” she commanded gently, her tone both soothing and authoritative, making your pulse quicken.
You nodded weakly, your hands tugging lightly at her hair as you tried to hold yourself together. The pleasure was overwhelming, your body trembling under her ministrations. Emily’s fingers soon joined her mouth, two digits slipping inside you with ease, curling upward to find the spot that made you cry out her name.
“Good girl,” she praised, her voice a husky whisper against your skin. Her fingers worked you with expert precision, each stroke perfectly in tune with the flicks of her tongue against your clit. The combination of her skilled mouth and fingers sent you hurtling toward the edge, the tension in your core tightening with every passing second.
Your breath hitched, and your thighs trembled as the wave of pleasure began to crest. Emily seemed to sense it, her movements growing faster, more insistent, as if determined to push you over. “Let go for me,” she urged, her voice vibrating through you as her tongue continued its sinful work. “I want to feel you.”
The sound of her voice, the intensity in her eyes, and the overwhelming pleasure of her touch shattered what little control you had left. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body arching off the bed as you cried out her name, every nerve ending alight with ecstasy.
As you cum, your pussy clenching and unclenching around her fingers and tongue, Emily lapped up your cream greedily, drinking in your essence like it’s the most precious thing in the world. She kept eating you out through your orgasm, not stopping until you were a quivering, spent mess. With a final tender kiss on your sensitive mound, Emily sit back on her heels, admiring the view of your flushed and fulfilled body sprawled before her. A wicked gleam in her eyes, as she slowly licked your juices from her lips. “Mmm… You’re delicious sweetheart.” A new wave of heat coursed through your body at her words and you could feel yourself getting even more flushed.
Emily crawled back up your body, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, up your neck. Reaching the corner of your mouth, she pauses, gazing into your eyes with a loving possessive look. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered. The older woman claimed your lips in a deep, loving kiss, pouring all her affection and desire into it.
Emily pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her lips quirking into a sly smile. “So…what are your plans for New Year’s?” she asked, her voice low and teasing. She nipped at your bottom lip, her smirk devilish. “Because I’m thinking we should start the year off with a bang.”
Could you please write something with Spencer when you’re part of the CIA and you first met him when you were send to work with the FBI and Spencer thinks you’re pretty damn smart and for him that fact is 100 times more attractive than optics and it doesn’t help that you’re very good looking too it’s clear too everyone that you two have attraction for each other and one you’re last night in the city he kisses you and you tell him that even though you’re not a part of the team anymore you’re still CIA and FBI agents and would break so many rules and that he is too smart too make that mistake you still give in. 6 weeks later the FBI gets the information that you went missing and the CIA suspects Terrorists Rossi tells him later he is suspended from the case trough to his personal relation to you and Spencer tells him that he won’t leave you alone no matter what the rules say.❤️
Rules and Consequences
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Spencer Reid was used to being the smartest person in the room. It wasn't arrogance, just statistical probability. With an IQ of 187 and three PhDs, he'd learned to accept it as fact.
Then you walked into the BAU conference room, and that fact became significantly less certain.
"This is Agent L/N from the CIA," Hotch introduced, gesturing to where you stood with perfect posture and sharp, assessing eyes. "They've been tracking an international weapons trafficking ring that's intersected with our serial case. Agent L/N will be working with us for the duration."
"Nice to meet you all," you said, and Spencer noticed you made eye contact with each team member—a practiced skill, deliberate. "I've read your files. Your solve rate is impressive."
"Yours isn't too shabby either," Morgan said with an appreciative grin. "CIA, huh? You don't look like a spy."
Your smile was polite but revealed nothing. "That's generally the point, Agent Morgan."
As Hotch began the briefing, Spencer found himself studying you. The way you listened—actively, completely focused. The way you asked questions that cut straight to the core of the problem. When Garcia pulled up the victimology report, you leaned forward.
"Wait, go back," you said. "The second victim. She had a tattoo removed, right? Laser treatment?"
"Yeah," Garcia confirmed, clicking back through the images. "How did you—"
"The scarring pattern. It's distinctive." You stood, moving to the screen. "I'd bet money that tattoo was of a specific symbol. Our trafficking ring uses it to mark their... merchandise." The word came out with barely concealed disgust. "If we cross-reference other victims for similar scarring—"
"We might find a connection the unsub is exploiting," Spencer finished, already pulling up his tablet. His fingers flew across the screen. "You're right. Three of the five victims had laser removal procedures in the past eighteen months. Garcia, can you—"
"Already on it, boy genius," Garcia chirped.
Spencer looked up to find you watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Respect, maybe. Or curiosity.
"Fast," you commented.
"Eidetic memory," he said, then immediately felt like an idiot for essentially bragging. "I mean, I can read quickly. It helps with pattern recognition and—"
"And you saw the connection immediately." You tilted your head slightly. "That's not just memory. That's intuitive intelligence. Impressive, Dr. Reid."
No one called him Dr. Reid except in jest. Hearing it from you, with genuine respect in your tone, made something warm unfurl in his chest.
"Just Spencer is fine. And you... that was excellent observation. The scarring pattern isn't in any of our databases. How did you recognize it?"
"I spent six months embedded in an organization that used similar methods. You see enough of something, it sticks." You said it casually, but Spencer caught the tension in your shoulders. Whatever you'd seen, it hadn't been pleasant.
"That must have been difficult," he said quietly.
Your eyes met his, and for a moment, the professional mask slipped. "It was. But it got results."
"Spencer's pretty familiar with doing difficult things for results," JJ said warmly. "You two are going to get along great."
Morgan snorted. "Yeah, Reid's finally met someone who can keep up with him. This should be entertaining."
Spencer felt his ears get hot, but you just smiled, a real smile this time, not the professional one.
"I look forward to it," you said, and Spencer's heart did something complicated in his chest.
Over the next week, Spencer became increasingly certain of two things:
One: You were brilliant. Not just smart, but brilliant. You thought in layers, saw connections others missed, and had a way of reading people that rivaled even Rossi's decades of experience.
Two: He was completely, hopelessly attracted to you.
"Okay, run this by me again," Morgan said on day three, leaning against Spencer's desk. "What's your deal with the CIA agent?"
"I don't have a 'deal,'" Spencer said, not looking up from his file.
"Please. You've been staring at them for the past hour."
"I've been observing their analytical process. It's fascinating how they integrate psychological profiling with geopolitical context. Most agents silo their thinking, but they—"
"—are really hot and you can't stop looking at them," Morgan finished with a grin.
Spencer's face flushed. "That's not... I mean, yes, they're objectively attractive, but what's really compelling is their mind. Did you know they speak seven languages? And they have a background in behavioral psychology and international relations. The way they connected the trafficking routes to historical trade patterns was—"
"Pretty Boy's got it bad," Morgan announced to the bullpen.
"Leave him alone," JJ said, but she was smiling. "I think it's sweet."
"What's sweet?" You appeared seemingly out of nowhere, holding two cups of coffee. You offered one to Spencer. "You mentioned you take it with an obscene amount of sugar. I may have overdone it, but I figured you could handle it."
Spencer took the coffee, momentarily stunned. "You... remembered how I take my coffee?"
"Eidetic memory isn't the only way to remember things, Dr. Reid. Some of us just pay attention." You winked, actually winked, and walked away to your temporary desk.
Morgan waited until you were out of earshot. "Oh yeah. You're doomed."
Spencer couldn't even argue.
It became a pattern. You and Spencer would end up working late together, the rest of the team trickling home until it was just the two of you in the soft glow of desk lamps and computer screens.
"Okay, what am I missing?" you asked on the fifth night, staring at the evidence board with frustrated intensity. "The timeline doesn't make sense. Our suspect couldn't have been in both locations at once unless—"
"Unless there's a second person," Spencer said, standing to join you. "Look, the MO shifts slightly between the Virginia and Maryland victims. In Virginia, the unsub is meticulous, organized. But in Maryland—"
"—more aggressive. Impulsive." Your eyes widened. "You're right. We're looking at a team."
"Partners, probably. One dominant, one submissive to their will." Spencer grabbed a marker, adding notes to the board. "If we profile them as a team rather than an individual—"
"Everything clicks into place." You were grinning now, energized by the breakthrough. "God, you're good at this."
"So are you," Spencer said, turning to face you. You were close... when had you gotten so close?... and he could see the flecks of color in your eyes, the way you bit your lip when you were thinking.
"We make a good team," you said softly.
"Yeah. We do."
The moment stretched between you, charged with something Spencer didn't quite know how to name. Then you cleared your throat and stepped back.
"I should, um. I should write this up. Get it to Hotch first thing."
"Right. Yes. That's... that's smart."
You gathered your things, but paused at the door. "Spencer? For what it's worth? I've worked with a lot of smart people. But the way your mind works? It's... special. Don't let anyone make you feel like it's not."
You were gone before he could respond, leaving Spencer standing alone in the bullpen, his heart racing and his brilliant mind unable to form a single coherent thought.
The case broke on day seven. The team arrested both suspects: a couple, just as Spencer and you had predicted, and recovered six potential victims before they could be shipped overseas.
"Great work, everyone," Hotch said, his rare smile making an appearance. "Agent L/N, the CIA should be proud. Your cooperation was invaluable."
"It was my pleasure, Agent Hotchner. Your team is..." you paused, and Spencer could swear your eyes found his, "exceptional."
"Drinks!" Garcia declared. "We're celebrating. You included, CIA agent. No arguments."
You laughed. "I could be persuaded."
The bar was loud and crowded, the team spreading out to claim tables and decompress. Spencer found himself next to you, both of you slightly apart from the others, content to observe rather than participate in the chaos.
"You don't drink much, do I have that right?" you asked, gesturing to his barely-touched beer.
"Not really my thing. I like being in control of my faculties."
"Same." You held up your own mostly-full glass. "Plus, in my line of work, you never know when you'll need to be sharp."
"That sounds exhausting. Always having to be on guard."
You shrugged. "It's the job. But this week has been... nice. Different. The BAU feels like family in a way the Agency doesn't."
"They are family," Spencer agreed. "I didn't understand that at first, but now I can't imagine working anywhere else."
"You're lucky." There was something wistful in your voice. "To have that."
Spencer made a decision. "Do you want to get out of here? There's a 24-hour bookstore a few blocks away. It's quieter."
Your smile was answer enough.
The bookstore was nearly empty, soft jazz playing over the speakers. You and Spencer wandered the aisles, pulling books at random, reading passages aloud, arguing good-naturedly about authors and themes.
"I'm just saying, Dostoyevsky's philosophy on suffering is fundamentally flawed," you argued, gesturing with a worn copy of Crime and Punishment .
"Flawed how? His exploration of redemption through confession is brilliant."
"But he assumes suffering is inherently purifying, which ignores the reality that trauma can just as easily destroy as transform."
Spencer blinked. "That's... actually a really good point. I never thought about it that way."
"Because you're too busy being right about everything else," you teased.
"I'm not right about everything."
"Name one thing you've been wrong about recently."
"I... " Spencer paused. "Okay, that's fair."
You laughed, and the sound made something in Spencer's chest ache. He was going to miss this. Miss you.
"I leave tomorrow morning," you said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "Early flight back to Langley."
"I know."
You both stood there, in the philosophy section of a nearly-empty bookstore, and Spencer could feel the weight of unsaid things pressing down on him.
"I'm really going to miss working with you," you said finally. "This week has been... special. You're special, Spencer."
"So are you." He moved closer, his heart pounding. "These past seven days have been some of the best I've had in years. And it's because of you. Because of how you think, how you see the world, how you... "
He was rambling. He needed to stop rambling.
You stepped into his space, closing the distance between you. "Spencer. Can I kiss you?"
His brain short-circuited. "I...yes. Please. Yes."
Your lips met his, soft and questioning, and Spencer forgot how to breathe. He'd been kissed before, not often, but enough to have a basis for comparison, and this was different. This was right. His hands came up to cup your face, and you made a soft sound that shot straight through him.
When you finally pulled back, both breathing hard, Spencer couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
"That was—"
"I know," you whispered.
"I want—"
"I know." You pressed your forehead to his. "But Spencer, I'm CIA. You're FBI. We work for different agencies, different chains of command. If anyone found out, we'd both be violating about a dozen protocols. Inter-agency relationships require disclosure, oversight, and—"
"I know the rules." He pulled back slightly to look at you. "And I know you're too smart to ignore them. You're right. It would be complicated and risky and probably a terrible idea."
"Probably?"
"Definitely." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "You're leaving tomorrow. We'd barely see each other. The paperwork alone would be a nightmare. And if anyone found out before we went through proper channels—"
"We could lose our careers," you finished. "You've worked too hard to risk that, Spencer. You're brilliant and you have so much ahead of you. I can't be the reason you throw that away."
"You wouldn't be. It would be my choice."
"A choice you're too smart to make." You kissed him again, softer this time. Sadder. "We have tonight. Can that be enough?"
It couldn't. Spencer knew it couldn't. But looking at you, feeling the way his heart raced when you smiled, he also knew he'd take whatever you could give him.
"Tonight," he agreed.
You spent the rest of the evening in that bookstore, stealing kisses between bookshelves, holding hands like teenagers, pretending that morning wouldn't come. When Spencer finally walked you back to your hotel, the goodbye kiss lasted long enough that he memorized every detail, the way you tasted like coffee, the sound you made when he deepened the kiss, the feel of your fingers tangled in his hair.
"Maybe in another life," you whispered against his lips.
"Or maybe later in this one," Spencer replied. "When the timing's better."
You smiled, but it didn't reach your eyes. "Maybe."
He watched you disappear into the hotel lobby, and tried to convince himself that this wasn't the last time.
He should have known better.
Six weeks later, Hotch called an emergency meeting.
Spencer walked into the conference room to find the entire team already assembled, their faces grim. His stomach dropped.
"What happened?"
"Sit down, Reid," Hotch said quietly.
"Just tell me."
Hotch pulled up an image on the screen, your CIA identification photo. "Agent L/N went missing four days ago. They were working undercover in Syria, tracking a terrorist cell. Their last check-in was Friday. The Agency lost contact Saturday morning."
Spencer's world tilted. "Missing. What does missing mean? Are they—"
"We don't know," Rossi said gently. "The CIA suspects kidnapping. There's been increased chatter among terrorist groups about having captured an American agent."
"Increased chatter meaning what, exactly?" Spencer's voice was sharp, almost desperate. "Have they confirmed it's Agent L/N? Do we have any proof of life? What are they doing to—"
"Reid." Hotch's tone was firm. "The CIA has reached out for assistance. They want our help profiling the captors and predicting their next moves. But—"
"But what? We need to start immediately. Every hour that passes reduces the chances of—" Spencer couldn't finish that sentence. Couldn't vocalize what happened to agents who stayed missing too long.
"Reid, sit down," Rossi said, in a voice that brooked no argument.
Spencer sat, his hands clenched into fists on the table.
"The CIA disclosed something when they requested our help," Hotch continued. "You and Agent L/N submitted inter-agency relationship paperwork seven weeks ago. That makes you personally involved in this case."
The room went silent.
"You submitted the paperwork," JJ said softly. "You actually—"
"After they left," Spencer said, his voice tight. "We—something happened. The last night they were here. We knew it violated protocols, so we both submitted disclosure forms the next day. We agreed to wait until the official approval came through before pursuing anything, but I—" He looked up at Hotch. "You're about to tell me I'm benched."
"You can't work this case, Reid," Hotch said, and there was genuine sympathy in his eyes. "You know why. Your personal connection compromises your objectivity. If this goes to court, any profile you create could be thrown out. You'd jeopardize the entire investigation."
"I don't care about court! I care about finding them alive!" Spencer's voice cracked. "They're out there, Hotch. They're scared and alone and possibly being tortured, and you want me to just sit here and do nothing?"
"I want you to trust your team," Hotch said firmly. "We will find them, Reid. But you need to let us do our jobs."
"No." Spencer stood, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "No, I'm not sitting this out. You can suspend me, fire me, I don't care. But I am not leaving them alone in this."
"Reid—" Morgan started.
"Would you?" Spencer rounded on him. "If it was Garcia, would you step aside? Would any of you?" He looked around the table at his team, his family. "I know the rules. I know what I'm risking. But they were willing to risk their career for me. They submitted that paperwork knowing it could complicate their security clearance, their assignments. And I'm not going to honor that by abandoning them now."
Silence fell over the conference room.
Finally, Rossi spoke. "Hotch, he's got a point."
"Dave—"
"I'm not saying put him in the field. But Reid's brain works differently than ours. You know it, I know it. If anyone can find the pattern that leads us to Agent L/N, it's him." Rossi looked at Spencer. "You stay here. You work the profile from Quantico. You don't go anywhere near the tactical side. That's the compromise."
Hotch studied Spencer for a long moment. "If I even suspect your judgment is compromised—"
"It won't be," Spencer said immediately. "I'll be objective. I'll follow procedure. But please, Hotch. Please let me help."
Another pause. Then: "Garcia, pull everything we have on the terrorist cell. Reid, start with victimology, what would make Agent L/N a target? Morgan, JJ, start coordinating with the CIA's tactical team. We brief in one hour."
It wasn't until everyone started moving that Spencer realized Hotch had agreed.
"Reid," Hotch said quietly, stopping him at the door. "We will find them. I promise you that."
Spencer nodded, not trusting his voice.
He had work to do. Spencer didn't sleep for three days.
He analyzed every piece of intelligence, every intercepted communication, every grainy surveillance photo. He built a profile of the captors, a radical cell led by a former intelligence officer who had a history of torturing captured agents for information.
The thought of you in that man's hands made Spencer physically ill.
"Reid, you need to rest," JJ said on day four, finding him still at his desk at 3 AM.
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She sat down across from him. "Spence, we're all worried about them. But you're running yourself into the ground."
"Every minute I waste sleeping is a minute they're still missing," Spencer said, his eyes burning as he stared at the evidence board. "I can't... JJ, I can't lose them. Not like this."
"You won't." JJ squeezed his hand. "We're close. Garcia found a location, an abandoned compound outside Damascus. The team's mobilizing now."
Spencer's head snapped up. "Take me with you."
"You know I can't."
"JJ—"
"Hotch was clear. You stay here." Her voice softened. "But Reid? When we bring them home, you'll be the first person they ask for. I'd bet money on it."
The next six hours were the longest of Spencer's life.
He paced the bullpen, monitoring communications, listening to the tactical team's updates. When he heard the first gunshots over the radio, his heart stopped.
"Multiple hostiles, engaging now—"
"Second floor secured—"
"We've got civilians, moving to extract—"
"AGENT DOWN! We need medical—"
Spencer's world collapsed. "Who?" he demanded, grabbing the radio. "Who's down?"
Static.
Then: "It's not them," Morgan's voice came through. "Reid, we found them. They're alive. Injured but alive. We're bringing them home."
Spencer's legs gave out. He sat down hard on the floor, his face in his hands, and let himself break just a little bit.
"Reid?" Garcia's voice was soft. "Did you hear that? They're okay. Your person is okay."
"Yeah," Spencer managed. "Yeah, I heard."
They wouldn't let Spencer into the hospital room at first.
"Family only," the nurse said firmly.
"I'm—" Spencer paused. What was he? Not a husband. Not even officially a boyfriend. Just someone who'd filled out paperwork and spent one perfect night pretending rules didn't exist.
"He's with me," Rossi's voice came from behind him. He flashed his credentials. "FBI. The patient is a federal agent, we need to speak with them."
The nurse looked skeptical but stepped aside.
Your room was quiet, the steady beep of monitors the only sound. You were pale, bandages visible on your arms, a nasty bruise spreading across your cheekbone. But your eyes were open, and when you saw Spencer, your entire face transformed.
"Hey, genius," you croaked.
Spencer was across the room in three strides, taking your hand carefully, mindfully of the IV. "Hey. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got kidnapped by terrorists. You know, the usual." Your smile was weak but real. "I hear you ignored direct orders to stay off my case."
"I couldn't just sit there."
"I know." You squeezed his hand. "They told me you were the one who figured out where I was. Something about analyzing dialect patterns in the ransom video?"
"And geographical markers, and behavioral indicators, and..." Spencer stopped. "I was scared. I've never been that scared."
"Me too," you admitted. "But I knew... I knew you'd find me. I knew you wouldn't stop looking."
"Never," Spencer said fiercely. "Never."
"Well," Rossi said from the doorway, making them both jump. They'd forgotten he was there. "I'm going to give you two some privacy. Reid, you've got fifteen minutes before the doctors kick you out. Make them count."
When he was gone, you tugged Spencer closer. "Kiss me."
"You're injured—"
"Spencer Reid, if you don't kiss me right now, I'm going to be very upset."
He kissed you, gentle and reverent, like you were something precious. Which, to him, you were.
"So," you murmured against his lips, "about those inter-agency relationship forms we filed..."
"What about them?"
"Think we can make this work? Despite the rules, the different agencies, the complications?"
Spencer pulled back to look at you properly. "I think I'd be an idiot not to try. And I'm a lot of things, but I'm not an idiot."
"No," you agreed, smiling that smile that made his heart race. "You're really not. You're brilliant and stubborn and apparently willing to break protocol for the people you care about."
"Only for you," Spencer said honestly. "Just you."
"Lucky me." You yawned, the painkillers clearly starting to work. "Stay? Please?"
"I'm not going anywhere," Spencer promised. "Not now. Not ever."
He pulled a chair up to your bedside, keeping your hand in his, and watched you drift off to sleep. When the nurse came to kick him out, she took one look at his expression and quietly closed the door instead.
Some rules, Spencer thought, were worth breaking.
And some people were worth everything.
Bonus: Six Months Later
"Reid, you've got that dopey smile again," Morgan announced to the bullpen.
Spencer didn't even bother denying it. He was looking at his phone, at the text you'd just sent.
You: Wrapping up early. Dinner at our place tonight?
Spencer: I'll bring dessert. Miss you.
You: Miss you more, genius. See you at 7. ❤️
"They're coming back to Quantico next month," Spencer said, unable to keep the happiness out of his voice. "Permanent transfer. The CIA approved it."
"Permanently?" JJ's face lit up. "Spence, that's amazing!"
"Yeah." Spencer couldn't stop smiling. "Yeah, it really is."
His phone buzzed again.
You: Also, Rossi invited us to dinner on Saturday. Said something about wanting to cook for "his favorite rule-breakers." Should I be concerned?
Spencer: Probably. But I'll be there, so you'll be fine.
You: My hero. 💕
Morgan read over his shoulder and laughed. "Oh, you've got it SO bad."
"I know," Spencer said simply. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."
Tags: fem!reader, amnesia, car accident (no graphic detail), hospitals, established relationship but also not really, forced proximity, mild angst, injuries, soft sad emily :(
Summary: you find yourself in a hospital, with a stranger claiming to be your wife and no choice but to believe her.
Word count: 4.2k
Series masterlist
Emily blinks up at you, hugging a pillow to her chest, curling in on herself like a cat left out in the cold. She has her knees tucked into her stomach, her nose buried in the slope of her arm. Even in the warm lamplight of your bedroom, her skin looks pallid. The bruised hues under her eyes don't help, neither does the tired, wilting line of her mouth. She looks exhausted.
Guilt pinches tightly between your ribs. You stuff your keys and phone into your pockets, grab the sweater at the edge of the bed and put it on, ignoring the howl of the wind outside.
"You don't have to go." She says, with not much conviction.
"I won't be long." You lean down to kiss her forehead, feeling her overheated skin under your lips. You stamp one, two kisses, brushing your thumb over the thin skin next to her eye. "Text me if you need anything else, okay? Anything."
She grabs your hand before you straighten. "I love you." Before you can respond, her fingers tighten around your wrist. "I can come with you."
"Emily, no." You murmur. "I'll be fine. You just try to rest until I come back, okay?"
She gnaws on her lip, still holding your hand to her chest. "Be careful."
If it were under any other circumstance, you'd have poked fun at her a little. But it's not, and her voice is hoarse with fatigue, the late hour stripping you both of any harshness.
"I will."
And you are. The roads are still damp with earlier rain. It's a ten minute drive to the grocery store, and though there's an itch to press on the gas and get home to your wife as soon as possible, you keep the speed low, treading carefully. This store is a little bit past another one you could've gone to, but it's connected to a pharmacy, so you brave the small distance.
Mint, ginger ale, green tea. The chocolate biscuits she likes. Plain crackers. You stock up on rubbing alcohol pads and, on a whim, grab a heated blanket. Her sweaters and hoodies won't be of much use soon enough.
You text her as you're checking out.
Want anything else?
The message pings a second later.
My wife back.
You smile down at your phone.
T-minus ten minutes.
The cold blasts as you walk back into the night. You shiver, cranking up the heat the minute you get into the car, numbed fingers fastening your belt. As you're pulling out of the lot, you catch the time on the dashboard.
10:53.
You press a little harder on the gas. Streetlights blur past, illuminating your way home. It's just you and the road, the wheels of your car rolling by until, suddenly, they slip, losing traction. You gasp as the car picks up speed, veering out of control.
"Shit." You hiss, your pulse spiking. You let go of the gas and start pumping on the brakes. But it's already too late, and you're hurtling too fast. The sidewalk rises up on your left, a glowing lamplight looming over you.
A breath hitches in your chest.
"Shit."
-
Everything hurts. You're aware of the pain before anything else, beating in time with your pulse. Your whole skull throbs, a persistent hammering that echoes in your ears and reaches down between your eyes. When you shift, your shoulder screams, chafing against stiff fabric. Your arm, you realize, is bent.
It takes multiple tries to peel your eyes open. The lights make you flinch, fluorescent and ugly, all too telling of where you are. If the clinical scent hadn't clued you in, you wouldn't have had much trouble figuring it out from the papery gown that scratches your skin.
You hate hospitals.
But…why are you even in one?
It takes too many blinks and throbs of your head before your eyes are strong enough to stay open, though they're still watery, your vision blurred. The heat in your shoulders tells you you shouldn't try rubbing at them.
Eventually, even that clears. You blink and find a woman sitting in the chair next to your bed. Her knee bounces erratically. She's bent forward, elbows on her thighs, picking at her nails with an agitated restlessness. You barely get a good look at her before she looks up at you and jumps up, the chair scraping behind her as she leans over your bed.
"You're awake." She breathes. "Oh my god." Her voice cracks. "Oh my god, are you—god I'm so sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry. You had me worried sick." She croaks, all in one breath. You blink when she takes your cheek in a soft, cold hand, her wide eyes scanning every inch of your face. "Does it hurt anywhere? How do you feel, are you in pain? Should I call the doctor—"
She suddenly goes quiet. The silence rings in the absence of her voice. Her eyes are intense, boring into you with the force of two black holes. Overwhelmed, you tilt your chin away from her hand, feeling your brows knot together.
Who is she?
"Sorry," she clears her throat, quieter now, "sorry, that's a lot. Um, how are you feeling?" Her hands curl around the railings of your bed. She gnaws on her bottom lip, holding your gaze for longer than you hold hers. Braving the lights is easier than looking into her eyes.
A slow, heavy stone sinks in your gut.
You should know her. It's obvious you should.
"Honey." She breathes. "Talk to me, please."
Everything spins. You close your eyes to stop it, and the pain somehow mounts. From the hammering in your head to the sharp sting in your shoulder and a faint discomfort in your hips. You swallow, finding your throat thick, so dry your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. When you shift your free arm, a burn tugs in your chest.
What the hell happened to you?
"Y/N?"
You start at the hand on top of your head, opening your eyes again to look up at her. The sharp lights prickle, stinging. Through them you can see the worry in her face. She bites her lip raw, flushing it to a nearly vicious shade of red.
"Hurts." You croak.
Her face crumples, just for a second. A quick crinkle of her brows, a tremble to her mouth, before it all smooths over. "I'll call a nurse." She says, clearing her throat.
You close your eyes, expecting her to leave. Not expecting the two hands cupped to your face, her mouth pressed desperately to your brow bone. Your inhale pauses in your chest. She lets out a breath, warm and fogging on your temple. It sounds like a sob.
Then she leaves.
You're left dazed, spinning. The stone in your gut grows heavier, and you get the horrifying feeling that though it shouldn't be able to sink any lower, it can. It will.
Honey, she said. Girlfriend, surely. But…you haven't been dating. You've never seen her before. You know you'd remember eyes like hers, brown swallowing black, spread wide as saucers.
You would remember her. You would. Surely you would.
But she comes back with the nurse in tow, and you know her about as well as you know the uniformed woman fiddling with your IV, asking you questions that take a beat too long for you to answer while she checks your vitals. She peels circular pads from your chest. The beeping goes quiet, a sharp silence in its place that sets your teeth on edge. You'll be good to go soon, she says.
"Go…where?" You stutter, your throat closing up. "Why am I even here? What—what happened?"
The woman clears her throat, her hands flexing on the railing of your bed. Two rings shine on her ring finger, catching the dull light.
"You got into an accident." She says hoarsely. "You…your car slipped on a patch of ice. You hit your head. Can you…" Her voice wavers. She clears her throat, her nail catching on a patch of skin on her thumb. "Can you remember any of that?"
You shake your head.
Her skin goes paler, if possible, the color sucking out of her face. She inhales a deep breath. Steeling herself. Setting her eyes squarely on yours.
"Can you remember me?"
You feel the need to apologize.
"I'm sorry."
-
Retrograde amnesia.
Just hearing it makes your head throb harder, as if it's trying to fill the gaps you've been told are there.
You had laughed. A startled, breathless thing that quickly got sucked back into your lungs at the pitying look on the doctor's face. You know it's true, but you can't shake off the disbelief. You remember the day you lost your first tooth. The fluorescent lights of your high-school classrooms. Your mother's face.
You don't remember the woman standing in front of you. You don't remember marrying her—can hardly even fathom the thought, because you'd never been able to imagine yourself married, can't conjure it up even after the fact.
You're supposed to go home with her.
Home. Wherever that is, now.
Your chest clamps down at the reminder. The ruthless bones of your ribcage start caving inwards, clawing at soft flesh. Your breaths go shallow, sweat lining your palms.
How can you go home with a complete stranger?
"Y/N, hey. Look at me, please." She says hoarsely, pulling your gaze up. You feel the tears pooling in your eyes, hot, blurring her out. "Can I…" She clears her throat, "Can I touch you?"
You really nearly laugh. It bubbles up in your throat, thick as a sob, but you shove it down. Nod.
Emily's hand lands hesitantly on your arm, her fingertips digging in the slightest bit as if she can't help them.
"It's okay." She tells you. "I know it's scary. I can't—god, I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now." Her voice wavers, trembling, but she steels it to a soothing tone, velvet against your frazzled nerves. "But I'm with you, okay? Every step of the way. I'll take care of you."
You almost ask why, but you stop yourself.
Because that's what married people do. She loves you, you realize, near hysterically. She loves you.
And you don't even know her.
The tears tip over. You duck your head, pressing your cheek to your good shoulder. Your papery gown soaks through, and Emily's fingers twitch on your arm. Her grip slackens then tightens, faltering, unsure. Ultimately she ghosts her hand down, hovering above your elbow like a shadow.
"You're safe with me." She whispers. Her eyes are damp, shot through with red. "I promise you are."
Your heart spasms, rising to your throat. You feel yourself nod, chin bopping up and down.
"Can I have my clothes?" You ask hoarsely.
"Yeah." She mutters, nodding, stepping back, reaching under the chair for a black duffel bag. You look away as she swipes her fingers under her eyes, instead fixing your attention on the bag she places next to you.
"They're, um. They're mine, so they're not the best fit, but your clothes got…" she swallows, looking away, "I figured you wouldn't want to wear them again but I didn't think to grab you any when I got here, so—"
"It's okay."
"We don't live far." She says, apologetically.
There's that thickness in your throat again, pushing up against the joint we you're technically a part of, but not really. Not in any way that counts.
You swallow and busy your shaking hands with opening up the bag and grabbing the first thing you find. A thick sweater—black, plain, unbearably soft. Beside it is a pair of sweatpants. You pile the clothes onto your lap.
Emily pulls out a ball of socks. She unrolls it, separating the two, and hooks her fingers into the hem of one as if to pull it over your feet. You feel yourself staring. Her eyes flick up to you, study you for a split second, before she stills.
You swallow as she sets the socks down, uncomfortably aware of your arm resting in your sling.
"I'll wait for you outside." She says quietly. Your heart kicks in relief, jolting in your chest. "Unless you want me to—"
"No, no, I'm fine." You rush out.
She nods once. Tries at something like a smile, but it falls through. "Yell if you need me."
You tell yourself you won't, even though you nod.
It takes some maneuvering, and you're dizzy by the time you stand, clutching the rails of your bed, but you manage to get yourself into the sweatpants. They're warm on your chilled legs. Every part of you is cold, you realize. Goosebumps litter your arms, chafing against the thin gown.
You get the socks on with more trouble than they deserve. The moment you undo your sling, your arm screams. The faint throb sharpens to a white-hot stab, so suddenly you gasp, letting your shoulder slump back onto it. You screw your eyes shut and swallow down bile, trying to ignore the frantic pulse beating into your socket.
The doctor already discharged you. The nurse had scurried away with her, leaving a prescription in Emily's hand. You open your eyes and search futilely for a call button, chewing down on your lip when you find nothing.
She's your wife, right? This wouldn't be strange. She's probably, definitely, seen all there is to see.
You feel your arm curl tighter around your middle. Swallowing, you wet your dry lips.
"Emily." You call weakly.
Your voice carries through the curtains. She pushes them back immediately, her eyes wide as she steps through, faltering for a moment before she edges closer to your bed and picks up the sweater at your side. She doesn't mention the tears in your eyes. She doesn't mention your sweat-slick skin or the stark bandage sitting on your chest, angled between your collarbones. She just guides your arm through the sleeve, her touch light and quick, fingertips barely lingering, as if you'll break beneath them.
-
You expect it to stir some feeling inside you. The neat lawn, the quaint porch, the living room scattered with blankets and coffee mugs and general, ordered chaos. You can't stamp down on the disappointment when it doesn't.
"Give it time."
And that's another thing. It's unnerving, how well she reads you. Like she has free access to your head, hearing you even when you're silent.
You try to force a full breath into your lungs.
"Doc said you have to eat." Emily says, her hands careful as she peels your coat off of one shoulder. "Are you hungry?"
You shake your head.
"Tired."
She shows you to her bedroom. Yours too, you remind yourself. It's nothing like you were expecting, though you had nothing in mind. The bedsheets are rumpled, the lamps still on, curtains drawn tight. You take the neater side of the bed, kicking your shoes off and easing yourself back onto the cold sheets.
Emily switches off the lights, plunging the room into darkness. She says nothing as she leaves. You just hear the tread of her footsteps, faint and dragging, the last of the light leaving the room as she closes the door behind her.
You maneuver yourself under the covers, close your eyes, and feel the tears slip out from beneath them.
-
It's pitch black when you wake up. The scent of something warm hangs in the air, pulling you up out of bed, calling to the wide, yawning pit in your stomach. Your body briefly flashes white as you dig your hand into the mattress and shove yourself up, the pain returning all at once, no more dulled by your heavy sleep.
The pounding in your head has calmed to a faint patter. It's a small relief, one you quickly forget as you fumble for toilet paper and have to bite down on a whimper when you stretch your arm too far back. Washing your hand is no easier of a task; you forgo the liquid soap after two tries at the dispenser, picking up the bar instead and trying to work a lather between five fingers. By the time you're clutching at the railing, socked feet soundless on the stairs, the front of your sweater is soaked, your face and sleeves dripping cold water.
The smell is dizzying now, stronger. You take the stairs slowly, closing your eyes against the bout of nausea that sweeps through your body. You pause to wait it out, tightly clenching the rails, and hear Emily's voice, low and drifting.
"You didn't have to do that, Pen."
You go still, tensing as you wait for another voice to respond. But it's quiet, Emily continuing on with a one-sided conversation. You feel yourself relax.
"I don't…I don't know about that." She says after a pause, audibly weary. "I'm not sure if she can handle so much all at once. Maybe give it a few days, till she can adjust. Doctor said to take it easy. Can't…can't overwhelm her."
Your fingers curl tighter, cramping. It's easier to hear now, the gravel in her voice, the heartbreak. She doesn't speak above a whisper, but it's raw, ringing with a small tremble that makes your lungs double down.
There's another long pause. A quick, sharp inhale.
"Nothing." She whispers.
The word cracks. You don't feel it grow louder, can't move when you see her shadow cross the base of the stairs. She sees you, pauses mid-sentence. You can see the shine in her eyes from three steps up.
Emily's hand tightens around her phone. "Um, listen, I'll call you back." She says, ending the call before you're sure the person responds and dropping it into the depths of her sweatpants pocket. Her fingers tangle in a knot below her ribs.
"Hey."
"Hey." You mumble, your voice raspy with disuse. You inhale a long breath and pool your focus on taking the last few steps down onto the landing. Emily holds her hand out as you reach the last stair; you take it before she drops it down to her side—already pulling back, forcing a reflex down.
Her skin is cold. Her smile is miles warmer, though it barely stretches her lips into a thin line.
"How's the pain?"
You make a strangled sound in your throat.
Immediately, her eyes go round. "Why don't you sit down? I made you some soup." She says, her hand sliding up to your elbow. "Thought it'd go down easy. Or if you want I can make you something else—"
You shake your head. "No, that's—thank you." You rasp. "You didn't have to."
Another flash of a smile, her hand squeezing gently. "Go ahead, I'll just heat it up."
You at least manage to make it to the living room without passing out. You collapse onto the couch, wincing when it jostles your arm, the pain throbbing like a pulse. You stifle a whine as your head tips back, your eyes falling closed against the soothing glow of the room.
It's almost entirely silent. The kind of quiet that makes you want to open your eyes to check that there really is someone with you, inhabiting the same space, edging far enough away to not let you feel it. But you don't. You keep them closed, listening as your body painstakingly calms itself down from the exertion of walking down a flight of stairs.
It's warmer here than in the room. The couch cushions are soothing against your chilled skin, stealing away the ice in your fingertips. As you're blindly feeling around, working up friction, you find the fuzzy edge of a blanket. You tug it into your lap.
At the sound of faint rattling, you open your eyes and find Emily setting down a tray on the coffee table. You take the bowl she hands you, full to the brim with soup, scorching hot through the ceramic.
"Thank you." You mumble.
Her eyes go soft. Softer. "You're welcome. There's more if you want, I made enough for a few days." She clears her throat. "You cold? Or—warm, thirsty, anything?"
"Really, I'm okay." You insist. "Thank you."
You think you might have to stop saying that. It sounds like an apology.
Emily nods and settles down on the opposite end of the couch. You slowly stir your soup, dispelling steam. It rises up in waves, fogging the air with the sweet smell of potatoes. You bring a steaming spoonful to your mouth. It burns as it goes down, but the taste makes up for it, the growling in your stomach soothed by the promise of more. You singe off half your tastebuds in your haste, too impatient to let it cool down properly.
The throb in your head eases. You drain half the bowl before you can speak.
"This is good." You say quietly.
Emily smiles, the most genuine one you've seen all day. It pulls at dimples and draws a flutter in your chest. You look down, shove another spoonful into your mouth. The bowl is almost clear, your spoon grazing the bottom.
"You cook a lot?" You blurt out.
"Not really." She scratches behind her ear. "But I can get us by just fine."
You tilt your bowl. "This is more than just fine."
Her mouth opens again, but you're distracted from her by a black form that slinks onto the couch next to you. You startle, relaxing back when you meet the cat's bright green eyes. "Oh." You say, feeling yourself smile. "Hi." You mumble, setting the bowl in your lap and lifting a hand up to its face. It foregoes a sniff, instead bumping its nose into your palm, butting against your fingers. You laugh. The cat quickly makes itself comfortable in your lap, uncaring of the bowl balanced on your thighs.
You lift it, lean it against your side. Having only one free hand sucks further when there's a boneless cat in your lap. You smile down at him, mentally combing through the dark fur between his ears.
"What's his name?"
There's a vague shape in your head. Something you can almost taste, the amount of syllables, a dragged O at the end. You frown, feeling your face scrunch.
Something ending with an O.
"Sergio." Emily says, watching you closely.
"Right."
He stars purring up a storm in your lap. Emily stands and rifles through your pharmacy bag, pulling out two boxes of tablets. She pops out the dosage and hands you a glass of water. You down them both.
"Want more?" She asks when you're done, reaching for your bowl.
"Oh. Uh." Your stomach still feels too empty. Not like it'll collapse in on itself, but still hollow.
Emily takes the bowl with a gentle smile. You feel yourself flush, turning away from the tenderness in her eyes. It stifles, suddenly, with its intensity, rushing down on you all at once. You busy yourself with burying your fingers in Sergio's fur.
The next helping of soup makes you drowsy. You start feeling heavy, sinking down onto the cushions behind you as much as you can without disturbing your arm. Sergio makes it hard to get up. Your eyes drift beneath his purring, your guard going down in a house you briefly forget isn't your own.
"Hey." A low voice says.
You open your eyes to a shadowy darkness, barely able to pick out the form hovering above you. Emily's hand is warm on your arm, her fingers gently kneading. "Hey, c'mon. Let's get you to bed."
Sergio is gone from your lap. You blink, finding your hand on her shoulder as she leans down and wraps her arm around your side, carefully tugging you up. You grunt when her fingers press on a sore spot. She whispers a sorry, her grip easing, falling away entirely when you're upright. It shifts to a light hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the shadows. The living room is dim, but your steps don't falter.
You blink more awake when she follows you into the room, her hand falling away as she makes for the opposite side of the bed you'd slept on. Your spine stiffens. You hover back, pulse heavy, but she just gathers up her pillows and the alarm clock on the nightstand.
"Where are you going?"
Emily gives you a half smile. "I'll stay in the guest room." She says, stepping away from the bed. The sparse light you'd turned on earlier catches in her face, running along tired lines.
"No." You blurt out, the two letters catching on your teeth. "No, you don't have to. It's your room."
She looks at you in a way that makes a distant crack resonate in your chest. "It's yours, too." She says softly. Her mouth opens then closes again, wavering. She presses it to the edge of a pillow. Swallows. Looks away, then back. "I'll be just down the hall if you need me. You can come in anytime, for anything. I sleep light."
Your own mouth opens, something on the tip of your tongue—not fully protest, half apology, half guilt, half stupid, damning relief. It all chokes you. She nudges the door wider to make room for herself and you still haven't said anything, still as stone, just as silent.
Emily smiles, her eyes warm and shiny, brown soaked in grief.
Summary : You go on a (bad) date, instead of joining the rest of the team for drinks, and Spencer decides to drink his jealousy away.
Word Count : 8k
Notes/CWs : Alcohol, Spencer is drunk (not very drunk, just enough to be an idiot), idiots in love, I promise this is fluff. The guy the reader goes on a date with is kind of an incel, no use of Y/N, for all intents and purposes, this is a gn!reader - (title from Jeff Buckley's song I know it's over) Alternative title - Spencer Reid find a healthy coping mechanism challenge (IMPOSSIBLE!!!)
masterlist
the same fic on ao3
"O'Keeffe's tonight ! Non-negotiable !" Garcia declared the second the team put down their go bags, "and no boy genius, you will not get away from this one !"
"But-" the doctor tried anyway.
"No buts ! You know how I love them, but I can tell you're not saying the second 't' and so I don't want to hear it !"
You chuckled at her insistence, and at the defeated look that formed on Spencer's face.
"Pen," you started, in a voice you'd learned watching Steve Irwin approach dangerous animals on TV, "I can't join you guys. I already took a rain check on my date twice, I'm not doing it a third time."
Garcia gasped like you'd stabbed her in the back, "I can't believe you'd choose a man over me," she bemoaned, a hand to her chest.
"Well, in any other circumstances I wouldn't," you slipped your coat on, grabbing your purse, "but I promised I'd tell him as soon as I was off of work. And the first date went so well, I don't want to disappoint him again."
The colorful woman resigned with a dramatic sigh, waving you off, "Fine, fine, go get your prince charming. But you better tell me everything. And I mean everything." her tone left no place for arguing, and you nodded dutifully.
"Yes my love," you kissed your friend's cheek, as Emily and JJ echoed Penelope's wish to hear about the date.
"I have to go get ready, see you all on Monday !" you chirped as you waved goodbye to your colleagues. Morgan winked at you, Rossi nodded, and your eyes lingered on the young genius at his desk.
Spencer didn't look up. In fact, it looked as if he was attempting to make himself invisible, to disappear completely. You assumed he'd curled into himself in the hopes of being forgotten by Garcia's enthusiasm, but something in your chest told you that wasn't quite right. Trying to ignore the feeling, you ruffled his hair as you walked past him.
"Have fun doc," you smiled, "and close that godforsaken file."
Spencer's cheeks flushed slightly, and he quickly closed the folder, clearing his throat.
"You too- have fun, I mean." he replied back quietly, eyes still fixed downward.
Stepping out of his office, Garcia pounced on Hotch, stating that he wouldn't get away from her by overworking himself. Morgan and JJ wished you luck on your date, and you bid all of them goodnight.
"Drinks on Rossi !" Garcia sang as you stepped into the elevator, earning her cheers from the team, and a mumbled "When did I agree to that ?" from the man in question.
At O'Keeffe's, the team settled into their usual booth, and Spencer slid into the furthest corner of it, preparing for a night loud music and louder voices, of his friends trying to get him to dance, of Hotch and Rossi trying to hold a conversation about some mundane thing. A night of little interest for the young doctor.
But as Penelope, JJ and Emily bee lined for the bar, he found himself thinking about the person missing from this little gathering. A date. You were on a date. And not just a date, but a second one, after a seemingly successful first that he hadn't heard about.
It wasn't strange that he hadn't known about it. After all, you rarely spoke of such things with him, and he with you, though that might've been more due to a lack of things to tell on his end. For some reason though, the thought of you, dressed to the nines and laughing at some clever story that wasn't his made his stomach churn. It was stupid, he'd never done or said anything to hint at his feelings toward you, let alone ask you out. The jealousy he felt, the regret, it was all from his own indecision and cowardice. Still, the knot in his chest tightened as the girls returned, handing everyone their drinks as Emily raised her glass, cheering to your date.
Reid barely even lifted his lemonade, lazily circling the straw around the rim of the glass.
"What's up pretty boy ?" Derek smirked, "Did you finally get bored of lemonade ?"
Spencer rolled his eyes, and Emily's shoulder bumped his, "Come on genius, cheer up, we got the guy ! now's the time to celebrate, not sulk," she teased.
"Well maybe I just celebrate more quietly than you all." he simply stated, taking a sip of his drink.
"Why not just let loose a little ? You know, one or two drinks wouldn't kill you," Derek suggested, "I know you're not a fan, but it really does help with the whole anxious tension you've got going."
"Yeah ! Maybe then you'd dance with me boy wonder !" Garcia seconded with a bright grin.
"Don't listen to them Reid. You don't have to drink to enjoy yourself." Hotch chimed in, his tone low and comforting, "It helps, but it's not required."
The young man sighed, looking up as Garcia and JJ shimmied their way through the crowd. He wasn't the biggest fan of the bitter tang of alcohol. In his opinion, any drink tasted better without it, and all it did was compromise your actions and your memory. But right now, it wasn't the most prevalent thought going through his mind. Right now, Spencer was desperate for anything to pull his mind free of the traitorous thoughts of you at that dinner table, of your eyes on someone that wasn't him, of your hands in someone else's, of your lips on someone else's.
Under the surprised look of his coworkers, Reid suddenly grabbed Morgan's beer, chugging it down with his eyes shut tight, as if the lack of visual stimuli might help with the bitterness of the drink.
"Woah, slow down there cowboy," his friend chuckled incredulously as Spencer coughed, Emily patting his back.
"What was that ?" she asked, half amused half concerned.
"Nothing. You're right," he mumbled as he squeezed out of the booth, turning to Morgan "I'll get you another one."
Tonight, he would drink. Maybe alcohol would dull the grief he felt. Maybe he'd finally accept to dance with his friends. Maybe for a moment, he'd manage to forget you.
The waiter had only just brought the main course, yet you already found yourself aching to ask for the bill.
It had started off so well. You'd gotten ready just in time, clad in one of your favorite outfits, one that toed the line between formal and casual perfectly. Your hair had been cooperating, which felt like a miracle, and you'd even managed to put on that fantastic perfume that JJ had gotten you for your birthday and that you hadn't yet found a good excuse to try.
He'd knocked only two minutes after the agreed upon time, which, in your book, was almost early. As soon as you'd opened the door, you'd been met with a bouquet of lilies, the flowers glowing in their bloom, and the attention warmed your heart so thoroughly that you decided against telling him that they would probably end up somewhere where you couldn't appreciate them in order to prevent your cat from the deadly snack.
The restaurant was dim in a way that made everything look charming, and he'd pulled a chair for you, smiling as you thanked him. The discussion had flown exactly like it should have now that the awkwardness of the first date was behind you, and you'd even found yourself laughing at some of his stories.
And yet somehow, there you were. Smile pinched like you were fighting against the impending roll of your eyes, the hold on your glass just loose enough to keep it from shattering in your hand.
After apologizing for the date's delay, the topic had strayed toward your respective dating history. You'd counted, and in the last thirty minutes, the man in front of you had called three of his exes crazy, had made two comments on "females", and one about how you were supposedly "different". In just half an hour, every green flag you'd encountered up until now turned the color of the half empty wine glass in your hand, and all that was left on your mind was frustration, as well as a nagging question.
How do I get out of this ?
As you ate your dinner, absentmindedly nodding along to your date's words – not that he seemed to notice, too entertained by the sound of his own voice – you reviewed your options. Staying until the end of dinner would mean declining his attempts at driving you back to your place, or worse, to his own. Declining would most likely mean confrontation, and considering the week and a half you'd just spent, you had neither the energy nor the patience to deal with this.
Now, you could fake a case, but considering that the team was at the bar right now, you doubted they'd be in any state to help with that. Of course, Hotch would probably be close to sober, but the idea of texting your Unit chief to ask him to save you from a disastrous date seemed ridiculous.
You were lost in reflection when your phone pinged once. Twice. Three times.
From the look on his face, your date was less than happy to be interrupted in his monologue. Trying your best to appear apologetic, you grabbed your phone as it kept pinging.
"Sorry– I should check this out, I'll be right back–"
Excusing yourself, you made it to the restaurant's restrooms before opening your phone.
9:34
Boy Genius : Hi
Boy Genius : Hows' si it gonig?
Boy Genius : how is it Gong ?*
Boy Genius : Going*
Boy Genius : Sorry
Boy Genius : goof ?
Boy Genius : Can't wrte srry
Boy Genius : Mrgans being mean
Boy Genius : Mss u
You chuckled to yourself at the texts.
9:37
You : I thought you didn't drink ?
Boy Genius : Hi
You : Hi Spencer
Boy Genius : S your date ovre?
Boy Genius : over*
Boy Genius : ?
You : Not exactly
After watching the dots appear as he wrote for a few minutes, you started to worry.
9:44
You : Are you okay ?
Instead of replying, Spencer called you.
"Hey, are you alright ?"
"Couldn't write– Damn phone–" his language makes you gasp teasingly.
"Reid !"
"Sorry– 's just annoying," he mumbled. You could hear the way his words slurred even through the muffled noise of the bar around him. In the distance, you could hear the familiar pitch of Garcia's voice, the hum of Morgan's, followed by bright laughter.
"You didn't answer my question Spence," you reminded, "are you ok ?"
On the other end of the line, the young doctor made a noise akin to that of a horse huffing through closed lips, "m'fine, I'm great, whatever," he replied, deepening your confusion.
"Uh-huh, sure honey," you grinned fondly, and he squeaked, though you couldn't tell if the sound was a reaction to your words or to his surroundings, "Come on, what's up ? Why are you drinking ? I've never seen you drink alcohol before."
"Not true. I tasted Rossi's wine last time," he countered, making you roll your eyes in response.
"Sure, but that wasn't drinking, that was tasting"
To this, you heard him mumble a slurred "tomay-to tomah-to" before Derek's loud voice cut through. He must have grabbed Spencer phone, because you could hear the doctor's protests, now pushed to the background.
"Why hello beautiful," the agent purred, "how's the date going ?"
Chuckling through a sigh, you checked the time, "Could be better. I was trying to find a reason to flee, and it looks like our resident genius just gave me one."
Rendered oblivious to your discomfort by his own alcohol consumption, he exclaimed, "Oh don't worry about pretty boy ! Go and enjoy your date !"
Were you worried about Reid ? Sure, in the way one would be worried about a friend in the hospital, knowing full well that they're in good hands, surrounded by qualified people. But your date didn't need to know that. For all he knew, one of your friends was in mortal danger and their safety was your immediate responsibility.
With that in mind, you wished your friends a good evening, ignoring Spencer's distant protests to you hanging up, and you walked back to the table. Combing some mess back into your carefully arranged hair, you joined him, now wearing a meticulously crafted frown, lips tugged down by concern. The act seemed to work, because as soon as you sat back down, his expression shifted.
"What's wrong ?"
"Oh, it's–" you sighed in feigned exasperation and looked down, "I'm so sorry, I'm going to have to leave early. I need to go take care of a friend."
Disappointment flooded his face, and you almost felt bad.
"Can't someone else ?" he suggested, but you tilted your head and shook it.
"No… All of our mutual friends are drunk, but he's gone past his limit, and I can't leave him like that," you sighed again, and decided to add something to really bury the date, "And he's my roommate, so–"
His frown suggested that your plan had been successful, "You never said anything about a roommate."
Pressing a hand over your mouth, you muttered, "Oh– Sorry, I wasn't planning on– Well I usually don't tell people, because– Well, they usually think it's weird." you fake a nervous laugh as you slip on your coat, "We should do a movie night next time, the three of us,"
"Oh– Uh, maybe," you'd won, "We'll talk about it over text, yeah ?"
"Sure !" you nodded, waving a waiter over and pulling out your wallet. When he offered to pay, you accepted without much of a fight, and in an instant, you were both out of the restaurant.
"Should I drive you ?" he didn't seem too convinced with his own offer, and relief bloomed in his eyes when you shook your head.
"I'll just take a cab. Thank you."
After a rather awkward farewell, you managed to escape. In the rear view mirror, the restaurant slowly shrank until it was nothing but a dot in the distance, and only then did you let out the breath you'd been holding onto. Diving a hand into your pocket, you fished out your phone and checked the time. Barely ten pm, you were headed home, and you regretted not having taken Garcia up on her invitation.
Though you supposed you still could.
Updating the cab driver on your destination, you adjusted your coat. Once in the bar, you'd feel outrageously overdressed, but that thought was quickly swallowed by the memory of Spencer's inebriated voice on the phone. Despite what you'd told yourself earlier, you did harbor some worry for your friend. You had no doubt that the team wouldn't let anything happen to him, and still something gnawed at you – why had he been drinking in the first place ?
When you'd first joined the team, you'd asked Emily if there had been a reason to his sobriety, and she'd been the one to bring up the hypothesis that he might've feared the addictive quality of alcohol. Only about a year later did he first tell you about his traumatic history with addiction itself, and upon hearing about it, his boundary made absolute sense in your mind.
Safe to say that your worry tonight, the one that festered with every second you spent in the narrow car, wasn't born from the alcohol consumption in itself, but from the thoughts that had led him to its decision. Had something happened ? He'd seemed off when you left the bullpen, but you hadn't thought much of it. Was something wrong ? Would he tell anyone about it ? Would he tell you ?
Drowning in the sudden onslaught of questions, you barely heard as the driver announced you'd arrived at the bar. After tipping him for the change in itinerary, you stepped out of the vehicle, heels clicking against the wet pavement as you made your way toward the bustling entrance.
Inside, a myriad of scents flooded your senses, lights and loud music sending shockwaves through your nervous system as you tried to scan the crowd.
A high pitched squeal told you you'd been spotted first, and Penelope strode your way with sparkling confidence.
"What are you doing here ? Oh my lord look at you !" she gushed, hands squeezing your shoulders affectionately as her eyes trailed up and down your figure, "You, my friend, are a vision."
Smiling helplessly at the praise, you shook your head, "Thank you darling, you're glowing."
Garcia gasped in delight and gave you a turn, her colorful skirt swirling under the neon lights, "You like it ? Oh we should totally go shopping sometime !" when you chuckled and nodded, she seemed to suddenly remember why she was only greeting you now.
"Wait, weren't you supposed to be on your date with Mr. Hunk-supreme ?"
A simple shake of your head, paired with lips pulled into a thin line, told her all that she needed to know.
"Bad-bad ?" she frowned sympathetically.
"I'll tell you about it tomorrow," you promised, "right now you should go have fun. Oh, but before you go, could you tell me where Spence is ?"
Hand clasped around yours, Garcia danced her way through the crowd, and like some sort of magical and highly sequined train, dropped you off at your station with a kiss on the cheek. The booth was a locker room for the team members that took turns on the dance floor. Its current guardians, who were surely replacing a long gone Aaron Hotchner and David Rossi, were packed into a corner, seemingly deep in conversation, though not deep enough to stop the young doctor from lighting up at the sight of you.
"Well hi there silly boy," you grinned as he beamed at you. Morgan raised his glass in your direction.
"Looks like your saving grace is here kid," he gave Spencer a brotherly pat on the back, "can I leave you two there ? Some ladies have been eyeing me for about half an hour and I've got an itch to scratch."
"Ew," you joked, "yes, Don Juan, go, I've got him."
Settling in his place, you took a moment to admire the sight in front of you. Spencer Reid, usually so delicately put together, was unrecognizable. His hair was messier than usual, strands forming thin curtains over his brown eyes, themselves lined by puffy flushed skin that had seemed to suggest he'd been crying. His cheeks were a blotchy pink shade, matching the tips of his ears and the length of his neck, down to the hint of collarbone peeking from where he'd clumsily pulled his tie loose. His lips were parted like he was about to speak, but his eyes were the ones doing the talking – they hadn't left you since you'd entered his field of vision, and you could feel some part of yourself melting at the adoration they displayed. Whether a result of his drunken state of a translation of true reverence, the end result remained the same, your own expression softening into fond concern.
"Hi," he whispered, and for a moment, you forgot all about your disastrous date, instead raising a hand to his cheek, brushing curls behind his ear.
"Hi Spencer," you smiled, "so, what's gotten into you ?"
He shrugged, his shoulders lifting and dropping unevenly, and leaned his head toward your hand, "Dunno"
Narrowing your eyes in feigned disbelief, you raised a brow, "Oh really ? You don't know why you suddenly decided to drink alcohol to the point of drunkenness when you haven't finished a glass or even ordered one since I met you ? Come on."
Another shrug, and you pulled your hand away, crossing your arms over your chest, "Do you think me a fool, Spencer Reid ?"
The immediate shake of his head could've had you cooing at him like you would a puppy, had your will been any weaker than it was.
"Then why are you blatantly lying to me ?"
Spencer leaned into the backrest of his seat, eyes finally leaving you and finding his own hands in his lap. Softening your tone, you leaned closer, "You can tell me if something's wrong. There's nothing you could say that could make me think any less of you. I'm just worried."
Tentatively, he glanced back up at you, before dropping his eyes again and giving you another uneven shrug. The sigh that left you was more akin to resignation than to annoyance, and your eyes scanned the crowd for a familiar face before turning back to him.
"Do you want to go home ?" you suggested quietly. Spencer gave a slight shake of his head, and you figured it had more to do with a hypothetical lack of company than with him having a great time in this very overwhelming environment. With that in mind, you worded your question differently, "Do you want to get out of here ? I can stay with you if you'd like."
His honeyed eyes found yours again, and you wished the men you dated had for you half of the devotion his drunken self seemed to hold. His chin lowered in a sheepish nod, and you left the booth to find one of your friends. Once the role of locker room guardians had been successfully delegated to JJ and Emily, leaving Garcia to dance with her personal playboy – who had apparently abandoned his conquest of the previous group of girls – you grabbed your purse and helped Spencer slip out of the booth. Waving your friends goodbye, you made your way toward the exit, a stumbling Dr. Reid a step behind.
The night air was a sweet relief compared to the packed atmosphere of the bar, and yet, Spencer recoiled as it hit him.
"Cold," he breathed through his teeth, wrapping his jacket tighter around his frame. His complaint seemed to amuse you as you hooked your arm through his.
"Come on pretty boy. Let's take a walk," you tugged him forward, and he followed with the gracelessness of a rag doll.
"A walk ?"
"Yes, a walk." you grinned, "You know, that thing where you put one foot in front of the other and move forward ?"
His scoff materialized into a small cloud at the corner of your vision, and you could almost hear the roll of his eyes, "I meant walk where ?"
With a shrug, you led him to a crosswalk, holding him back when he didn't stop.
"Being drunk doesn't suit your brain."
"That's not an answer," he mumbled, shoulder pressed against your own.
"Well I don't know Reid, do people always need to have a destination in mind when they walk ?"
"Most of the time yes, or else they'd get lost."
Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. How could this man still argue everything you said while simultaneously being unable to walk in a straight line ?
"Well then we're walking to your place." you decided as the cars stopped to let you pass.
"My place ?" Spencer's voice was weaker as he spoke, his tone akin to one of a whiny child.
"Do you have something against it ?" your brow arched as you glanced his way, eyes following the slight pout of his mouth, the downturn of his own gaze.
"No– I mean I don't– I just," he pushed his glasses further up his nose with the help of his right shoulder, visibly unwilling to pull his hands out of his pockets, "I don't want to– to…" a huff left his lips, "Never mind. It's stupid."
"Hey," you squeezed his arm, "what is it ? Is your place flooded or something ?"
His gaze was fixed on his shoes as he answered, words slurring more severely when he lowered his voice, "Just don't wan' be alone."
His mumbled sentence squeezed your heart as you looked up at him. For a moment, you just watched him. The way loose curls brushed across his brow, furrowed in stubborn reluctance. The flush that had spread up the back of his neck, settling at the tip of his nose and ears, whether from the cold or the beers. From here, he looked nothing like the careful genius you spent almost every day with. From here, he looked nothing like the professional profiler, the one whose eyes always swept across everything like every inch of a scene was a crucial element. From here, he looked like the young man you'd sometimes met, on quiet afternoons filled with paperwork, the one who performed magic tricks to make his friends smile, or rambled about the history of some topic you'd mentioned in passing, turning red anytime someone ruffled his hair.
From here, he looked like a young man you desperately wanted to ki–
The sudden pull of your arm reached your brain before his shriek did. Your feet fumbled for balance, inadvertently catching onto the protruding edge of a tile as you vainly attempted to prevent the fall. Spencer landed first, his backside landing in very conveniently placed bushes with a surprisingly loud crack. You followed suit, hands catching onto the metal fence his back was pressed against, stopping your face from hitting it full force from a few inches. Your knee was already burning up, but you found more useful to swat Spencer in the shoulder than to check for injury.
"Ow–" he yelped, sinking further into the bushes.
"You absolute–" you pushed against the railing to try to stand, only to fall back down, hand braced against his stomach, "–idiot–"
Spencer, uselessly attempting to pull his sleeve free of the branches, whined, "Don't press there– I'm gon' throw up–"
Just as his words reached you, so did the sheer absurdness of the situation, and you hid your face against the young doctor's woolen sleeve as a violent wave of laughter overtook you, shoulders hiccuping with the intensity of it. You felt the moment your amusement contaminated him through the vibrations of his chest, and the mental image of two idiots cackling while half buried into the bushes of someone's front yard only made the laughter burn brighter.
After a few minutes spent fighting for breath, you patted his arm, "Come on genius," while your free hand yanked your own coat free.
"Can't–" he looked up at you with those damned brown eyes, "'m stuck."
Rolling your eyes, you raised to your knees and grabbed the fence again, "Yes you can, come on," and with that, you got back on your feet, stepping away from the bushes before bending down to dust your knees off.
When your eyes met again, the look you found could've lit up the entire street. The brown of his irises was amber and gold from the streetlights, his hair mussed, curls framing his brow with a sweetness that your heart deemed unfair, thumping heavily against your ribs. He looked stupidly boyish in this position, settled awkwardly into the bushes, sleeves stuck to the branches, knees drawn up in a way that made it obvious that his skeleton hadn't been designed to fold this way. Still, he looked utterly entranced by whatever he saw when he looked up at you. You'd never been one for the spotlight, nor had you ever been firmly against it, but with his eyes on you, suddenly you understood both the dizzying thrill of it and the stage fright. Warmth bubbled deep within your chest and climbed its way up your throat, pushing past your lips in a nervous giggle as you glanced away, feigning interest in your scraped knee for a fleeting instant.
"Are you planning on sleeping there boy wonder ?" you look back at him, praying that your teasing tone paired with his inebriated perception can effectively disguise the distinct flutter in your stomach.
Any other day, Spencer would've looked away, red in the face as soon as he'd been caught staring. This wasn't any other day. This was the day his entire belief system had been reduced to dust particles around the halo that the light had created with your hair. This was the day Spencer Reid encountered the divine, and the scientist in him ached to gather as much information as he could before you vanished into thin air. With this in mind, he drank all of you in, his eyes greedily sweeping over everything that made you you, everything he'd always adored quietly, everything that wasn't his to keep.
"Spencer ?"
The thought dug its claws into his heart. Suddenly, he wished he was still at that table, a disgustingly bitter beer squeezed between his tense fingers. He'd never liked drinking, and yet in this moment, he felt dreadfully sober.
Your outfit was a carefully crafted one, as was the subtly elegant way your hair had been pulled back, leaving only a delicate strand, framing your artful features. What he wouldn't give to be the subject of such attentive preparation. What he wouldn't give to be the one you graced with your time.
The gentle brush of fingertips against his knuckles pulled him back to reality, only to nearly send him reeling at the mere sign of concern in your expression.
"Spence ?" your voice was quieter, softer, your own tone betraying you.
"Hm ?" he piped up, heat rising to his cheeks as your fingers slipped through his.
"Do you need help getting up ?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but every thought in his mind suddenly rushed to get out, cluttering his throat and rendering him utterly speechless. His lips clamped shut again as he gave up on speaking, instead nodding sheepishly.
Instantly, you sprang into action, the hand that wasn't holding his moving to steady him as you pulled him up. After stumbling like a newborn fawn for a moment, Spencer's feet finally found solid ground again, and you let out a small huff of breath.
"For someone so scrawny, you're surprisingly heavy," you noted, breathless amusement coloring your voice, "has anyone ever told you that ?"
"Hm," the doctor nodded, fingers still securely wrapped around yours, "Morgan. Repeatedly."
You laughed, and Spencer thought that if he could get drunk on the sound alone, he'd probably give up on sobriety altogether.
"So," you let go of his hand to dust off the back of his coat, and as his fingers pathetically tensed around thin air, he found himself already missing the contact, "you don't want to go back to your place, because you'll be on your own ?"
The sudden reminder of his impending loneliness had a melodramatic sigh escape from his lips, and he nodded slowly.
"Well, Dr.Professional-Kicked-Puppy," he tried rolling his eyes at the name, inconclusively. "I can't offer to stay at yours because I desperately need to change, but you can crash at mine if you want"
You turned your head to catch the way his eyes lit up, "Would you like that ?"
Spencer nodded quickly, before kicking his legs into action and catching up to you. After a few moments of walking side by side in silence, shoulders bumping with each of his stumbling steps, he gathered the necessary courage to utter a quiet "Thank you", to which you responded by slipping your arm through the crook of his elbow.
The chill night air, the quiet street, the soft hum of the city… Everything that should've contributed to soothing his usually relentless train of thought was only participating in his silent agony. If the young doctor was known for anything, it was surely for his inability to keep his mouth shut, especially at times when he needed to most. This was one of those times.
"So, how'd your date go ?" the words tumbled out before he could stop them, slightly blurred where alcohol lingered. As much as he'd wanted to convince himself he had sobered up, anyone with eyes and ears would've been able to tell that he very much had not. Despite this, he knew with unshakable certainty that he had absolutely no desire to hear you talk about the oh so wonderful guy whom you'd picked over Garcia's slightly threatening invitation to the bar twice now.
Still, he listened as you told him about the man, about the beautiful flowers he'd brought you, about his impeccable choice in restaurant, his fabulous storytelling… He listened, oblivious to the underlying disappointment in your words, to the lack of details in your own retelling, or even to the fact that his own jealousy and drunken mind had completely altered your tone and choice of words, making you sound, to his ears, like a besotted teenager.
By the time you reached the top of your stairs, Spencer's lungs and heart were ready to give out. You'd recounted all of the jokes your date had made – which was just three, but to his intoxicated mind, it might as well have been twenty – and he regretted ever asking. When you unlocked the door and pushed it open, kicking off your shoes with a relieved sigh, he considered fleeing. His thought process was interrupted as your voice pulled him back, making him lift his eyes to meet yours. The soft light of a lamp in the background framed your silhouette as you leaned your temple against the wooden door.
"Are you coming in ? I wouldn't recommend the doormat for sleeping."
The image of you earlier, eyes filled with concern, hair lit back by the streetlights flashed through his mind, and he was once again hit by the sheer adoration he felt for you. When his voice passed his lips, it sounded weaker than he'd expected it to.
"Do you like him ?"
Despite the backlighting casting shadows over your features, he caught the way your brows pinched together slightly. You shrugged.
"He's nice."
Spencer let out a sound that might've been an amused breath or a quiet sob.
"You went on two dates with him, and that's all you can say ?"
Your lips pursed for a moment, before relaxing into a thin smile, "Well, one and a half, since you called me in the middle of dinner."
The young doctor dragged his feet to your couch, plopping onto it and hiding his face into his hands.
"Oh god– Right–" he raked a tense hand through his messy hair, "I'm– so sorry. I just– I–"
It occurred to him, in the form of a distant echo of consciousness, that telling you that he'd called because he missed you and was sickeningly jealous of the man you were with was probably not the wisest thing to say. Thankfully, your soft laughter stopped him in his tracks.
"It's okay, doc." you settled next to him on the worn couch, far enough not to touch, but close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your skin. Your coat had been shrugged off on a chair, and the sight of your bare shoulders made him feel like a parched Victorian man.
"You saved me, really," you huffed in amusement, settling back against the cushions. Bewilderment felt too light of a term to describe the utter confusion he was feeling.
"What– Saved you ? Was he– Were you in danger ? Oh my god why didn't you say so– We would've–"
You cut him off by flicking his forehead gently, "You would've what ? Stumbled your way over and threatened him by standing on your hind legs like a red panda ? As much as I adore you, boy genius, you're not exactly intimidating. Especially in comparison to a 6'2 man twice your width."
"I–" color rushed to his cheeks, "I can be," he mumbled, "And red pandas don't have any other way to defend themselves, as their claws are mostly used for climbing trees. They have to find other tactics. I don't, I have my brain and a gun."
"Not so sure about the brain part in your state," you hummed with a light smirk, "but in any case, I wasn't in danger. Well, unless you consider boredom and exasperation to be dangers."
"Actually," Spencer piped up, "though some studies show that boredom can lead to impulsive decision making, it's actually a necessary and very healthy way to rest the mind and to cultivate creativity–"
"Spencer"
"Sorry–"
You sighed and shook your head, an amused smile still lifting your cheeks, "Anyway. I wasn't in danger. And it went well, for the most part. But when he started referring to his exes as 'crazy', and going on about how 'women always choose to be with assholes instead of nice guys like him', I just started regretting turning Pen's offer down."
"Jesus," he huffed.
"Yeah." you chuckled, "So when you called, I was just… Relieved."
Spencer barely tried to conceal the smile that dug dimples into his cheeks.
"Glad to be of service."
You bumped his shoulder with your own, and he felt lightning at the spot of contact, "My knight in knitted sweaters" you mused.
The flush of his cheeks spread over his entire face, and he glanced down at his lap to catch his breath.
"That sounds ridiculous," he whispered.
"It sounds perfectly you."
After rummaging through your cabinets, you found some food to snack on and handed it to Spencer while announcing that you were just going to take a quick shower and change. While he grieved how beautiful you looked in your very put-together outfit, the idea of seeing you in lounge wear was making his skin buzz. Or maybe that was another side effect of his drinking. In any case, the idea that you'd cut your – albeit boring – date to come tend to him was making him dizzy again. He pushed a mouthful of biscuits past his lips and tried not to focus on the sound of water hitting the tiles.
Instead, he sank further into the couch and let his eyes close for just a second. You were always there when he did. When sleep tugged him closer, and memories and fiction melted together. Even now, in the darkness of his fogged up mind, you smiled at him, nodded along as he spoke, listened in the way only you did. The first time you'd called him by his first name, he'd froze up, and you'd worried about having crossed a line. You hadn't, of course, but there was no way to rationally explain the dizzying amount of oxytocin that had flooded his veins at the sound of your voice. So he just reassured you that it was okay, that you could call him however you preferred. You'd never used his last name again, only ever switching up with a playful "doc" or a gentle "Spence", both of which always made his knees threaten to buckle.
"Spencer ?"
He sometimes dreamt that you'd whisper his name to wake him up in the morning, fingers carding through his hair. Or that you'd smile through it at the sight of him. On lonelier nights, when he reluctantly allowed himself more depraved thoughts, he'd dream of you breathing his name out in a moan, only to wake up to an empty bed.
In his dreams, your voice heals his wounds. In his dreams, you say his name like there is a hidden meaning.
"Spence,"
He could smell your pomegranate scented shampoo, and he wondered if he could overdose of a smell. What a sweet end that would be.
"Sweetheart," you brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and his lashes fluttered open, "hi," you smiled softly.
"Hm," he blinked drowsily, taking in your damp hair and oversized hoodie, "hi"
"You fell asleep," you were crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee and the other still brushing against the shell of his ear, "you'd be more comfortable in bed."
It took a few long seconds for your words to reach him, but when they did, he immediately shook his head, "I'm not taking your bed," he slurred quietly, "I can sleep here, it's fine,"
"Oh it wasn't a suggestion darling," you hummed, and fireworks erupted in his chest at the term of endearment. He tried to play it cool, which, considering the blotchy red on his cheeks, he was failing at miserably.
"But I dun' wanna bother you," he managed to mutter, "I don't want you to sleep on the couch,"
You chuckled and tilted your head to the side, "Well my bed is big enough for the both of us. If you're ok with that."
Spencer nodded before he could even fully comprehend what that entailed. Still, in his state, the panic and excitement he might've felt was considerably dulled by the promise of comfort.
"Alright then. Come on," you whispered as you helped him to his feet.
You led him to your bedroom, laughing breathlessly every time his weight shifted.
"I get why you don't drink now" you huffed, "you big baby,"
He whined in response, plopping down onto the bed and lazily pushing his shoes off with his feet, and complaining under his breath when he didn't manage to. With an exasperated sigh, you crouched down again and gently untied his shoe laces before pulling them off of his feet. His mismatched socks were next, and as you carefully folded them together, the young genius laid down over the covers with the grace of a wooden plank.
"At least get under the covers," you shook your head as he groaned and clumsily slipped under them.
You rounded the bed and settled beside him, laying on your side to face him. He mirrored you, curls spreading messily over the pillow.
For a moment, you stayed like this, looking at each other in the dim light. Then, barely loud enough for you to hear, a whisper cut through the silence.
"You looked like an angel" his voice was hushed, as if this thought wasn't meant for the outside world, "earlier. Well– still."
You were grateful for the low lighting as you felt your cheeks burn up.
"You're drunk," you whispered with a smile, "I think your perception is a little affected."
He shook his head, "I don't think so. I mean, yes, but– you are. I mean, you look– you always look–" he huffed in frustration.
"Thank you, Spence," you grinned, cutting his stuttered attempt short.
After another second, he spoke again.
"Are you disappointed ?"
His question pulled your brows together, "By what ?"
Spencer's teeth pulled at some loose skin on his lip, "The date. It was the second one, so surely the first one had gone well,"
You thought for a moment.
"Well… I guess so. But not exactly surprised, just… passively disappointed." you responded honestly, "Though I didn't expect too much anyway."
Now it was his turn to frown, "So… Why'd you go on a second date with him ? Let alone a first ?"
You shrugged, "Well, I wanted to give it a try. And… He asked."
"Is that all it takes ?" he whispered, not to offend, but with genuine curiosity. And something akin to hope, "To ask ?"
"It depends, but it's always a good start." you hummed, "If no one asked, no one would go on dates."
His frown deepened, "I guess that makes sense."
Again, silence settled over the both of you, and for a moment, you thought maybe Spencer had fallen asleep. Which made it all the more surprising when he murmured your name.
"Yeah ?"
"Would you ever… Go out ? With me ?"
His question gave you pause. Not because of hesitation, but because you remembered his intoxication. As much as hearing the question from his lips warmed your chest, you couldn't imagine what you would do if he didn't remember this conversation in the morning.
"Maybe you should ask me when you're sober, Spence."
"Would you say yes ?"
"Well, you'll have to find out I guess," you teased.
"Not fair," he argued quietly, and you chuckled.
"Well the world isn't fair. Deal with it."
Even in the dark, you could see the way his eyes rolled.
For a few minutes, he seemed to be debating something. He rolled over to his back, hands laced over his stomach, eyes fixed on the glowing stars you'd stuck to the ceiling when you'd moved here years ago. You waited, wanting to see if he'd let you in on whatever was going on in that genius head of his.
He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to piece the words together without breaking. When he finally spoke, it was in the softest voice you'd ever heard from him.
"I felt horrible." he whispered, "When you talked about it. Back in the bullpen. When you turned Garcia down, and the girls started gushing about that… man that you'd been on a date with." you caught the hollow in his cheek, where he was biting into the flesh, "I couldn't– I felt sad, and– and angry– which is stupid because it's not your fault, and I've just– I've never felt that before. Not the anger, but the– the ache–" one of his hands pressed against his sternum, "It was like someone had punched me in the stomach, and I couldn't think about anything except the fact that you– that you were with some– some guy, and I couldn't stop picturing you laughing, and just– smiling at him, and when Emily talked about how date number two was usually when people kissed, and I just– I wanted to throw up–"
You waited to see if he was done with his train of thought before speaking.
"Well, I didn't kiss him," you'd intended for this to be some sort of humorous remark, but it only pulled a sigh of genuine relief from Spencer.
"So… You drank because you were jealous ?" you suggested. At first, he seemed about to protest, but then his features softened and he pursed his lips.
"I guess so." he fidgeted slightly, "But mostly, I was… Frustrated. A few years after I'd started at the BAU, I'd asked Elle why I couldn't get a date. She told me the only reason was that I didn't ever ask anyone out. And– I couldn't get that out of my head. What if you'd– what if you'd met someone you really liked, and I'd missed my only chance because I'd been too busy getting stuck in my own head ? What if–"
You took his hand in his before he could damage the skin around his nails any further, effectively interrupting his spiraling.
"You didn't miss out on anything. Just… Ask me again when you're sober. Even if it's while stumbling over your own words. Even if it's written down because you couldn't make yourself say it. I don't care. Just ask again." you whispered, "Trust me."
His fingers curled around yours, and he nodded slowly.
"Now," you reached out to turn off your lamp, "You should sleep, or you'll be even worse off in the morning."
He groaned in complaint, and you chuckled at the sound, "Hey, you chose to drink. You could've just called me, sober."
"Would've lacked the dramatic effect." he joked as his eyes closed.
"Whatever you say doc," you leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before drawing back and whispering, "Good night."
"Good night," he echoed through a tight throat.
As he drifted off, cheeks still burning, Spencer pulled your hand to his lips and returned your quick kiss. He didn't know if he'd have the courage to ask you out again as soon as he sobered up, but he knew that however long he took, you'd be right there, waiting.
Finally this is done !! Idk how to feel abt it yet, so don't hesitate to lmk what you thought ! Reblogs and comments are so so appreciated, and will earn you a virtual kiss on the forehead <333
