YOU’RE ALL I HAVE TO LOSE ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: after spencer is exposed to anthrax, the hardest part isn’t being afraid. it’s knowing you love him for the same reasons you’re furious with him.
genre: angst (with a happy ending!) tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, inspired by 4x24 amplification so tw for a classic CM near-death experience, reallllly whumpy but there’s some comfort, reader is very angry and very stressed and very in love, emotionally devastating phone message, lowkey feels like an undisclosed jello ad oops, title from close behind by noah kahan, no use of y/n. 6.3k words. part of a series but can be read as a standalone!
a/n: writer’s block took me out back & shot me approx 57 times over the past month, but i finally resurrected myself hallelujah so i am back with a bang 💥 (a very depressing bang. not the fun kind of bang. my bad). hat-tip to @slut-for-artists for the song rec that inspired the title!
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
You’re angry.
That’s the only emotion you can process when you first walk into Spencer’s hospital room. You’re angry, and you shouldn’t have to be here, and everything about the place feels wrong. It should be louder. There should be sirens or alarms or shouting, something ugly to match the feeling crawling beneath your ribs, but instead there’s only the measured beep of the monitor, the low hum of fluorescent light, the soft shuffle of Morgan shifting in the chair on the other side of Spencer’s bed, and the anxious tap-tap-tap of your foot against the linoleum floor.
There’s also Spencer.
Spencer, pale against the pillow, is sound asleep in a hospital gown with an IV taped to the back of his hand, a cannula under his nose, and his curls flattened on one side. His mouth is parted slightly, his breathing thin but steady. Better than it could be, according to the doctor. Better than it had been, according to a hollow-eyed Morgan when you first got here. Better than dead, which is apparently the standard you should be grateful he’s surpassing now.
You hate this room. This whole entire fucking day.
Morgan is leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough that his knuckles have gone pale. He looks like he’s aged ten years since this morning.
“He woke up once,” he says quietly. “Couple seconds. Doctor said that’s good.”
You nod without looking away from Spencer. “Good.”
“He’s gonna be okay.”
You try to hum some sort of acknowledgement, some half-hearted agreement you don’t entirely mean because at this point you can’t really know if that’s true, but no sound comes out. Instead, you reach for Spencer’s hand.
His fingers are warm. The plastic hospital bracelet brushes your wrist when you thread your fingers through his, and you feel almost burned by it. Spencer is supposed to have ink smudged on his hands and paper cuts from case files and maybe chalk dust from a man impromptu lecture no one asked him to give. He is not supposed to look fragile under a hospital blanket.
Morgan studies your face for a second, then stands.
“I’m gonna grab some coffee,” he says.
You don’t point out the fact that he already has a half-full coffee cup in his hand. You just nod.
At the door, he pauses. “He was asking about you earlier. Before they brought him here.”
Your grip tightens around Spencer’s hand.
“Just thought you should know,” he says.
Then he leaves, and the room gets even quieter.
You sit there with Spencer’s hand in yours and stare at his face until the anger sharpens again, because anger is a much easier emotion for you to deal with than fear.
“You absolute idiot,” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
—
You had been with Rossi and Emily when you found out.
The day had already felt a bit off-kilter since it started. Anthrax in a park in Annapolis. Dead civilians, sick children, hypermasculine military personnel taking over the BAU and breathing down everyone’s necks. Dr. Kimura from the CDC explained the intensity of this strain in a voice so calm it made the information hard to process. The team had swallowed Cipro in a lame attempt at some sense of control, then scattered across the Washington metropolitan area trying to build a profile before the unsub executed another attack.
You went with Reid and Dr. Kimura to the hospital earlier. You noticed the way his inflection turned clinical as he talked about infection rates and symptom onset, the way his eyes stayed focused on the numbers in the patients’ charts because if he let himself see them as people for too long, he’d feel all of it. You saw the way his focus faltered around Abby, a young woman who just wanted to go on a bike ride around the park and was now experiencing aphasia and severe respiratory distress as she tried to stay alive long enough for a cure to be found. You desperately wanted to touch the back of Spencer’s wrist as you walked beside him in the hallway, but you chose not to, because you were surrounded on all sides by sick people and your relationship did not belong in the middle of it.
You regretted that choice later.
Of all the stupid things to regret, that was the one your brain kept returning to. The touch you hadn’t taken. The two seconds of warmth you’d decided could wait.
By early afternoon, you and Emily were with Rossi following a lead away from the rest of the team, chasing down information on Dr. Lawrence Nichols, a disgraced military scientist who’d been downgraded to working on the flu. Emily was having a tough time with the casual deception a case like this required, so you were talking with her beside the parked SUV when Rossi got a call from Hotch. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as his expression changed and his gaze flicked quickly toward you before it shifted away again.
It was small. Practically nothing. A slight narrowing of his eyes. An almost imperceptible shift.
But still, your stomach went cold.
“What?” you asked.
Rossi lifted one finger, still listening to Hotch on the other end.
Your voice came out sharper. “Rossi.”
He lowered the phone. “Morgan and Reid went to check out Nichols’ house.”
You waited.
Rossi’s jaw tightened. “Nichols is dead. The house is contaminated with anthrax.”
For a second, your hearing went thin, and the whole street seemed to drop underwater. Emily shifted beside you. A car passed behind the SUV, tires hissing against pavement, and all of it reached you half a second late. Emily said something, but you didn’t catch it. Your eyes were fixed on Rossi because you knew there was more coming. You’ve been around the block enough times to know that people always pause before saying the worst part out loud, as if a few seconds of silence can soften the impact of devastation.
“Reid discovered the body and the exposure site inside,” Rossi said. “He sealed himself in before Morgan could enter.”
All at once, heat rushed up the back of your neck. Your hand went tight around the car door handle you hadn’t realized you were holding. Somewhere at the edge of your vision, Emily went still.
“Is he in decontamination protocol now? Or is he already at the hospital?”
Rossi didn’t answer fast enough, which was an answer in itself.
You turned away from both of them and walked three steps before bending forward, hands braced on your knees as you searched for breath.
Emily approached cautiously.
“I’m fine,” you snapped automatically.
“That’s not what I asked. I said Hotch wants to talk to you.”
You straightened slowly, smoothed your hands down your blazer, and took the phone from her.
“Tell me exactly what’s going on,” you said too fast as soon as you got the phone up to your ear.
Hotch did. He gave you all the facts he had: Nichols had been dead for days. There was anthrax spilled in the lab and the AC was blasting it through the house. Definitely a homicide, and whoever killed Nichols was likely responsible for the recent attacks. Reid had gone inside and accidentally stumbled upon the scene, shutting Morgan out before he could follow him inside. Kimura and the CDC team were on their way with protective equipment and a decon shower, but Reid was refusing to leave, instead insisting on working the profile from inside since he was already exposed.
Already exposed.
“What do you mean, he’s refusing to leave? You’re his boss, Hotch. Make him leave.”
Hotch’s voice stayed even, but there was strain under it. “He believes there may be an antidote or identifying information on the partner inside the house. He’s continuing to work the scene until one or both of those things are located.”
You pinched the skin between your brows. “Get him on this call for me.”
Emily turned fully toward you then. Rossi was watching with the careful stillness of someone standing near a live wire. Hotch said nothing.
You swallowed hard. “Hotch, transfer me to Reid’s phone, now. I think we all know he won’t answer if I call him myself, and I need to talk some sense into him.”
“He’s working.”
“Hotch. Please.”
The silence that followed was very, very loaded.
Then Hotch said, “Give me a minute.”
You lowered the phone a little and stared at nothing for a second. Your chest felt too tight, your blood too loud, every part of your body braced for impact. Emily came to stand beside you, but she didn’t try to touch you, and you appreciated that more than you could say.
“He’s going to do everything he can to find the cure and track down the unsub and get out of there,” she said.
“I know.”
“He’s Reid. If there’s something in that house to find, he’ll find it.”
“I know.”
And you did know. That was the problem. You knew him so well there was no room to be surprised. Spencer would knowingly stay in a room full of anthrax because people were dying and he had a chance to stop it. He would put his lungs and brain and life on the line to prevent the person responsible for the prior attacks and Nichols’ death from taking any more lives. You’d expect nothing less from Spencer Reid, and right now, you hated him for it.
A muffled voice came through the phone before you could fully catch your breath.
When you lifted it back to your ear, you heard movement first. Then Spencer.
“Hi.”
He sounded too normal.
You gripped the phone so hard your fingers hurt. “Do not hi me right now, Spencer Reid.”
A tiny pause. Then, softer, “Okay.”
“Are you symptomatic?”
“Not really.”
“Spencer,” you said.
“I’m okay right now,” he said, before you could ask again. “Kimura’s team is coming in soon. We’re currently in a limited window where I’m still useful and the scene is still viable.”
“Oh, goodie. Well, as long as you’re useful, everything’s just fine then,” you bit out.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “you know what I mean.”
Emily looked away. Rossi did too, like they were granting you privacy by pretending not to hear the sharpness in your voice.
Spencer was quiet for a second. You pictured him inside Nichols’ house, phone held close, hair falling in his face. You pictured powder on the floor, sealed doors. You pictured him alone in there.
“I found a second workspace,” he said. “There’s a bunch of notebooks filled with different handwriting, so it definitely doesn’t belong to Nichols. Whoever this desk belongs to is probably our unsub.”
You wanted to scream.
Instead, you leaned your forehead against the SUV door and forced yourself to breathe through your nose. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“I will.”
“Now, Spence.”
He paused. “I’ll go as soon as I can.”
Your throat tightened.
“You do realize you’re a person too, right?” you asked. “Not just a brain with a badge and a duty to uphold.”
Despite everything, you heard the faintest breath of a laugh. “I’m aware.”
“Great. Then act like it.”
“I am acting like it,” he said, and there it was, his signature stubbornness. “Leaving now wouldn’t make me safer in any meaningful way if we still can’t identify the unsub and still don’t have an antidote for the strain. If I can figure it out from in here, there’s a chance we can save the patients at the hospital, and me.”
You pressed your free hand over your eyes.
“Don’t do that,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Make sense.”
His quiet inhale caught slightly. Maybe from the anthrax, or maybe from you. It was hard to tell.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“But you’re still staying.”
“For now,” he said.
You sighed softly and rubbed your temple with your free hand. “You’re so frustrating.”
“I know.”
“And arrogant.”
“I can be, on occasion.”
“And so ungodly, unbelievably stupid.”
“Well, technically, I’m quantifiably a genius, although I don’t believe—”
“Spencer.”
“I know you’re angry with me,” he said quietly.
“You have no idea how much.”
“Well, I think I have some idea. I know you.”
“No, you really don’t.” You looked down at your boots. “Because if you did, you’d be walking out of that house right now.”
His voice went softer. “If I thought walking out was the thing most likely to get me back to you, I would. I promise you, I would.”
That took every bit of air out of you.
Spencer didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just let the words sit there, awful and sincere and completely unfair.
Then he said, “I’m not trying to scare you.”
“Well, you’re doing a damn good job for someone who isn’t trying,” you replied. You blinked hard, furious at your body for even considering tears when rage was so much more useful.
“Listen to me,” you said. “Find what you need to find, and then you get the hell out. No extra detours or noble self-sacrificing bullshit. Got it?”
“I’ll be careful,” he said.
There was more noise on his end now. Another voice. Hotch, maybe, through the sealed door closing him inside.
“I have to go,” Spencer said, pausing before he added: “I love you.”
You dug your fingernails into your palm.
“Don’t say it like that,” you whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re only saying it in case it’s the last thing I hear from you.”
He took a shaky breath. “I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said firmly. “And because I want to say it. That’s all, okay? I love you.”
You swallowed, and when you spoke again, your voice was steadier than you felt. “I love you too. Stop being a hero and get back to me.”
“I will.”
The line clicked dead a second later.
You kept the phone against your ear long after there was nothing left to hear.
—
The next time Spencer let himself think about you, really think about you, he was sitting on the floor with poison in the air and sweat cooling at the back of his neck.
By then, his body had started showing signs of distress. The cough had come first, small enough that he tried to classify it as irritation from the environment, from dust, from the pollen in the garden outside. Then came the ache behind his eyes, the heat under his skin, the faint tremor in his hand that he could ignore if he kept it busy, if he kept turning pages, pulling drawers open, reading notes, forcing pieces of Dr. Nichols’ life into order.
He was aware of each symptom with miserable precision. He knew exactly what they meant. He also knew the unsub was still out there with a larger attack planned, so his personal awareness changed nothing. His body could be evidence later. Right now, he had work to do.
Still, there came a point when he had to step back and admit how serious things had gotten.
Garcia’s voice shook through the phone when he asked her to record a message for his mother. She tried to be brave about it. He could hear the effort it took, could picture her sitting at her desk with all that color and joy around her while despair leaked through anyway.
He recorded his message to Diana as steadily as he could.
He said all the things a son should say when he’s trying very hard to say goodbye without sounding like he’s saying goodbye. He kept his voice gentle. He tried not to cough in the middle of it. He nearly failed once, clearing his throat to get the urge to pass. When he finished, Garcia was silent for a few seconds.
“Okay,” she said finally, and he could hear the tears in her voice. “Okay, I got it.”
Spencer swallowed. He was covered in a sheen of sweat. His throat hurt. Everything hurt, actually, in a diffuse, widespread way he disliked for its lack of specificity. “Garcia?”
“Yeah, boy wonder?”
He closed his eyes.
He had been trying not to ask. He had been trying to tell himself that the message to his mother was already indulgent enough, that he did not have the right to take more time away from the case for something that served no immediate operational purpose. But the thought of you never getting to hear his voice again if this went badly kept pressing against the inside of his ribs until it became impossible to ignore.
“Can you, uh, record one more message for me?”
Garcia inhaled sharply.
“Oh,” she whispered, understanding immediately. “Of course. Yeah, of course I can.”
Spencer opened his eyes and looked around the room. Papers were spread across the floor in front of him, Dr. Nichols’ handwriting scrawled across margins and folders and binders. Somewhere outside, people were moving around in protective suits, building a perimeter, preparing to come in as soon as they could. Out in the field somewhere, you were trying to work despite your fury and fear. He knew that with the same certainty he knew his own name, the same certainty with which he could recite the periodic table in order by atomic number. You were angry because you were scared. You were scared because you loved him. That thought — that you loved him — probably should have brought some comfort; instead, it made his chest ache worse than the cough did.
“Ready whenever you are,” Garcia said, softly enough that it almost didn’t sound like her.
Spencer tried to take a breath deep enough to steady himself. It caught halfway down. He turned aside, coughed hard into his elbow, and waited for the room to stop tilting.
Then he looked down at his hands, at the pale dust along his cuffs, at the pulse ticking too fast beneath his skin, and began.
“Hi,” he said simply, because every other possible opening sounded wrong — either too formal, or too casual, or too final. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and tried again. “You’re going to hate this. I know that. You’re probably already furious with me, and you’ve got every right to be, so if this message makes you even more furious, I’m sorry.
“I just need you to know that I wasn’t trying to be a martyr. I know you’ll think that’s what it was, some ‘noble self-sacrificing bullshit’ like you called it earlier, but that’s not what this is for me.” He paused, eyes stinging. “I keep thinking if I find the right thing fast enough, if I can connect the dots, then maybe we can stop the next attack and everyone at the hospital would have a chance. Maybe I would, too.
“And I keep thinking about you. I don’t know if that helps or makes it worse, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I thought about you being mad at me, and about the way you must’ve been rolling your eyes when we were on the phone earlier, and about your apartment, and the coffee you pretend to like when I make it too sweet, and the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
A cough broke through him. He bent forward, eyes squeezed shut, one hand braced against the floor. It took too long to stop. When he lifted the phone again, his voice had gone hoarse around the edges.
“I wanted more time with you,” he said. “I wanted more ordinary days. That’s— that’s what I keep coming back to, which is strange, because technically, ordinary days are the least remarkable kind, but I think those are the ones I’ll miss the most. You at my desk stealing pens, and you pretending not to smile when I say something you think is ridiculous, and you falling asleep before the end of a movie and denying it in the morning.
“And if you’re hearing this, I know you’re going to want to do the thing where you decide this proves some terrible theory you’ve always had about what happens when you let people matter too much, but…”
His eyes burned. Because of the fever, maybe. Heartbreak, definitely.
“Don’t do that. Please, please don’t do that. Don’t let this be the reason you shut everyone out. I know it took a lot for you to let me in, and I know asking this is unfair, and I hate that I can’t say it to you in person, but I need you to keep letting people love you. You have to let them stay.”
He coughed again, violent enough this time to make his whole chest seize.
“The team loves you,” he said. “You know that. Garcia will smother you with affection and care packages. Morgan will check on you constantly and won’t even pretend to act cool about it. JJ will know when you’re lying about being fine before you can finish a sentence, so don’t try. Emily will sit beside you casually and pretend she isn’t worried, because she knows you hate being handled.” A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth. “Rossi will feed you, so get ready to eat a lot of pasta. Hotch will give you space and somehow still make sure you’re never truly alone.”
He swallowed hard.
“And Elle… Call her. Please. She was there once when you needed her. Let her be there for you again.”
The words felt intrusive, maybe, as if he was reaching into parts of your life he had no right to touch. But if this was all he got, if this recording became the last shape his love ever took, he needed it to be honest.
“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t want you to decide that losing me means you were right to keep the door locked. I can’t bear it, so please, do this for me.”
He pressed his thumb into the crease of his palm until the tremor in it settled.
“I love you. I know you know that. I know I say it all the time now, probably too much, and if I get out of here you can complain about that for the rest of our lives and I won’t argue with you. But if I don’t,” he said, forcing himself through it, “then I need you to know that loving you was never something I regretted. Not for one second. And being loved by you was… it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
A sound came suddenly from outside the room. Movement. Voices. The heavy plastic rustle of protective equipment. He looked up and saw shapes gathering beyond the doorway, bright orange suits and face shields and Dr. Kimura’s focused eyes as her team entered the house.
He looked back down at the phone. There was so much more he wanted to say. There would always be so much more. That was the terrible thing about loving you — no matter what he said, it could never be enough to cover it.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’m going to try very hard to make sure you never have to hear this.”
Then, quieter:
“I love you. I really, really love you. Keep letting people in, okay?”
Garcia made a tiny broken sound through the phone, then cut the recording and the call before he could hear her cry.
—
The day stitched together in pieces after that.
Rossi and Emily kept you updated as information moved through the team, and Morgan called whenever there was a concrete update on what was going on in the house. Garcia called once too, telling you they had a name now — Chad Brown — and that Reid had been right about Nichols not working alone. There was a protégé. A student. A man with knowledge and access and ideology and rage.
You remember standing with your arms folded so tightly across your chest that your shoulders started to ache. You remember Emily offering you water and you pretending not to hear her. You remember Rossi telling you to sit down, not as an order, but in that low, paternal way of his that made you want to be even more difficult on principle. You remember staring at your phone until your eyes burned, as if your fear could force Spencer’s name to appear on the screen.
Mostly, you remember waiting.
When Hotch finally called, his voice was steady. They had Brown. The attack on the Metro had been stopped. Reid and Kimura’s team found what they needed. Reid was out of the house and had been decontaminated. Paramedics had transported him to the hospital where the treatment was being prepared, and Kimura was hopeful, and they would know more soon.
“Is he conscious?” you asked.
“Last we heard, yes,” Hotch said, and the words scraped through you. “Morgan is on the way to Walter Reed now to see what’s going on.”
You wanted to ask if Spencer had asked for you, but you didn’t. It felt too naked, somehow. Too pathetic. So you just said, “I’m on my way,” and Hotch didn’t waste anyone’s time pretending he could stop you.
Garcia found you before you made it out of the building.
She looked wrecked. Her mascara had smudged at the corners, and she had one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee she clearly hadn’t touched. She stopped in front of you like she wanted to hug you, then thought better of it, although it looked like that decision pained her immensely.
“He really, really loves you,” she said quietly.
The words were so abrupt, so earnest, that for a second you could only stare at her.
“I know,” you said.
Garcia nodded too fast. “I know you know. I just—” Her mouth trembled, and she pressed it together. “I just needed to make sure. I wanted you to hear it.”
Something about her face made your chest tighten. There was more to it — something she wasn’t saying, something she was holding back. You could see it in the way she looked at you, nervous and guilty and gentle all at once.
But Penelope Garcia, for all her usual glitter and gossip and inability to mind her own business, could keep a secret when it really mattered.
So you let her.
You just reached for her hand, squeezed once, and pushed through the doors to the parking lot.
—
Now, as you sit in an ungodly stiff chair next to his hospital bed, Spencer’s fingers move against yours.
It’s small. Barely anything. An involuntary twitch, maybe. But it’s enough of a movement to assume it could mean something bigger if you’re desperate enough, and apparently you are, because you go still so suddenly Morgan looks up from the cup of red Jell-O he’s been eating with a plastic spoon.
“Reid?” Morgan says.
Spencer’s brow furrows.
For a second, nothing happens. Then his eyes open slowly, heavy and unfocused at first. He blinks up at the ceiling like he’s trying very hard to decipher what type of room the ceiling belongs to.
Morgan moves, relief breaking over his face. “Hey, kid.”
Spencer’s gaze shifts toward him. It takes effort. Everything about his movements right now looks like it takes effort.
His voice comes out rough. “Are you eating Jell-O?”
Morgan cracks a wide grin. “Man, you almost die from a bioweapon and this is what you wake up concerned about?”
Spencer blinks slowly. “Is there any more Jell-O?”
Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. It’s small and wet and humiliating, and Spencer’s eyes move immediately toward the sound.
The drowsy confusion in his face shifts, turning into something so relieved and so sorry that all the air you just got back leaves you again.
“Hi,” he says.
You swallow. “Hi.”
Morgan looks between the two of you for half a second, then pushes himself out of his chair. “I’m gonna go tell Dr. Kimura that Sleeping Beauty here is awake,” he says. “And apparently find more Jell-O.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches faintly. “Green, if they have it.”
“You’re lucky I’m pretty much obligated to be nice to you right now,” Morgan tells him sarcastically, but his hand lands on Spencer’s shoulder for a second before he leaves, firm and warm and full of things he’ll probably never say out loud.
Then the door closes behind him and the room is quiet again, but it isn’t the same quiet as before, because Spencer’s awake now. His eyes are open. His fingers are caught between yours, weak but there, his thumb making the smallest attempt to move against your skin.
There’s too many feelings to parse through. Relief, first. Relief so enormous it can barely fit inside your body, but somehow it does, pressing against the anger and terror and frustration you also feel, against all the miserable little aftershocks of the day.
For a moment, you just look at him.
He looks terrible. Pale, sweaty, hair mussed, lips dry, throat probably raw from coughing and whatever else his body has been through. He also looks alive.
You want to kiss him.
You want to hit him.
You settle for tightening your hold on his hand and saying, very evenly, “I’m so mad at you.”
Spencer closes his eyes for a second.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t,” you say. “You really, truly do not. I possess levels of anger right now that are previously unrecorded in modern psychiatry.”
His mouth curves faintly, but it fades almost immediately. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
Spencer looks at you for a long second. “I’m sorry for what it did to you,” he says. His voice is rough and low, dragged out of a throat that still isn’t ready to cooperate. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, and I’m sorry that when I did, I couldn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.” He pauses, breathing carefully. “But if I had left before we found what we needed, people could have died.”
You stare at the bed rail.
You know the exact reason behind the choice he made, because you’ve made choices with the same bones. Spencer’s been on the other side of this with you before. Not with anthrax in your lungs, obviously, but in basements and alleys and warehouses and too many places where you put the job before your own safety without a second thought.
You hate that. You hate him a little for making it impossible to be purely angry.
“I know,” you say, voice quieter now. “I know you’re right. Or close enough to right that I can’t even enjoy being mad at you properly.”
Spencer gives you a weak, exhausted almost-smile. “I’m sorry for that too.”
You look back at him, and the sight of him ruins you all over again.
“You could have died, Spencer,” you manage to say in a hoarse whisper.
His expression changes. The humor disappears, what little there was of it. His fingers tighten around yours with visible effort.
Your voice shakes, and that irritates you enough to make your eyes burn. “I know you. I know you weren’t actually trying to be some self-sacrificing hero, even though you have a very irritating talent for landing there by accident. I know I probably would’ve done the same thing, which is frustrating because it makes my moral high ground very unstable.” You inhale, careful and shaky. “But I was so scared, Spencer. I was so scared I couldn’t pretend to be normal about it.”
He looks at you like that sentence hurts him worse than anything else.
“I thought about that too much,” he says.
You frown. “About what?”
“You. Being scared.” His eyes drift down to your joined hands. “I thought about you being angry, and about you pretending you weren’t afraid because Rossi and Emily were there. I kept thinking…” His brow creases faintly, concentration pulling through the haze. “I kept thinking if I could just find the answer, then maybe I’d get back to you before anyone else could see your fear. I knew you’d hate it if they could.”
You let out a breath that breaks in the middle. Your free hand lifts before you really decide to move, fingers hovering near his face. He watches you do it, quiet and trusting, and that almost makes it worse.
You brush his hair back from his forehead, and his eyes close.
The simple trust of it dismantles you a little. You had spent the whole day imagining him behind sealed doors, breathing poisoned air, making logical arguments while his body betrayed him by degrees. Now he’s here, under your hand, alive and exhausted and still somehow trying to be gentle with you when he’s the one in the hospital bed.
“I love you,” you say. “And I genuinely hate you right now.”
Spencer’s eyes open again, slow and soft. “That seems pretty fair.”
Your laugh comes out wet. You look away, but he squeezes your hand before you can get far.
“I love you too,” he says. “And I know it doesn’t make it better, but I was trying to make sure I could get back to you. That was the point. I know it looked like I was choosing the work over everything else, but I wasn’t. The work was my way out.”
You turn back toward him.
He looks exhausted by the length of his own words, breaths a little uneven, but his eyes stay on yours.
“I know,” you whisper, because you do. “I know, Spence.”
You lean forward carefully, giving him time to shift away if he needs to, but he doesn’t. He tilts his face up the smallest amount, and you press your mouth to his.
The kiss is soft by necessity. There’s no heat in it, not really — not the kind the two of you are used to. His lips are chapped and warm and careful beneath yours, and for one long, holy second, all you can focus on is that you get to do this again. You get to kiss him in a hospital bed and hate the reason for it, but you still have him here to kiss. You get the fragile press of his mouth, the weak squeeze of his fingers around yours, the proof that his body is still a living thing and not a memory you’ll spend the rest of your life surviving. It isn’t enough to undo the day, but it gives your fear and love somewhere to go. It’s a promise made with whatever energy he has left.
When you pull back, your forehead rests near his temple.
“You scared the hell out of me,” you murmur.
“I know.
“If you ever do that again, I will murder you myself.”
“I know.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
You pull back enough to glare at him. “Normally you’d argue with at least one of those.”
His tired smile is tiny and perfect. “I’m conserving my energy.”
The door opens after a soft knock, and Dr. Kimura steps in with Morgan hovering behind her, a green Jell-O cup in one hand and a fresh coffee in the other.
“Look who I found,” Morgan says.
Spencer nods at Dr. Kimura before his gaze flicks to the Jell-O. “Is that for me?”
Morgan chuckles. “Yeah, kid, it’s for you.”
You wipe quickly under one eye with your thumb and try to regain whatever dignity you can scrape off the floor.
Kimura checks Spencer over. Vitals, pupils, lungs, cognitive questions he answers with enough impressive precision to make Kimura’s eyebrows lift. Morgan stays near the doorway, and you don’t let go of Spencer’s hand the entire time.
Eventually, the room settles again.
Morgan leaves the Jell-O on the tray and tells Spencer not to be a pain in the ass to you or any of the nurses. Dr. Kimura tells him he’s on the mend but needs a lot of rest, and Spencer nods, probably because he knows you wouldn’t give him a choice anyway.
Once it’s just the two of you alone in the room again, your anger has gone a bit quieter. It’s still there, and knowing you, it’ll probably stay there for a while, tucked stubbornly behind your ribs, ever-present but currently overshadowed by disgusting amounts of relief and love.
Spencer’s eyes are already slipping closed.
“Sleep,” you say.
“Will you stay?”
You sit back and wrap both hands around his. “Yeah, genius, I’ll stay. Obviously.”
The corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked, sleepy smile. “Good.”
It takes less than a minute for him to fall asleep again.
This time, watching him sleep doesn’t feel like waiting for the floor to disappear beneath you. His breathing is still rougher than you’d like, and his face is still too pale, but the monitor keeps a steady rhythm. Alive. Alive. Alive. His fingers are warm under yours, and there’s a green Jell-O cup sitting unopened on the tray because, apparently, even near-death experiences cannot kill Spencer Reid’s bizarre snack preferences. You know he’ll ask for a spoon as soon as he’s awake again and his appetite comes back.
You do not know about the recording.
You do not know that somewhere, locked carefully behind Garcia’s cyberdefenses, there is a version of his voice trying to love you through the worst possible outcome. You do not know that he spent the better part of what might’ve been his last hour on earth trying to make sure you would be okay.
But maybe it’s better you don’t know.
You don’t need the version of him that said goodbye. You need this one: alive, stubborn, fever-warm, breathing steadily with Jell-O waiting untouched beside him.
His fingers twitch against yours again in sleep.
You keep holding on. You hold on, and you stay.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
SMUT !! PwP. Spencer is more than willing to get down on his knees like a dog for a semblance of pleasure.
──── intelligent equals who drop the equal act behind closed doors.
+ Autistic Spencer, engrained into all of my one-shots re: him. (should’ve been canon i say as they drag me away kicking and screaming)
Warnings: sub spencer (like total, tell me what to do i am beneath you spencer), soft dom reader (with explicit mentions of her being hard dom, she’s versatile i love her), inexperienced spencer (but not a virgin this time !!!! oh my god, we’re making progress), crying, condescension, praise, some light degradation, copious amounts of begging (take a shot every time spencer uses his manners and says please), handjobs, head (reader receiving, spencer mentioned to receive), sex on every surface — SEX MARATHON (oh my god someone sedate them holy shit???????), they’re cute if you can believe me after reading all of that.
— this one is kinda academic!! learn something new while you goon guys!!! intellectual gooning!!!
w.c: 3.2k
A/N: tap tap tap is this thing on??? I apologise, it has been like a year and I can’t promise how consistent I will be with posting henceforth, but here i am…..
────────────
Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Midnight. The world feels pale and weightless, rinsed out and left to dry. He’s airy, courtesy of the Cabernet Sauvignon split over dinner.
Not drunk, he tells himself. Outside the restaurant, the light bleeds off the street lamps in a slow haemorrhage. He stumbles, wayward in movement: flushed cheeks, wine-soft mouth, half-unraveled already.
You’re standing beside him, and he never learnt how to talk to pretty girls. Not really. Not when it matters.
His mind won’t stop. Alcohol affects cognitive function, warnings smeared across college bulletin boards. He can confirm; right now, he is not functioning remotely. He should’ve told you, god he really should’ve told you that you’re beautiful. That he saw you a month ago and has been ruining himself in the weeks between.
If this is a humiliation ritual, then he will gladly regard it as a kink.
What do you think of him? The question nags.
Spencer, Spencer who you think is too soft. He wears a halo like the crooked glasses he traded last fall. Intellect like the black-hole in his stomach.
He is too good, too good for you, too good for anyone. He’ll stare at you like a wounded animal, but feed from touch regardless.
He’s a mess and you’re relating him to divinity. Well, divinity and wing-clipped birds.
Here. Now. In this moment that spills back into time, his brain is a blur of obscure facts, futile etymology, half-formed footnotes. Freud’s death drive loops behind his eyes, fucking Thanatos—right now?
“Good?” you ask. “Maybe we shouldn’t of ordered a bottle, ostentatious.”
Spencer laughs boyishly. He can’t believe you agreed. Internally, he’s 14 again; all elbows and unbrushed hair, holding the kind of loneliness that calcifies into something permanent.
He remembers the way girls used to approach him: lacquered nails tapping against lockers, mascara-heavy eyes, dressed in body spray and spite. Daring each other to flirt with the boy who could recite the periodic table backwards.
He fell for it. Fell for it until it carved something mean into his stomach. Something he never quite outgrew.
“It’s etiquette,” he argues, too earnestly.
“Ettiquette. Right. Next time, we should order everything off the wine menu and see how long it takes for us to get kicked out.”
Spencer is too strangled by the notion of a next time to even discern the rest of your sentence.
He blinks at you. ”Next time?”
“Yeah, Einstein.” your shoulder knocks into his. “Next time.”
You say it so definitively. Like you know, are terrifyingly consciously aware, that you own the noose looped around his throat.
Spencer is fine suffocating, if it means his mind will call cease-fire. Shut up shut up shut up. That last glass of wine was a big mistake.
He thinks of Pascal’s wager, betting on belief, even without certainty. No, he thinks of Camus’ absurdism, the conflict between humans search for meaning. No. Japanese ma (間) - the space between, the silence that holds tension. Fuck fuck fuck.
The smart ones always make dumb decisions. He should’ve never picked up the bottle in general.
So what’s he going to do? Word vomit. (…. nothing screams successful end-of-date behaviour like a spontaneous lecture on metaphysics and emotional dysfunction).
“You know, Schopenhauer believed that existence is driven by this blind, irrational force—The Will—and that it, um… well, compels everything to keep striving, desiring, even though fulfilment is always temporary.“
Great start. He’s going to die alone. “So we chase, we want, and we think that when we get the thing we want, we’ll be at peace, but we’re not, because..”
He makes a small, helpless gesture, like he’s trying to pull the words to him..
“The Will just,… finds something new to want. We’re built to be dissatisfied. We’re—we’re biologically wired for hunger, for longing. Even this, even you, saying next time—it lights up every neuron in my brain, every craving, every ridiculous, hopeless part of me that wants to hold onto you and know there’ll be more. But if Schopenhauer’s right, it’s all just… another loop. Another itch I can’t scratch.”
Spencer wonders if there’s a fault in his binary coding. “I’m sorry— that’s a lot. I just…. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just… let myself want something without dissecting it to death.”
He’s still half-laughing, half-apologising, all stuttered ‘i’m sorry’s’ and ‘Derek is going to kill me for fumbling this’ when you cut through.
“Spencer. Genuinely, who cares?” You catch his wrist, sharp enough to register. “I’m not telling you there might be a next time. I’m telling you there will be.”
When you make decisions for him, it feels like a relief his prefrontal cortex can’t justify; you’ve short-circuited his need for autonomy by offering something even more seductive: certainty.
If he pops a boner right now, please have the decency to look away.
You sigh, “Stop running theoreticals in your head, genius. You just have to show up. Think you can manage it?”
Spencer swallows. “Um—yeah. Yeah. Definitely. I’ll uh,” he gives you this awkward, ‘I’m really trying!’ smile, “I’ll write it into my calendar…?”
“Preferably in red ink. With a little exclamation mark.”
“Oh. Okay. Yes ma’am.”
─────────
Spencer likes dates. Like when your knees knock under tables, likes your ankle hooked around his, likes the drag of your thigh when you shift in cramped spaces.
His favourites exist in coffee shops, when you overstay, just to psychoanalyse a stranger three tables over. When you stand up to stretch, soft and godless. He picks lint from his sweater like it means something, shows up with flowers and dumb memorabilia; pressing receipts into your palm, ‘Keep this, it’s from the night we first met,’ all wide-eyed intimacy that comes in a soft package.
He wears your hair tie like a wedding band around his wrist. Starts to humour horoscopes, simply because your star-signs match. If they decide to deem you ‘incompatible’ one day, he will resort back to fuck the stars, what are they anyway? Hydrogen and helium gas bombs. They’re wrong,… baseless.
Seventh date. You have him up against a bookcase, and he can only recite [ Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxyg… ] as you carve your way down his neck.
He keeps pausing, to highlight the legal risks of public indecency, to compare you to the Golden Ratio. 1.618: he can trace the sequence in your bone structure. He’s found it in autopsies and blood spatter and now, somehow, in the curve of your eyebrow.
“You should um…. come back to my place.” Spencer winces. “Ha, that sounded like a proposition. It’s not. I mean—I don’t think it is?”
He laughs, dropping his head to your shoulder. “I just…. have this list of movies I want to watch with you. Because people, normal people, do that right?”
“Last time I checked…”
“Okay. Yeah. Good. Um, here’s your warning. My TV buffers randomly, and the subtitles are stuck in Dutch for some reason, but… I have good snacks?”
Your hands bleed through his hair, sinking to the scalp. If he moans right now, he will kill himself.
Instead, he just blushes, pulling his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m aware I’m not selling this well.”
“Heeey. I like subtitles. Subtitles are good. I’m a talker, so it’s probably for the best—“
“—You like talking. I love talking. Everyone always looks at me weird when I pause 12 angry men to explain how Juror 8’s entire argument hinges on cognitive bias theories that weren’t even formalised until decades later, but! but! they’re so obvious if you just know where to look—“
He cuts himself off, goes to apologise (for the nth time this week). You beat him to it.
“Or when you try to explain how Solaris isn’t about space at all, it’s about the impossibility of human connection and how every interaction we have is just a projection of ourselves on the other person. Yup. Been there. My friends hate me. Movie nights are banned. It’s a crime.”
Fuck. Everything. You simply exist, talk all your pretty intellectual words, and now nothing else feels sufficient for him.
Queue the vows.
Sometimes, he gets off on the thought of exclusivity, commitment. Statistically, he knows that’s not marketable. Porn doesn’t cater to emotional stability.
Monogamy. Eye contact. Not exactly a thriving niche in adult content.
“Right. OK. You just summarised Solaris in one sentence. Cool.” he blinks, then again…. “Let’s get married.”
He stares. Kicks himself mentally. Attempts to backtrack. “I mean… platonically! Intellectually! The cost of living is too high right now to live alone— not….”
You scoff. “Platonically? You just had my tongue down your throat.”
“What? And you don’t kiss your friends?” he says, before holding up his hands in surrender. “That’s um, I was joking. I have never done that, won’t ever do that—can we leave now?”
“Scared we’re gonna get caught?”
“Yes, actually. I’m ah, a very serious FBI agent. It would be…. distasteful?… to be seen in such a compromising position.”
“You’re into it.”
“Yeah…” he sighs, like he’s disgusted by his own perverted actions, “Potentially.”
─────────
Spencer’s place is quiet, paper-soft around the edges—patchwork blankets thrown over mismatched furniture, books stacked into every miscellaneous corner.
The city outside is slick. Shitty late night weather: puddles that reflect sodium streetlights, fractured constellations smeared across the asphalt. It’s humid, everything outside smells of petrichor and old stone.
You’re both splayed across the couch, watching old re-runs as you debate over a movie. Dumb little arguments, interrupted by messy kisses that escalates into tangles of limbs and skin, and ‘oh? what was I saying?’
He lives in his own untouchable haze of domesticity. Leaving behind pen smudges and ringed coffee stains. He’ll let you kiss him, sweater half-on, collared shirt underneath creased. Pausing to pull himself together, only to ruin it all over again when his lips return obediently to yours.
Right now. Present moment. You’re straddling him. Bunched up fabric and heated touches He makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
He wonders if you believe in limbic resonance. Wonders if his nervous system has attuned to yours emotionally.
“I want…” (he pauses, the words you, you, you lingering in his horny, sleep-deprived mind). “I want to.. be able to show you how I feel,” he says, which is an odd way of saying ‘I want to make you feel good.’
He’s just glad he can speak. Everything feels like glass and balanced china.
“This… yeah, .. shit Spence. “ — you can feel the pressure, the prominent bulge that presses between your thighs.
Maybe you’re hedonistic for dragging your hips against it. Earning a choked whimper from Spencer, who looks like he’s about to unravel.
“But—“ your voice drops mean. But what? You have the physical manifestation of warmth beneath you? What could possibly be more important than taking care of him?
“We should really figure out what movie we’re watching. I still haven’t seen Rashomon, which is a crime in itself….”
Interesting use of free-will.
It’s bait. Spencer knows it’s bait. Still, he’s a naive loser with a hard-on and prominent inexperience, so he bites, predictably. “Yeah. Huge crime.” pause. “Oh— ohmygod, you’re torturing me. That’s worse. That’s the actual crime here.”
His hips arch up to meet yours. Yes, yes please. He does not get out a lot (read: at all), and this is an amalgamation of every wet-dream, come to reality.
If he wakes up to tangled sheets, sweaty with damp in his pants, he will sue.
“You’re the worst.” he whines, “I really really don’t care if it’s bad manners, I want to kiss you again. I want to do a lot—don’t… please, I will beg. I have no dignity, I don’t care.”
You think there might be fatal consequences if you don’t remove his clothes in the matter of seconds. So, diligently, like a good house-guest, you work on his tie: tugging at the knot, unravelling it to start on his shirt.
“Thank you,” he says , genuinely terrified you’d leave him half-hard to watch a movie about the philosophy of justice.
Torso bare: he’s lean under those grandad clothes. Skinny, with olive-toned skin and sensitive nipples. Whore, you think, virginal, you settle on.
“Please—“
“Please what?” you repeat, pushing your hand against his chest, palm outstretched, forcing him back against the cushioned surface. “Use that big brain of yours to tell me what you actually want. I need words Spence, i’m sick of hearing pointless begs.”
“Anything,” he whimpers out. Little ah ah’s that bounce off the walls of his very grown-up apartment. In contrast, he feels like an angsty teenager now. “You could do anything to me. That’s what I want— I’m… I’m very good at following instructions!”
He will debase himself. Because, hello? He’s hard, throbbing and needy, and if you want to use force to coax him into coherence, then yes please…
No complaints here.
Your top comes off. Discarded fabric marking its way across his hardwood floor. Something incriminating. Perhaps it constitutes as evidence; that you have him, painfully awkward Spencer Reid, who averts his eyes and fumbles over sentences, all blushed and undone on the same couch he litters with academic journals.
Of course anything academic has been sidelined; he’s too busy marking his way across your breasts, messy lips latching onto nipples, leaving behind tethered strings of saliva, to care about…. IQ’s and WAIS scores.
“Do you think about this often?” you tug at his hair, pull him off your skin like a leashed dog. “Spencer. Listen to me when i’m speaking to you.”
“Mhm,.. ‘m sorry…”
He looks like he’s about to cry. He’d argue tears of fucking joy.
“Do you touch yourself and think of me?”
Everything is coming out wrangled. “Yes—“ he whimpers, “All the time. I can’t stop…. That’s bad. I’m sorry. That’s really bad….”
The TV is still playing. To Spencer’s dismay, it doesn’t muffle every indecent word that leaves his bruised lips undisclosed.
“I think about you every time I do—do that.”
They’re going to take away his badge, demote him to some office rookie. He will be punished for every night he’s stuck his hand down his pants and came to your name.
“The other day… when you dropped me off, when you got really close, I had to um,… you know, in the shower.”
He has the audacity to follow that confession up with: “I respect you, so much. But—you’re making me dirty. And I—“
Spencer’s hand clasps around your wrist, dragging your palm to his erection, the fabric soaked through with pre-cum.
He bucks up. Whines, like he can’t handle the consequences of his own actions.
“It’s a— a psychological process.” he says, in a last ditch attempt at maintaining (some) semblance of control. “When you see something you like, the visual stimulus affects your autonomic nervous system, which is.. um, linked to your hypothalamus. I’m, ah.. I’m a little overwhelmed,… if that helps?”
A pained whimper tears through him. “Oh— oh,” he can’t help himself in grinding against your palm.
You’re having a psychosexual effect on his brain. Everyone point and call out shame shame shame. “I need you,… just, just take care of me. Please?”
“Oh look at that, you asked so nicely. That was an actual request, well done.”
“I can be nicer.” Spencer argues; pathetic. So pathetic that it aches.
Someone collect his backbone on the way out.
You remove his pants, his stained boxers. If there’s anytime to play coy, it’s now, when you’re wrapping a hand around his cock: long, curved, with cum pearling around the pretty flushed tip
Everything is messy. The soak of saliva and lubricated arousal. “How does that feel? Poor baby, so deprived…”
It might be time to admit that he’s in over his head. How you’ve managed to reduce his thought process to base instinct is beyond comprehension.
It’s impressive. Spencer wants to study your skills in a lab.
“Feels,..” his words spill into sloppy whines, head falling back against the couch to bare the unmarred expanse of his neck. “You’re good. Too good! This is— you’re… I can’t last. I’m sorry, I can’t.”
It’s mean. Mean, making him watch as your hand drags down his length. He’d take notes, if he wasn’t so gone, because fuck, his own palm never felt this good.
This is corruption. Everytime you brush your thumb over his tip, he is being tainted. Left with too much pleasure for his big, yet so so dumb, brain!
Swollen lips part, forming a little o. He’s liquid, melting, coming apart at the seams. The orgasm itself makes him choke back mewls; it feels like warmth, it feels like he just debunked Schopenhauer, because for the first time, in his jagged life, he’s satisfied.
Personal record. He lasted 30 seconds. At least he didn’t cry,… improvements improvements. (A mercy kill sounds ideal right now.)
He doesn’t care about eloquence. Noise control, a filtered disposition. You’re kissing him through it, gentle parenting at this point, talking out soft praises that he’ll repeat later as he pre-orders a ring.
( ‘So perfect. There’s my boy. Shh shh, I know it’s a lot, you can take it.‘ ) Spencer wants your words under his skin. ( ‘Mm. You really needed this. It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.’)
This is a well-respected FBI agent. Condolences to the victims of the cases he works on.
“I didn’t know it could feel like that—“ he’s clambering over you, a fervid tangle of limbs, trying to communicate through actions.
He fumbles with the button of your jeans, stuttering out sorry! sorry! when his hands fail at simple tasks.
“Shh—slow down. Hey, eyes on me.” you say, coaxing his gaze to yours. “Chill out, Einstein. I’m not going anywhere. Literally, you’ve kinda got me cornered here.”
“Mm, yup. Can we stay like this forever?” he laughs, abandoning task to kiss you again. “Well, y’know… after i’ve gotten you off, of course.”
“Wow, a real gentleman.”
“The best. You should probably keep me.”
“Every intention. Knees.”
Spencer drops immediately. Like he was born to be reduced to such a demeaning position. There, he hooks his hand around your ankle and repositions you: legs draped over his shoulder, thighs parted - adequate room for him to slot between.
“I have an oral fixation. So, yeah. You can shut me up like this anytime. In fact,” he looks up, smiles, inches from your clit. “I insist.”
He’s not careful, nor considerate. He’s still strangled by the belief that he needs to repay you for making him see constellations. Burdened with the holy weight of being wanted, his tongue drags across your swollen clit, collecting wetness, before drawing it into the heat of his mouth.
Face drenched, cheeks smeared, he buries himself, sees god as he traces halos. He really really doesn’t want to do a subpar job. His mind has fixated, so now he’s going to overcompensate.
He is so so good at pleasing. He wants you to be proud, to give him a gold star and glowing reviews. He wants to be needed, to find some use in himself. To appease and provide and let you dictate his entire existence.
Your thighs tighten, groans, punctured moans crowding the stuffy air with noise. You feel the push of his fingers, long, deft digits, filling up hollow space, carving their methodical touch inside.
“Fuck—Just like that. There we go. So much better when your mouth is preoccupied.”
You can hear him whimpering, muffled little begs, careless and hurried, as he suffocates. He pushes through, abandoning trivial concepts like oxygen, pft—unnecessary. It’s a myth, Priestley was wrong. Lavoisier named a fallacy.
“Good boy. Good fuckin’ boy.”
Spencer stares up at you with a mouthful of pussy. Doe-wide eyes, glossy. “Just for you.”
Then, he’s returning to the task: tongue dragging between folds, leaving him to sloppily suck at your swollen clit.
He’s not sure who’s getting off on this more.
His fingers curve, earning a strangled gasp that has him nudging closer. You can only cant your hips upwards, limbs flagging, squirming as the bliss runs through. Snaking its way around your body until you’re overstimulated, hiccuping broken sounds.
In the aftermath, he has the audacity to press a chaste kiss to your clit. To clean up his mess, like a respectful citizen.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pointless. Every inch of him is smeared. There’s cum on the couch, and Spencer is currently situated on his knees, looking all too confident in his ministrations.
“Maybe we should’ve done this in the shower,” you say, knocking your thigh against his flushed cheek. “Shit, i’m going to ride you so hard for that.”
“Right now? Is that an option? Please say that’s an option.” he stands, stumbles, nearly knocks over a book as he fights the need for friction. “Because im hard again. And yeah—ow.”
He eats his own words.
Every sexually-suppressed nerve in his spent body is assiduously destroyed. You christen his kitchen, his bathroom, bed and dining table. He cries into the sex, let’s you bully him through every thrust: ‘Cmon, harder. I know you have it in you. Don’t make me disappointed.’
He genuinely, hand over heart, sobs when you take his overused, very confused, cock into his mouth later. His entire body is a bruise. You own every scrape. Tears spill down his flushed cheeks, wetting the soft skin there. “Shut up,’ you say, ‘Just stand there, look pretty and fucking take it.’ Or, ‘Behave. Show me that I’ve trained you well.’
And you have! You really have! Because he does shut his mouth, and he does thankyou after.
Refractory periods are apparently banished, you seem hellbent on corrupting him in every position, angle, and—
He has blame. Vindictive, censurable blame. If, mid-way through attempt 2 of after-care, he gets a little too fixated on the sight of your slick-wet skin, the steam of the shower, and his wandering touch.
And sure, maybe he drops to his knees the moment you suggest Star-Trek for background noise.
Every part of him is impure. Maybe he was born to live inside you.
Post-touch, stretched out across the mattress, the sheets are kicked aside: relinquished, probably in dire need of being burnt, entropy spilled between linen. Spencer turns to meet your stare.
“This is so unhygienic,” he mutters, pressing the pad of his forefinger to your bottom lip, cracked open, still branded by his teeth. “I’m gonna have to bathe myself in hand sanitiser.“
“Well I clearly can’t trust you in the shower.”
“Hey.” he pouts. “I want a do-over. Let me wash your hair. Then you can wash mine, and it’ll be just like that one shampoo ad I saw.”
“Mm, nothing makes stocks sell like the promise of domestic bliss.”
“Exactly!” he rolls over, rests his chin between your breasts—the same ones that are stained red, imprinted with Spencer-owned bruises. “Hear me out on this: shower, nap, movie marathon.”
You laugh, gather his face in the palms of your hands. Watch, real time, as he softens into molten gold “Yeah, OK. You’re on.”
There’s this study on Oxtocin, how it creates memory impressions during intimacy; a clinical way of saying that he will remember every detail of this until the day he dies.
summary: you agree to girls’ night to celebrate your first week back at work and end up a little too drunk, a little too honest, and very much forced to confront how serious your relationship with spencer has gotten.
genre: fluff tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, alcohol consumption, drunken girls’ night shenanigans with Penelope & Emily & JJ, and they are nosyyyyyy, knight in shining armor spencer reid, drunken attempt at seduction lmao but nothing explicit happens, deep relationship talk, tooth-rotting sweetness, no use of y/n. 6k words
a/n: GIF creds to @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
By the end of your first week back at Quantico, you’ve realized two things.
One: you are still very good at your job.
Two: being back at your job means everyone around you suddenly has opinions about what you should be doing with your Friday night.
You’re halfway through slowly packing up your things when Garcia appears at your desk with a mischievous grin on her face.
“No,” you say immediately.
She puts a hand to her chest. “That is so rude. I haven’t even spoken yet!”
“I can feel your schemes in the air, Penelope.”
JJ stands nearby, bag in hand, looking far too calm for someone participating in an ambush. “We’re going to O’Keefe’s.”
You finally glance up. “And?”
“And,” Garcia says slowly, as if speaking to a child, “you’re coming with us! It's girls’ night.”
This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that your teammates have tried to force you out with them. You say yes more often now than you used to, because, against all odds, they’ve somehow weaseled their way into your life as genuine friends, but you’re not exactly what one would call a reliable attendee. Especially not on a night like tonight, when all you want to do after your long-awaited return to functional society is eat takeout on the couch with Spencer, take a long hot shower (also with Spencer), and pass out (again, with Spencer).
You stare at them. “Funny, I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
Emily, leaning against the edge of a neighboring desk with her arms folded, lifts one shoulder. “That’s because we didn’t ask. We’re telling.”
You grimace and lean back in your chair. “I just got through my first week back, you guys. I’m exhausted.”
Garcia softens. “Exactly. You got through your first week back! We need to celebrate, honey.”
You glance over toward Spencer on instinct, and he’s already looking at you. Garcia follows your line of sight and lights up.
“Oh, good idea. Reid! Tell your girlfriend she should come with us.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t you dare.”
Spencer, who should most definitely understand the danger he’s in, simply pushes back from his desk and says, very calmly, “I think you should go.”
You blink at him, utterly betrayed. “Et tu, Reid?”
Morgan lets out a bark of laughter from across the room. Emily actually smiles. Garcia clutches her chest.
Spencer, to his credit, has the decency to look a little apologetic. “You made it through your first week back,” he says. “You should celebrate.”
Emily nods toward him like he’s finally said something useful. “See? Even Boy Wonder thinks you need a drink.”
“And fries,” Garcia adds. “And female companionship. And a chance to talk about something other than work or the deeply haunting state of Reid’s current hairstyle.”
You drag a hand down your face. “Why are you all like this?”
“Because,” JJ says, “you’re our friend, and you’re back, and we want to hang out with you.”
Garcia nods emphatically. “Exactly. You survived a gunshot, surgery, physical therapy, what I can only assume is the world’s clingiest boyfriend, and your first week back on the job. You can survive one night of dive bar drinks with the hottest women the FBI has to offer. Women who happen to adore you, I might add.”
You blink at her. “This is emotional terrorism,” you say with a deep sigh.
Garcia beams. “So that’s a yes!”
“It’s not a—” You stop. Exhale. “Fine. One drink.”
JJ smiles immediately. Emily looks pleased in the most annoying way possible. Garcia claps once like a Disney villain.
Emily reaches over and grabs your bag off the floor before you can change your mind. “Great. Let’s go, ladies, before Greenaway remembers she has free will.”
You stand with a huff that’s mostly for show and shrug into your jacket. Spencer is already there by the time you straighten, close enough that nobody else would clock the way his hand brushes your elbow.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“No, Brutus.” You give him a look. “You betrayed me.”
He chuckles softly. “I’ll come pick you up later,” he says. “Whenever you want to leave.”
You glance up at him. “I can just take a cab home, Spence. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I want to.”
Garcia is already halfway out of the bullpen. “Greenaway! Move your brooding little booty. We’re leaving.”
You roll your eyes and sling your bag over your shoulder.
Spencer catches your wrist for one brief second, just enough to turn you back toward him.
“Have fun,” he says softly.
Then, before you can say something sarcastic and ruin it, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your temple.
He steps back like he didn’t just do that in the middle of the office, and you stare at him.
“What?” he asks.
Morgan passes behind Spencer and lets out a low, entertained whistle.
“Shut up, Morgan,” you and Spencer shout at the same time, still looking at each other.
Morgan just grins wider and keeps walking.
Spencer nods toward the door. “Go. I’ll see you later.”
Emily appears at your side and pushes you out of the bullpen and toward the elevators with an arm around your shoulder. “That was disgusting.”
Garcia grins. “No, it was adorable. Big difference.”
JJ presses the down button and smirks. “I’m suddenly much more interested in our topics of conversation this evening.”
The elevator opens with a ding, and Garcia ushers everyone in with entirely too much enthusiasm. You step in last, turning just in time to catch one more glimpse of Spencer standing by the bullpen doors, hands in his pockets, watching you leave with that soft, wrecked look he never quite manages to hide anymore.
—
The familiarity of O’Keefe’s hits you all at once the second you push through the door.
Warmth. Noise. The sticky smell of beer and fried food. The hum of conversation layered over a game playing on one of the TVs in the corner and music from the jukebox near the bar.
“Oh, thank god,” Garcia sighs, pressing one hand dramatically to her chest as she leads the group towards a booth in the back. “A room full of alcohol and bad decisions. I’m home.”
You exhale through your nose at that and sit down, accepting your fate for the evening.
“Okay,” Garcia says, clapping once as the waitress appears. “We need mozzarella sticks, fries, and something colorful with lots of tequila in it.”
Emily glances at the drink menu. “No tequila for me tonight. Jack and coke, please.”
JJ laughs and hands the menus back in a neat stack. “I’ll just take a beer.”
You look down at your own menu without really reading it. “Whiskey, on the rocks.”
Garcia hands over the menus with a satisfied sigh. “Perfect. We’re off to an excellent start.”
Emily glances at you. “You still have time to fake a migraine and leave, you know.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The drinks come, and feel your shoulders unclench by accident after your first sip.
You realize this feeling is another thing nobody tells you about getting injured badly enough to disrupt the whole architecture of your life. Everyone focuses on the obvious parts — surgeries, scars, whether you’ll be okay, whether you’ll be normal, whatever that means. What no one really prepares you for is how strange it feels to start participating in your own life again once the worst of it is over. How bizarre it is to sit in a bar on a Friday night, in jeans and boots and lipstick with your girlfriends around a wooden table, and realize the world kept spinning while you were busy focusing on surviving.
There’s also the more humiliating part, which is that you haven’t done this in what feels like forever. Drinking, or hanging out with friends, or just simply sitting still and talking and existing without a doctor asking whether your pain is sharp or dull or a man you love watching your face too closely every time you stand up. The whole thing feels weirdly high stakes for something as stupid and simple as greasy fries and cheap liquor.
Garcia raises her glass. “To Greenaway,” she says, voice softening in a way that makes you self-conscious, “being back at work and a semi-willing participant in girls’ night.”
Emily lifts her glass. “A triumph.”
JJ’s smile is warm when she reaches in with hers too. “To Greenaway.”
You look at all three of them over the rim of your glass. “This is disgusting,” you mutter, which is about as close to thank you as you’re willing to get.
You let your glass clink against theirs anyway.
For a while, the conversation behaves itself. Garcia launches into a story about a disastrous blind date with a man who described himself as “alpha-adjacent,” which makes Emily nearly choke on her drink. JJ talks about Henry’s current refusal to sleep unless one sock is missing, which Garcia insists is “actually very chic of him.” After a waitress drops off the fries and mozzarella sticks, Emily tells a story about a truly alarming hostel she once stayed at in Prague, and before you know it, you’re contributing your own horror story about a motel in Kansas that smelled like mildew and bad choices.
Penelope points at you with a fry. “See? This is nice. You’re socializing,” to which you roll your eyes in response.
By the time you’re halfway through your second whiskey, the room feels warmer, the edges softened just enough that you stop noticing how many people are around you and start noticing smaller things instead. The exact shade of Emily’s lipstick. The glitter worked into Garcia’s eyeliner. The way JJ laughs with her whole face when she actually lets herself. The fact that you’re here at all.
You’re halfway through a story about the world’s most idiotic suspect trying to outrun Morgan during a case in Vermont last year when your phone buzzes against the table.
You look down, and Spencer’s name glows up at you from the screen alongside a text preview:
How’s it going? I hope you’re having fun.
Your mouth twitches before you can stop it.
Emily clocks it instantly. “There it is.”
You look up. “There what is?”
“Your face,” Garcia says, delighted. “You have a face!”
You cock a brow suspiciously. “Everyone has a face, Penelope.”
Emily leans back, arms folded. “No, she means your Spencer face.”
You stare at them. “My what.”
“Your Spencer face! You get this, like, very specific look on your face when you talk to him, or hear other people talking about him, or anytime you even think about him. Sorta smug, sorta soft, very in love. It’s adorable,” Garcia explains.
You pick up your phone and groan, “I hate all of you,” before typing back under the table:
i’m… surviving. no rescue required yet but it’s minute-by-minute
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Glad to hear it. Love you.
“It’s undeniable,” Garcia says, catching your expression. “That is, without a doubt, your Spencer face.”
You slide your phone face-down onto the table. “Say that one more time and I’m leaving.”
Garcia leans both elbows on the table and gives you a look that’s far too bright to be trustworthy. “Okay. So. Since Reid has officially entered the chat—”
“No.”
“—we have questions.”
“Absolutely not.”
Emily lifts a shoulder. “You had to have known this was coming.”
Well, she has a point there.
Garcia starts firing off questions immediately. “How clingy is he? Are you moving in together? Who fell first? Who said I love you first? Did he cry when you said it? Did you cry? Was there background music? Candles? Rose petals? Should I be offended that I wasn’t invited as a witness?”
JJ snorts into her beer.
You put your glass down carefully. “You all need professional help.”
“Don’t worry, I have a therapist on speed dial,” Garcia says. “What I don’t have is information.”
Emily tilts her head. “C’mon, Greenaway. You can’t really expect us not to be curious about our two coworkers who are dating.”
The thing is, they’re not wrong to be curious. The Spencer they know isn’t the same Spencer you know. They know the version of Spencer with brains and facts and a perpetually crooked tie, the one who hides half his personality behind statistics and awkwardness until people make the mistake of thinking that’s all there is to him. But you, by some impossible stroke of luck or an undeserved & pre-determined string of fate, have been granted the privilege of knowing there’s so much more. And somewhere along the line, without asking permission, he stopped feeling like a part of your life and started feeling like the shape of it.
Maybe that’s why this line of questioning makes your skin feel too tight — because they aren’t asking about a silly little coworker crush like they had been at that margarita night Garcia hosted many months ago. Now they’re asking about your actual life. About something real enough that if you look at it directly for too long, the brightness and warmth nearly blinds you.
“You gave him a key to your place, didn’t you?” JJ asks, breaking you out of your trance.
The table goes quiet for half a second.
You look at her. “Who told you that?”
JJ shrugs. “No one had to. When he first came back to work after you got shot, he was so worried about leaving you alone all day, so I went with him to check on you at lunchtime. He let himself into your apartment with a key on his usual keyring, and he looked very comfortable doing it.”
You look down at your drink. “You people are so invasive.”
Garcia points at you triumphantly. “Aha! That’s not a denial!”
You take a long sip of whiskey that does absolutely nothing to save you.
“It was… practical,” you say, which immediately sounds like a lie, even to you. “I gave it to him when I was still stuck at the hospital so he could bring me things from my place. Then he didn’t want me to be alone while I was recovering, and…” You lift one shoulder. “He still has the key.”
Emily’s mouth curves. “Very practical.”
“Shut up.”
“So,” Emily says. “How serious is this thing, really?”
You could dodge. You should dodge. You should say something glib and slippery and let them all chase their own tails around it.
Instead, because your second glass of whiskey is now treacherously empty and because these women have somehow figured out how to disarm you with minimal effort, you hear yourself say, “Um. I guess it’s… pretty serious. Yeah.”
Garcia actually slaps a hand over her heart. “Define pretty, please. Pretty pretty please!”
“God, I don’t know, you guys,” you say with an exasperated sigh. “Serious enough that, yeah, he has a key to my apartment. Enough that I can’t remember the last time I spent more than, like, four hours without talking to him, outside of when we’re asleep. Enough that everyone in this room is apparently allowed to bully me about him.”
JJ leans forward slightly. “Do you see a future with him?”
You look at her, then at the table, then at your empty glass. The honest answer rises before you can kill it.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Garcia goes so still you’d think someone muted her with a remote. Emily’s brows lift. JJ just watches you.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not, like, a problem-problem. Not in a bad way. Just… I think he got serious about it before I realized I was letting him get serious, and then I was already in it too, apparently, before I’d even noticed that was happening, and then one day I looked up and he was just…” You stop, irritated by the catch in your own voice. “Everywhere. In every corner of my life.”
You swirl your glass against the table and stare at the condensation gathered on the rim, trying very hard not to think about how exposed you feel right now.
Then, because the alcohol has successfully eliminated your usual filters, you add, “He’s annoyingly good at staying, through pretty much anything. And… I think he’s teaching me how to be good at staying too.”
Garcia makes a strangled noise and beams at you.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You are in love-love.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s not exactly breaking news.”
“It’s not,” JJ says gently. “Anyone with eyes can see it nowadays. But it’s still nice to hear you say it out loud.”
You stare at her — at all of them, really: Garcia glowing with vindication and affection, Emily pretending not to be touched, JJ looking so proud it hurts, and another thought arrives uninvited: they love you too. Not in the way Spencer does, obviously — not in the all-consuming, low-voiced, hand-at-your-waist way. But still, in a real way, in a way you don’t think you’ve ever been loved by friends before. In the show-up, drag-you-out, celebrate-your-first-week-back, make-fun-of-you-until-you-stop-deflecting way.
You laugh despite yourself, because what else are you supposed to do with this? These women, this bar, this absurd line of questioning, this life that somehow expanded around you while you were busy trying not to die?
Garcia pulls your focus back to the conversation at hand. “Now I need to know if he’s actually romantic or if this is all just the natural result of extreme pining and good bone structure.”
You shake your head and reach for another fry. “Yes. Fine. He can be romantic,” you admit.
Garcia leans so far across the table you’re worried she’s about to fall into the mozzarella sticks. “In what way?”
You hesitate, because how do you explain Spencer as a boyfriend? How do you explain that privately he’s still Spencer, still dorky and earnest and too smart for his own good, but also softer than anyone would guess, and sharper too? That he remembers everything you say and acts like that’s normal? That he takes every tiny thing he knows about you into consideration before planning dates? That even the physical things with him somehow feel impossibly specific, like he’s learned your body with the same frightening thoroughness he learns everything else? That he can be so maddeningly practical one second and then look at you like you’ve just hung the moon in the sky with your bare hands the next?
Eventually, you say: “He notices things.”
Emily’s expression shifts first, like she gets exactly how loaded that answer is.
Garcia, predictably, wants more. “Such as?”
“Everything,” you say. “If I’m cold. If I’m tired. If I’m trying to pretend I’m not either of those things. He remembers stupid little things I say and then acts on them weeks later like that’s normal behavior. Like, last week, he bought me this ridiculously expensive brand of coffee beans from a cafe on the other side of the city because I mentioned them once in passing. He keeps my favorite pens stocked at his desk and in his bag because he knows I chew on mine until they stop working.”
You grimace. “Yeah, well. Don’t encourage him. I can’t handle much more of it and still keep my dignity intact.”
Emily props her chin on her hand. “How bad?”
You look at her. “What does that mean.”
“On a scale from one to ten, how embarrassing is he as a boyfriend?” she asks with a shrug.
“Honestly?” you say. “Pretty bad.”
Garcia crows in triumph. “I knew it.”
You look away. “I mean, I’m sorta embarrassing too.”
That catches all three of them off guard. You feel your face warm and immediately regret opening your mouth. But it’s too late now, so you plow forward.
“I miss him when he’s in the next room,” you mumble. “Which is humiliating and codependent and probably very concerning.”
JJ gives you a look that is somehow both sympathetic and deeply entertained. “That doesn’t sound concerning. It sounds sweet.”
Garcia puts both hands over her heart. “You are so disgustingly gone. I love it.”
You lean back in the booth and look up at the ceiling like maybe some god out there in the universe will mercifully strike you down before this gets any worse.
The strike never comes.
—
At some point after their humiliating interrogation, the conversation drifted. Garcia got louder. JJ got funnier. Emily, somehow, got both meaner and more affectionate at the same time. Somebody put more money in the jukebox. A second basket of fries appeared and disappeared. Then another round showed up, and then maybe another one after that, and after a while, keeping count lost its appeal.
Garcia made a passionate argument about who from the BAU would last the longest in a zombie apocalypse (“Survival isn’t just about brute strength! It’s also about adaptability and vibes!”). JJ reached that dangerous stage of tipsy where everything struck her as deeply, genuinely hilarious, including your comparison between Rossi in reading glasses and the Tootsie Pop owl. Emily had one elbow on the table, chin in hand, and the sort of lazy, amused smile that meant she was enjoying everybody else’s nonsense immensely.
The whole room has gone pleasantly soft around the edges. Warmer. Louder. The lights above the bar blur into dull gold halos. Every time Garcia laughs, it seemed to set off the whole table half a second later. Your own body has gotten looser too, the good kind of loose — shoulders unclenched, thoughts less guarded, the usual sharp corners of you sanded down just enough.
But beneath all of it, quiet and constant, is the simple thought that if you asked, Spencer would come pick you up in a heartbeat.
You didn’t realize how much you were counting on that until the room tips one degree too warm and the thought of trying to get yourself home without him suddenly felt both very impossible and completely undesirable.
So you text him.
come get me?
And, because he’s Spencer, his reply comes almost immediately.
You got it. On my way.
The fuzziness only intensifies after that, but you’re at least mostly aware of what’s happening around you. Garcia has somehow moved on from zombies to explaining why she could absolutely win a bar fight if motivated by love. JJ is smiling into the rim of her drink. Emily has abandoned subtlety entirely and is now openly enjoying your slow descent into drunken sentimentality, which is rude but expected.
Then O’Keefe’s front door opens, and there he is.
Spencer pauses just inside the bar for half a second, scanning the room. His shoulders ease the second he spots you, that familiar little drop in tension so slight most people would miss it. You don’t. You never do.
He makes his way over, tie gone, coat on, hair a little wind-mussed from the cold outside. He looks tired in that way only he can: wrung out around the eyes but still put together, still handsome even under shitty bar lighting and the accumulated weight of a work week.
He stops beside the table and waves awkwardly to the entire group.
“Hello,” he says.
You tip your face up, far too happy to see him for someone with any pride left. “Hi, baby.”
The entire table goes silent.
Spencer’s brows lift the tiniest amount. Then his mouth softens into that look — that one that always makes your pulse jump.
“Hi,” he says softly, just to you.
Garcia clamps both hands over her mouth. Emily looks delighted. JJ’s expression has gone so calm it circles back around to dangerous.
You point a finger at all three of them. “Don’t.”
“No one said anything,” JJ says, holding both hands up defensively.
Garcia lowers hers from her mouth just enough to whisper, “Yet.”
Spencer, because he is either merciful or trying very hard to be, just asks, “You okay?”
You nod a little too emphatically. “M’great.”
Emily deadpans, “She’s drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” you say, while reaching for Spencer’s hand and missing on the first attempt. “I’m just… friendlier than usual.”
Spencer takes your hand himself and laces your fingers together before you can fumble again. “Of course.”
He says it so gently that it almost makes you emotional, which is very much not helping the situation.
Garcia, meanwhile, has given up all restraint. “She told us things.”
“Penelope,” you warn.
Spencer’s gaze flicks from her to you, faintly alarmed now in the way of a man who knows there are degrees of terror in your mind and that drunken honesty ranks highly among them. “Things like…?”
Emily takes pity on him, sort of. “Nothing classified.”
JJ sets her glass down. “We mostly just confirmed what we already suspected.”
Spencer, still holding your hand, blinks once. “Which is?”
Garcia leans in, beaming. “That you’re absolutely, totally, completely obsessed with each other.”
You look at the tabletop. The wood grain is suddenly fascinating.
“Ah,” he replies with a soft chuckle.
JJ hands you your purse from where you abandoned it at the opposite end of the booth. “Text us tomorrow so we know you’re alive.”
Garcia points at Spencer. “Take care of her, loverboy.”
He nods. “Always.”
You wish, briefly, for the floor to open up and swallow you whole. But instead, Spencer helps you stand with such absurd care it’s almost offensive. His hand settles lightly at your waist as he steers you through the bar, and your body goes willingly.
—
The night air outside is cold enough to bite.
It hits your face sharply but clears none of the pleasant fuzz in your head. The city glows around you in smeared headlights and neon and streetlamp glow, and Spencer guides you toward the curb where his car’s parked, one hand still warm at your back.
He opens the passenger door and looks at you with that quiet, attentive expression that makes you feel both cherished and mildly threatened.
“You good?” he asks.
You lean against the car and squint at him. “They interrogated me.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “That does sound like them.”
You point at him. “It’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You made me go!”
He waits while you lower yourself into the passenger seat and leans in just enough to buckle you, and the whole thing is so stupidly sweet that you have to look away and pretend the dashboard is wildly interesting. He closes the door once you’re settled and walks around to the driver’s side.
When he gets in, he glances over at you as he starts the engine. “I didn’t make you do anything. I just encouraged a night out with your friends.”
“Still Brutus,” you mutter, which is met by a low chuckle and shake of the head from Spencer.
The rest of the drive home is quiet in a good way. Spencer keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting open between you, and somewhere around the second red light you lace your fingers through his.
He looks over.
“What did they ask about?”
The questions blur together in your whiskey-soaked brain. “Everything,” you say after thinking for a moment. “They were very nosy and a little deranged.”
You turn your head to look at him properly. His profile is too familiar now — the slope of his nose, the soft concentration in his mouth, the line between his brows that shows up when he’s listening carefully.
“They asked what you’re like as a boyfriend,” you add.
Spencer glances over, faintly amused. “And?”
“And I had to say things.”
His brows lift. “Tragic.”
You nod dramatically. “Exactly. It was.”
By the time he parks outside your building and gets you upstairs, your thoughts have all softened into a single, inconvenient ache.
He helps you out of your coat, sets your purse down on the table, gets you water without asking. You sit on the edge of the bed while he moves around the room, toeing off his shoes, unbuttoning his cuffs, setting his watch on the nightstand.
He’s tired. You can see it in the slope of his shoulders and the care he’s no longer even trying to hide. He’s always gentler with you when he’s exhausted, as if all the extra effort it usually takes to conceal the full force of how much he cares has finally burned off.
You watch him longer than you mean to, and he catches you.
“What’s up?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
Spencer’s expression shifts. He comes over and kneels in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees.
“What is it?” he asks softly.
And there it is — that awful tenderness. That exact, patient attention that always seems to make honesty feel both easier and much, much worse.
You look at him and find, with some irritation, that the words do not want to come out in anything resembling order.
“They asked…” You stop, frown, start again. “Um. They asked if this is serious.”
Spencer’s face softens so visibly it’s almost unbearable.
“Oh,” he says.
You nod, suddenly more nervous than you were in the bar, which makes no sense because it’s just him. Just Spencer, the man who has a key to your apartment and alphabetizes your spices and picks you up without hesitation and tells you he loves you at least five times a day.
But that’s exactly why it’s so nerve wracking, maybe.
You look down at the front of his shirt instead of his face. “And I told them yes.”
A beat of silence.
Then, quietly: “Okay.”
You let out a breath that sounds more annoyed than relieved. “No, see, that’s not enough.”
Spencer’s left hand moves from your knee up to your chin, guiding your face up just enough that you have to meet his eyes.
“What do you need me to say?” he asks gently.
“I—” You stop. Try again. “I don’t know. Something normal. Or not normal. Just…” You gesture vaguely between the two of you because apparently language has abandoned you. “They asked and I said yes and now I’m in my head about it because we’ve never actually said so out loud in those words, and I know that’s stupid because, like, obviously we’re serious. Duh. We say I love you. You have a key to my freaking apartment and we haven’t spent a night apart by choice in months. I know what this is. But I just—”
You stop again, mortified.
“It’s not stupid,” he says.
You swallow. “It’s not?”
“Not at all.” His thumb brushes once across your cheek. “And yes. We’re serious.”
The simplicity of it makes your throat go tight.
Spencer gives the smallest, softest little playful shrug. “I mean, think about it. You have a key to my apartment too.”
You almost laugh. It comes out sounding too close to a sigh.
Spencer watches your face for a second, then adds, quieter, “I think about it all the time, you know. How serious this is for me. How serious you are to me.” He glances down for half a second, then back up. “But I didn’t know if saying that would make you feel pressured, so I was trying very hard to let you get there however you needed to.”
Something in your chest folds in on itself.
It’s not even the serious part that gets you, not really. You already knew that. It’s the rest of it — the fact that he’s been thinking about it too; the fact that he’s been intentionally careful not to crowd you into saying something before you were ready. It’s so unfairly him that, for a second, all you can do is stare.
You look at him for a little too long, then reach for the front of his shirt and tug. He comes without resistance, mouth brushing yours, soft and warm and patient.
The kiss deepens slowly. His hand slides to your waist and yours goes into his hair, because you like the little sound it pulls from him. You slide your other hand down his chest, mouth skimming his jaw, and in your softest, most shameless voice, you ask, “Are you going to fuck me now, or do I need to make a more persuasive argument?”
Spencer closes his eyes and laughs softly against your cheek. “No, angel, I’m not.”
You blink. “Rude.”
“You’re drunk,” he reminds you softly.
“I’m also charming.”
“You are,” he agrees.
“So—”
“So no.”
You grumble. “You hate joy, Spencer Reid.”
“I love joy,” he insists. “I’m a huge fan of joy. I’m less of a fan of taking advantage of you when you’ve had too much whiskey.”
You squint at him. “What if I said ‘make love’ instead? Does that move the needle at all?”
Spencer actually breaks at that, shoulders shaking with a laugh he tries and fails to suppress.
“No,” he says, still smiling, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. “It doesn’t.”
You sigh dramatically. “This relationship is so one-sided.”
“That is an absurd statement and you know it,” he says with a laugh, and leans in again — one long, slow kiss that leaves your knees weak and your head warm. When he finally pulls back, he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. “Try again when you’re sober. I’ll do anything you ask.”
You smirk. “Anything? That’s a very dangerous offer.”
Spencer stands, mouth twisted in an exasperated grin. “Go brush your teeth, silly girl.”
You glare. He waits. You lose and grumble dramatically as you trudge into the bathroom.
Eventually, exhaustion starts to take hold. Spencer helps you out of your clothes, hands you one of his old shirts, gets you under the blankets. He climbs in beside you after turning off the lamp, and the room goes dark around the warm shape of him.
You roll toward him instinctively, your body finding his like a puzzle piece. His arm settles around you as you lay your head on his chest and tangle your legs with his. The two of you fit together too easily now, which is still a bit alarming if you think about it for too long.
For a minute, neither of you says anything.
Then you murmur, already half gone, “You liked when I called you baby.”
Spencer’s chest rises under your cheek with a silent laugh. “Maybe a little.”
You smile into his shirt. “Knew it.”
“You’re not going to start calling me that all the time now, are you?”
“God no. You know how I feel about using pet names.” You tilt your head just enough to look at him in the dark. “But… maybe sometimes.”
Spencer’s hand slides up your back, slow and warm. “I’ll take it.”
His breathing evens out under your ear. Yours follows a second later.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispers sleepily. “Love you.”
Your heart still flutters in that same embarrassing way it did the first time he said those words.
“Love you too,” you whisper back.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and remember enough of this to want to throw yourself violently into the Potomac. You’ll remember the bar and the interrogation and the pet name and the failed attempt at seduction and the deeply incriminating declarations of emotional seriousness.
But that’s a problem for tomorrow’s version of you. Tonight, Spencer’s body is warm against yours, his mouth is still soft from kissing you, and the awful, frightening shape of your future no longer feels quite so awful or frightening when it’s lying here breathing beside you.
Serious, you think, right before sleep pulls you under.
Yeah.
That sounds about right.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
where spencer reid finally gets to be a father, but not in the way he'd ever expected
cw: death during/after childbirth and grief
wk: 1k
A/N: im sorry about this. i genuinely tried to write fluff and two sentences in i changed my mind and did this. MIGHT make this a series if i get motivation (also i pictured s3/4 spencer during this..yk spencer who's a year clean and then going through everything with his dad..YEAH)
Spencer Reid had always known he wanted to be a father one day, he just never expected to be doing it alone - with a baby girl in his arms in an empty hospital room. He’d pictured a smooth birth, a short stay in the hospital before returning to their home - the three of them, as a family. He’d pictured first steps, his wife recording from every angle, her laughter bouncing off every wall. He’d pictured science fairs, chess tournaments, spelling bees, his wife beside him as they cheer with tears in their eyes. But she won't be there for that. She won't get to see it. She won't get to see the firsts, she won't get to be there for late night feeds, for sick days and injuries, she won't get to see the little moments and she won't get to see the milestones their baby girl will make. She's gone.
“Unforeseen complications,” The doctor had said as Spencer crumbled to the floor. “There was nothing we could do. We tried to stop the bleeding but she was gone before we could get her stable”
The words hadn’t sounded right to Spencer, and they still don't now. Hours later as he stands in the empty sterile hospital room, his baby girl sleeping in his arms, blissfully unaware of the life they now have to live. This isn't the life he had planned for her.
She should have been held by her mother who would have tear tracks down her face but the softest, most loving look in her eyes, love only a mother can show. She should have been rocked slowly in her moms arms, cradled like she was made of glass. She should have got to hear her mom say her name.
He should have got to wake in the middle of the night to an empty bed, only to tiptoe into the baby's room and see his wife rocking her to sleep, messy hair, tired eyes and touch so gentle as she sang lullabies as the baby would coo softly.
They should have fallen asleep on the couch together, baby curled up on her chest, a half finished bottle dangling from Spencer's hand, his other cradling his wife and baby.
Their daughter should know her mothers face, should light up at the sight of her, at the sound of her voice. She should be able to cling to her mom when she's scared. Her mom should be her safe space, her comfort when the world gets loud and when everything feels impossible.
But now all of that only lived in his memory, a future that would never come.
He will never get to grow old with his wife, his soulmate. He’d always pictured growing old with her, even from their very first date. Not in a cinematic, epic love story way that is only shown in movies. No. Just a quiet life, together.
He pictured Sunday mornings with coffee neither of them finished, evenings on the porch wrapped in blankets, watching the world slow down. He imagined more children, boys and girls, all with their own personalities and quirks that make them who they are. He imagined holding her hand while they listened to their children talk about their own life—college, heartbreak, career, maybe even kids of their own.
He thought about anniversaries and special events they’d celebrate together, and forget together . Too caught up in life to remember until days later- when they’d laugh and spend the night celebrating in their own way. No grand gestures needed, no pressure.
They’d fight, they’re good at that. It's how they started of course. One night of misunderstanding and feelings being hidden for too long and the walls broke down, like a dam giving way, letting a flood of truth wash through, reshaping their future. Angry love confessions and heated kissing, turning into a love they could never live without. Healing them in the best ways possible. Their relationship began with a fight, and ended in silence.
They’d fight about silly things, missed deadlines, who was supposed to pick the kids up from school, late work nights. They wouldn't be giant fights, full of screaming and slamming doors. Voices raised, maybe, but never harsh, never cruel, just two soulmates navigating their life together, just trying to be perfect for each other. The anger would fade, it never lasts long, not with them. There would be silence, a moment of stillness and then the recovery. Soft conversations about what to do next, on how they can do better. Soft ‘i love yous’ and ‘im sorries’. Love is never perfect, it's messy, it's hard, it's complicated. And if you do it right..it's everything.
They’d grow old together, live on a farm maybe. The kids could grow old, would start their own families, their own stories. They’d stay together, grow together. Die together.
But that's only a dream, a glimpse of what could have been because now..
Now he would grow old without her.
He’d raise their daughter alone. He’d sit at that farm alone. There would be no more children. He will never get to fight with her again, he will never get to say ‘i love you’ to her again and hear her soft voice whisper ‘i love you more’. He’d grow old alone, never love another, never remarry. He’d only think of her, talk to her in his head. Everyday he’d write in a journal, the things he would tell her if she was there he would keep track of, in the hopes that one day they could be reunited.
When his memory dies, when he can't remember his life, when even his daughter's name is a mystery to him, he’ll always remember her smile. When his life starts to fade she’ll be there. He’ll see her again. He just has to live a lifetime without her first.
He never pictured that.
He takes a shaky breath, his daughter stirring slightly in his arms. He forces himself to focus on the now, he can't rewind time, he can't get stuck in his head. He has a daughter to raise. And a funeral to plan.
A/N: sooo yeah. sorry about that x thanks to @reidvrmore for not killing me as i was writing this and updating her almost every line and @esote-rika for your (un) kind reactions when you read this :))
⟢ chapter II: a royal correspondence ⟡ warnings: none!
pairing: prince!clark kent x f!reader | wc: 4k | series m.list [here] | series playlist ♪˚｡⋆
a/n: chapter two is here!! please let me know what you think. i hope you guys enjoy it! <3
The remainder of the evening unfolded much as you expected—though certainly not quietly. Once home, Brookend Manor hummed with excitement, every corridor echoing with some variation of your mother’s delighted retelling. She recounted your dance with Prince Clark to your father and the assembled household at least half a dozen times, each version acquiring new embellishments with the enthusiasm of a playwright revising her favorite scene.
Your father endured it with good-natured patience, and the servants—who absolutely had other duties—suddenly discovered an urgent need to polish the same section of banister, adjust already-straight drapery, or ferry imaginary messages through the hall. Their ears, for all their attempts at discretion, were shamelessly attentive.
You escaped to your room the moment courtesy permitted, slipping away before you could be cast as the heroine of their evening’s entertainment.
There, in the quiet of your bedroom, your writing desk awaited you. The quill rested neatly beside the parchment, the ink catching the candlelight in a dark, reflective gleam. For the first time in a long while, you hesitated.
Writing of society was effortless. Secrets, whispers, political undercurrents—easier still.
But writing of yourself?
Of the closing waltz? Of Prince Clark, who had inexplicably chosen you in front of the entire ton?
That was considerably less convenient.
Still, you sat. Still, you dipped the quill.
You attempted three separate openings before conceding what you had known from the start: there was no graceful way to omit yourself without inviting more suspicion than inclusion ever would.
So you wrote.
And rewrote.
And smudged the same line twice.
Hours later, the column lay complete at last.
Ink stained your fingers before you realized how long you had been seated there. The candle had burned low, its flame bending slightly with each quiet draft that slipped beneath the door. At its base, pale tallow had gathered in quiet folds, mirroring the hours you had allowed to pass unnoticed.
Soft footsteps moved along the corridor outside and, as they always did, paused just beyond your door.
A moment later, Eveline entered with the sort of silence only long practice could perfect, closing the door behind her without so much as disturbing the air. Your lady’s maid by title. Your closest friend by everything that mattered.
She approached your desk without ceremony and gathered the folded pages from beside your ink pot, checking the ribbon that held them before taking them up properly in hand. She did not ask what you had written. She never did. She had no need to.
The two of you had grown up wandering the same halls long before either of you were entrusted with secrets worth guarding. You had shared scraped knees and stolen sweets, whispered confidences and opinions about half the county. Loyalty had never required declaration between you; it had simply existed, steady and unquestioned.
She slipped the pages neatly into her apron, promising—as she had so many nights before—that they would be delivered before the first trace of dawn touched the rooftops.
And yet.
There was something else tonight.
A brightness in her expression she attempted, and failed, to disguise. The corners of her mouth betrayed her. So did her eyes.
You saw it forming before she ever gave it voice. The same thought that had already taken hold downstairs and, by now, very likely half of Berkshire. So you spared her the trouble of asking.
“It was only a dance, Evie,” you said softly.
“Yes,” she replied just as quietly, though her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “But the closing waltz. With the prince.”
You shared a look.
Hope flickered plainly in hers. You answered it with composure.
Evie did not press the matter. She rarely did. She had long ago learned how to say just enough and leave the rest for you to untangle in your own time. At times it amused you. At others, it tested your patience. But it was a rhythm the two of you had kept since childhood, and one neither of you had ever felt the need to disturb.
She offered one last knowing smile before slipping from the room, the door closing behind her with the softest click.
Left alone once more, you set about dismissing the night as you always did. You undid your gown’s remaining clasps, washed at the basin, extinguished the candle, and finally slipped beneath the covers.
Yet the moment you closed your eyes, rest refused you.
You remained awake in the dimness, your thoughts returning again and again to moments you had not intended to carry with you.
The prince’s hand at your waist.
His voice, low and sincere.
The way the ballroom had turned as one body toward you both.
Being the spectacle of your own craft was proving far more exhausting than anything else.
By the time the first sliver of morning light threaded through your curtains, you had slept, at most, a handful of uneasy minutes. You blinked up at the pale glow and exhaled, resigned to the day forcing itself upon you. Your mind drifted inevitably to your column, which by now would be making its way through Berkshire drawing rooms and breakfast tables alike.
Despite your best efforts, you kept circling back to the lines you had penned in the late hours of the night:
…a waltz that captured the full attention of the ton. His Highness, Prince Clark, chose a partner that left whispers echoing long after the music faded…
You halted the recollection there, eyes squeezing shut.
Enough.
You had written it.
You did not need to relive it.
You pushed the thought aside with as much resolve as you could summon, shutting it away like a door against an unwelcome chill.
The night was over. The column was written. Your part in it was done, if only your mind had been willing to behave accordingly.
You drew a slow breath, willing your pulse to steady—
A sharp knock broke the quiet.
Before you could answer, the door opened with uncharacteristic haste and Evie slipped inside. Whatever formality the knock had satisfied, the rest of her gave way to urgency. Her face held something you could not immediately place. Her steps were quicker than usual, her apron slightly askew, her breath uneven as though she had hurried the length of the corridor without pause.
You pushed yourself upright in bed, blankets gathering at your waist.
“What is it?” you demanded, already bracing. “Did something happen with the Quill? Has someone found out?”
It was the only explanation that made sense.
Panic rose swiftly and without permission. If someone had traced the column back to you—if last night’s waltz had drawn too much scrutiny—if a phrase, a turn of ink, had betrayed you—
Evie shook her head before your thoughts could carry you any further.
“No, my lady. It isn’t the column.”
She crossed the room with careful urgency and reached into the pocket of her apron.
“It is… well, this arrived.”
You blinked at her. “Arrived? What do you mean arrived?”
She didn’t answer.
She simply extended a folded letter toward you, sealed in crimson wax.
Your confusion deepened—until you saw the crest impressed upon it. The seal glinted in the early morning light, unmistakable and impossible to misinterpret.
Royal.
Your breath caught.
No.
Surely not.
You swallowed, pulse quickening at the base of your throat as your gaze lowered to the direction written upon the fold.
Your name—written in a firm, elegant script.
And beneath it, without pretense or intermediary—
Prince Clark.
Your fingers hovered above the folded letter, suspended in the smallest, sharpest moment of disbelief.
So this was the fuss.
This was the urgency.
This was the reason Evie had nearly torn your door off its hinges.
A letter from the Quiet Prince.
For you.
The parchment seemed to settle in your hands with a gravity that had little to do with paper. The crimson seal still held its impression, and your name lay across the front in dark, deliberate ink—refined in hand, yet bearing something far more personal beneath its polish.
Apparently you had gone silent for far too long.
“Open it,” Evie whispered, though whisper felt far too restrained for the excitement lighting her entire face. She was nearly bouncing where she stood. “If you do not, I will.”
You turned your head slowly, fixing her with a look sharp enough to quiet an entire drawing room. It did absolutely nothing to her. She only grinned wider.
With careful fingers, you broke the seal.
The seal gave way with a soft crack, the sound far too loud in the hush of your room. You unfolded the letter slowly, smoothing the page against your palm as though the gesture itself might lend you composure.
It was standard in form. Courteous. Proper. Precisely what royal correspondence should be.
And yet the contents were anything but ordinary.
You read.
To Lady Y/N Y/L/N of Brookend,
I hope you will forgive the impropriety of writing so soon after last night. I can only offer, in my defense, that your question has stayed with me longer than I anticipated.
You asked whether peace and loneliness are truly different, or if we have simply grown accustomed to mistaking one for the other.
It is a fair question. A generous one. And not simple to answer.
Yet, in the quiet of this morning, a line from one of my favorite volumes returned to me:
“The peace of solitude is not the ache of loneliness, for one nourishes the soul while the other starves it.”
I cannot presume to hold the answer you sought, but I hope the sentiment may offer clarity where my own explanation failed.
If it would not trouble you, I would like the opportunity to speak with you again. A walk through the palace gardens this afternoon, perhaps? The violets are in bloom.
With respect,
Clark, Prince of Berkshire
He had not written of the waltz, nor of appearances or whispers. He had written of your question, and in doing so had made something quietly significant of it. It was not a command, nor a royal summons disguised as obligation. It was an invitation.
And that, somehow, unsettled you far more.
Evie leaned closer, trying desperately to read your expression rather than the words. “Well?” she pressed. “What does it say? Do not leave me to perish in suspense.”
You lowered the letter slightly, your pulse misbehaving in your throat.
“He wants…” You paused, the absurdity of the moment finally overtaking you. “He wishes to see me again.”
Evie made a sound perilously close to a gasp and, with dramatic surrender, sank onto the edge of your bed as though her usual restraint had deserted her entirely.
“How soon?” she demanded, her eyes flashing up to yours.
You glanced down once more, your pulse still behaving in ways you did not approve of. “Today. He suggested a walk through the palace gardens. The violets are in bloom.”
Evie was on her feet again in an instant, as if propelled by artillery.
“Oh, we must begin at once,” she declared, half-turning toward your wardrobe as if she meant to start pulling dresses at random. “The palace gardens, you said? Violets in bloom. You cannot wear anything too bright, it will look—no, no, you must look effortless, but not careless. Something soft. Something that suggests—”
“Evie.” Your voice cut through her spiral.
Your voice cut cleanly through her ascent.
She halted mid-step, one hand hovering dangerously near the wardrobe latch.
“Slow down.”
She turned back toward you, looking faintly wounded by the notion.
You folded the letter with deliberate care and set it upon your bedside table. “Has anyone else seen the delivery?”
Evie shook her head quickly. “No. I intercepted it myself. Nora ensured the footman kept his distance. But…” Her expression shifted, sobriety overtaking excitement. “The courier remains outside. He is waiting for a reply.”
Of course he was.
Which meant it was only a matter of time. Before a passing servant noticed. Before your mother stepped into the corridor. Before the household realized a royal courier had arrived at Brookend with a sealed letter bearing your name.
Your thoughts began to race—far quicker than your pulse would permit.
Last night had been… whatever it had been. A dance. A conversation. A passing curiosity.
But courtship? No. Certainly not.
You rose from the bed, drawing the coverlet aside and straightening your posture as though already preparing yourself for the consequence of your own resolve.
“I shall inform him I am not interested,” you said evenly. “That will be my reply.”
Evie stared at you.
She blinked once.
Then again.
She regarded you as though you had proposed setting fire to the palace. “That is…” She faltered, gathering breath. “That is madness.”
You turned your head slowly.
Evie stiffened at once, collecting herself with visible effort. “Forgive me,” she amended quickly, though the apology softened her tone rather than her conviction. “But you cannot refuse the prince as though he were Lord Kane requesting a second dance. He is the Prince.”
“I am aware,” you replied, your calm sharpened to an edge.
You did not look away.
Evie lifted her hands in quiet frustration, as if she might physically arrange sense into you if given the opportunity. “Then I beg you to behave as though you are.”
You looked down at the letter again—at the careful hand, the measured courtesy, the quiet invitation wrapped in violets and philosophy. It was dangerously thoughtful. Entirely unlike the conversations you had endured from men who believed their titles entitled them to your time.
And yet, your resolve did not waver.
“My answer remains,” you said softly.
Evie’s mouth parted, then closed again, a dozen objections gathering behind the silence and none yielding precedence.
You did not wait for them.
You crossed to your writing desk, the growing light of morning catching the faint ink stains still marking your fingers from the night before. With studied composure, you took your seat and reached for fresh parchment.
Behind you, Evie released a quiet, stricken sound.
“My lady, you cannot,” she began, her voice rising despite herself as she paced the length of your chamber in short, agitated steps. “Do you understand what this signifies? Prince Clark has never made a formal attempt at courtship. He has danced, yes, but never the closing waltz. And now he writes to you by morning.”
You began to write, the scratch of ink steady and undisturbed, your posture composed as though you were merely responding to a polite dinner invitation.
“Perhaps His Highness is bored,” you said, your gaze never lifting from the page. “Perhaps he seeks novelty. There are any number of women in the ton eager for his notice. He may direct his attentions there.”
Evie made a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and prayer. “Bored?” she repeated, scandalized. “He is not seeking diversion. He is asking to call upon you.”
When you reached the final line, you signed your name with practiced precision, watching as the ink settled cleanly into the parchment.
You set the quill aside with quiet precision.
“Not after this,” you said, passing her the letter.
Evie accepted it as one might accept a live coal. The parchment was still faintly warm from your hand, the ink drying in dark strokes across the page.
She cleared her throat and began to read, her voice far too loud for the delicacy of the matter.
“To His Royal Highness, Prince Clark—”
“Evie,” you hissed, eyes darting instinctively toward the door. “Hush.”
Her eyes widened at once. She lowered her voice immediately, though the astonishment within it did not lessen. She continued, softer now—but each word seemed to fall with increasing weight.
To His Royal Highness, Prince Clark,
Your letter was most considerate. I appreciate the sentiment, though I assure you further reflection upon my question was not required.
As Jane Austen reminds us, one must know one’s own happiness. I do, and therefore see no reason to mistake it for an afternoon in the palace gardens.
Thus, I must decline your invitation.
Do give the violets my best. I am certain they will receive your attention with decidedly more enthusiasm than I.
Respectfully,
Lady Y/N Y/L/N
By the time she reached the final line, Evie’s eyes had widened to an almost alarming degree. She lowered the parchment with great care, as though any abrupt movement might undo the damage of what she had just read.
“You cannot send this,” she said at once, her voice strained but kept mercifully low. “You simply cannot.”
You lifted a brow, composed in a way that only further distressed her.
“Why ever not?”
“Because,” she whispered fiercely, stepping closer to you, “you have just declined the Prince of Berkshire and implied that flowers would welcome him more warmly than you.”
You folded your hands neatly atop the desk.
“It is polite,” you replied.
“It is audacious,” Evie countered.
A flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of your mouth, but you subdued it. The ink had settled completely now. The words were set. Irrevocable.
“My lady,” she pressed, lowering her voice still further, “this is not a gentleman you may dismiss as though he were some persistent viscount. This is—”
“Prince Clark. Duke of Berkshire. Yes, Evie, I know.” Your tone remained measured, almost painfully so. “But I am under no obligation to feign an interest I do not possess.”
Evie released one of those long, suffering sighs that carried years of familiarity within it. It was the sigh of someone who knew you too well to win an argument and yet felt compelled to try. The sigh that said you were being relentless, immovable, entirely yourself.
For a moment, she simply studied you, as though weighing loyalty against prudence.
Before she could arm herself with another protest, you rose and pressed the letter back into her hands.
“Send it,” you said. “Now. Before anyone observes the courier at our gate and begins asking questions neither of us wishes to answer.”
Evie hesitated.
“Evie.”
Her shoulders softened in reluctant surrender. “Very well.”
“And be quick, please,” you added, smoothing the fabric at your waist as though the matter were already concluded. “The less time it remains in this house, the better.”
Your expression gentled, if only by a degree. “Thank you, Evie.”
She regarded you for a moment, half reproach and half reluctant admiration, until the expression eased into a small smile. Then, with a slight inclination of her head, she slipped from the room, the parchment held securely in her grasp. The door closed behind her with a quiet click, leaving you alone in the stillness that followed.
Only then did you allow yourself to breathe.
Relief arrived quietly at first, then settled with greater certainty. The matter had been addressed civilly and decisively, without spectacle, without promenades beneath blooming violets, without murmurs of courtship gathering force before you could contain them. You had answered him as you would any gentleman who presumed too far.
A bullet dodged.
Or so you believed.
The rest of the morning passed in deceptive calm. You dressed. You walked briefly through Brookend’s lower gardens. You attempted to read, though the words slipped past without settling. The household carried on as it always did, footsteps measured, doors opening and closing in steady rhythm—blissfully unaware of the small act of defiance that had departed your chamber at dawn.
It was some time later, when sunlight had begun to stretch in long bands across the main corridor, that you saw Evie again.
There was no haste in her now, no wide eyes or breathless urgency. Instead, she stood at the far end of the hall waiting for you, composed but unmistakably aware.
And this time, it had not gone unseen.
The disturbance of it had already passed through the house in hushed ripples, quiet in form and obvious in effect, and you felt it as surely as you had felt the prince’s presence behind you in the ballroom.
Thankfully, your parents were away for the day. A visit in town. A matter of accounts, perhaps. Whatever the excuse, it spared you immediate interrogation, though not for long. Royal mail twice in one day was enough to set half the ton speculating for a fortnight. By evening, someone would mention it. By tomorrow morning, questions would bloom as loudly as any violet.
Evie approached you slowly, a knowing curve resting at the corner of her mouth. Not alarm. Not astonishment.
Recognition.
She placed the folded letter into your hand with measured care.
“You did decline him,” she said softly. “It would seem he is not prepared to leave it there.”
You lowered your gaze to the fresh impression upon the seal, still crisp, newly set. The wax bore the royal crest as confidently as before, as though it had never once been refused in its life.
Something in you shifted as the seal broke.
The wax yielded beneath your thumb, and you unfolded the parchment with quiet care, aware all the while of Evie’s attention beside you. The corridor felt suddenly too bright and far too open, yet you made no move to seek the shelter of privacy. Not yet.
Your gaze moved across the page.
To Lady Y/N Y/L/N,
I received your letter this morning and appreciate its honesty, even if it was not the answer I had hoped for.
You write with admirable clarity, and I would not presume to contradict a lady’s stated wishes.
However, your words did raise a question of my own.
You quote Miss Austen to suggest that one must know one’s own happiness. Yet the sentence does not conclude there. She continues that one may desire nothing but patience, or give it a more fascinating name and call it hope.
I find myself curious as to why you chose to omit that portion.
Rest assured, I will honor your decision and refrain from requesting your company again today.
But I must confess—your letter has done little to dissuade my wish to speak with you.
I remain,
Clark, Prince of Berkshire
When you reached his name at the close, your brows had drawn together more tightly than you intended.
It was not that he had misunderstood your refusal.
It was worse than that.
He had understood it entirely—and chosen to examine it.
There was no offense in his tone. No wounded pride. No retreat. Instead, there was something far more inconvenient.
Interest.
Evie shifted beside you, unable to bear the silence. “What is it?” she asked carefully. “What has he said?”
You folded the letter once, then again, your expression unreadable except for the faint tightening at the corner of your mouth.
“It is nothing,” you replied evenly.
Which, of course, meant it was anything but.
You did not wait for further questions. You turned on your heel and began walking toward your chamber, skirts brushing softly against the marble floor. Evie followed at once, her steps quicker to match your own.
So. Prince Clark did not withdraw easily.
Very well—neither did you.
To His Royal Highness, Prince Clark,
I acknowledge your continued courtesy.
However, I do not believe my thoughts are a matter for a prince to trouble himself with.
I trust this settles the matter.
Lady Y/N Y/L/N
You read it once. It was concise. Controlled. Unmistakable.
Evie hovered nearby, watching you with an expression that suggested she had accepted her fate as accomplice to madness.
“You are certain?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” you said, your voice unshaken.
Once the letter had been sealed and the wax set, it was carried to the courier still waiting far too near Brookend’s gates, where he received it without question.
By evening, the reply arrived.
Again.
To Lady Y/N Y/L/N,
Your thoughts trouble me no more than a riddle troubles its solver. Which is to say, not at all, except in the most engaging way.
If this was meant to end our correspondence, it has instead given me another question to pursue.
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LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader
summary: a follow-up doctor’s appointment leaves you with medical clearance, a filthy dream, and a rapidly deteriorating ability to act normal around your boyfriend spencer reid.
genre: smut (with a lil angst & hurt/comfort) tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI! reader is elle's sister, mentions of gunshot wound/surgery, sex dream, miscommunication (or more like lack thereof), pent-up horniness, incredibly tender & thoughtful spencer reid, making out, dry humping, fingering, oral (f receiving), handjob, very lovey dovey p-in-v sex, spencer calls reader angel & sweetheart, no use of y/n. title from the hozier song. 6.6k words
a/n: wow i missed writing smut!! hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i loved writing it. GIF creds to @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
The problem with bringing Spencer Reid to a follow-up appointment is that he takes follow-up appointments very seriously.
You sit on the paper-lined exam table in a gown that does nothing for your dignity. In the chair beside you, Spencer has his hands folded neatly in his lap, his expression locked into that polite, attentive mask he wears when he is one second away from making your life worse with a technically reasonable question.
You should have come to this appointment alone.
Instead, Spencer drove you here, walked you in, sat beside you in the waiting room, and then stayed because somewhere in the last few months, the line between your life and his got erased so thoroughly neither of you even pretended to look for it.
The doctor flips through your scans. “Everything looks good,” he says. “You’re healing well. Scar tissue is forming the way we want it to. You can keep increasing your workouts gradually, and as long as you’re comfortable, you can resume regular sexual activity, including intercourse.”
The room goes silent.
You look very deliberately at the anatomical poster of lungs on the wall instead of at Spencer.
He clears his throat.
“Doctor, would there be,” he asks, in the tone of a man trying very hard to sound like a normal person, “any concern about strain depending on positioning?”
The doctor nods thoughtfully. “Not particularly, but use common sense. If anything causes sharp pain, stop. Otherwise, there’s no medical reason to avoid it.”
You make a soft sound of despair.
The doctor smiles like this is all adorable instead of excruciating, gives you a few more instructions about physical therapy and scar care, and sends you on your way.
By the time Spencer gets you back to the car, your pride is on life support.
He starts the engine. Adjusts the air. Keeps both hands on the wheel.
Does not look at you.
Interesting.
You buckle in slowly, then turn to study his profile. “Are you going to pretend that didn’t just happen all the way home?”
Spencer’s grip on the steering wheel tightens by a fraction. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m driving.”
You glare out the windshield. Traffic inches forward. Somewhere up ahead, somebody leans on their horn.
The silence stretches just long enough to get weird.
Then Spencer says, very carefully, “If I embarrassed you, it wasn’t intentional.”
“You absolutely did embarrass me,” you say. “Just so we’re clear.”
His mouth twitches. “I know. I’m sorry.”
The apology is sincere enough to take the heat out of your irritation.
You shift carefully in your seat, one hand resting near your scar out of habit. Weeks of almosts flicker through your mind before you can stop them: Spencer’s hand lingering at your waist while helping you out of bed. A kiss in the kitchen that got hotter than either of you meant it to and ended with both of you breathing like idiots. Falling asleep beside him and waking up painfully aware of how hard he was against you.
You glance at him again. He catches it this time.
His voice is quieter when he says, “Are you okay?”
You look at the road ahead and answer honestly enough. “Yeah. I’m just never going to recover from hearing you ask my doctor about sex positions.”
That gets a laugh out of him, startled and soft. “It was medically relevant!”
“You’re such a loser.”
The light ahead turns red. Spencer reaches across the console and takes your hand without looking at you. His thumb brushes once over your knuckles, grounding and absentminded and familiar.
Your pulse does something deeply unhelpful.
When he lifts your hand and presses one quick kiss to the back of it before the light changes, you stare at him for a second too long.
—
That night, sleep gets hold of you slowly.
You drift under with the doctor’s voice still somewhere in the back of your mind, absurd and clinical and impossible to scrub out. Resume sexual activity. Including intercourse. No medical reason to avoid it. You hate that those phrases followed you home. You hate even more that Spencer spent the rest of the day being so perfectly normal about them that it somehow made everything worse. He made dinner. He asked if you wanted tea. He kissed your forehead before bed like a gentleman in a nineteenth-century novel and then laid beside you with both hands respectfully to himself, which should have been considerate and instead felt vaguely like psychological warfare.
So when your subconscious finally gives up and takes over, it does so with very little patience.
Now, his mouth is already on yours.
Hot, deep, and unhurried in a way that feels almost cruel, because he knows exactly how long you’ve both been waiting and is taking his time anyway. One of his hands is braced beside your head; the other is sliding slowly up your thigh, deliberate enough to make your whole body tighten around the wanting of it.
You make a helpless sound into his mouth and he swallows it like he’s starving.
There’s nothing careful about him here. No polite restraint. No respectful distance. Just Spencer, warm and solid over you, kissing you like he finally got tired of being good. His mouth drags from yours to your throat, then lower, and the scrape of his breath across your skin sends a sharp pulse of heat through your stomach. His fingers slide higher. Your back arches before you can stop it. He makes that low sound he only ever makes when you catch him off guard, and finally—
You wake up.
Dark room. Racing heart. Sheets tangled around you. Spencer asleep beside you, one arm loose over the blanket, sleeping face looking almost innocent.
Which is offensive, frankly.
You lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, willing your body to get a grip. You’re hot everywhere and exhausted and painfully aware of the man breathing softly inches away from you.
You shift carefully, trying to settle yourself without making the mattress move too much.
Spencer makes a sleepy sound and rolls slightly toward you.
His hand lands, warm and heavy, at your waist. Not low enough to be indecent, but not innocent enough to help. He blinks awake halfway, hair a mess, eyes barely open behind the smudge of sleep.
“Y’okay?” he murmurs.
You almost laugh. “Mm-hm.”
His thumb strokes once over your side. “But you’re awake.”
“Astute observation, doc.”
He gives a drowsy little hum that might be a laugh, then presses a soft kiss to your shoulder without opening his eyes all the way. “C’mon. Go back to sleep, angel.”
The tenderness of it nearly kills you.
You manage some kind of affirmative sound and lie there stiffly until his breathing evens out again. By the time you finally drift back under, you’re more irritated than sleepy.
Morning does nothing to improve your mood.
By lunch, you are deeply tired of yourself.
Spencer notices, of course. He notices when you answer too quickly, when you mutter at the coffee maker, when you snap at a cabinet door for existing too loudly. He lets the first few things go. Lets the next few go too. By the time the sun sets, you’re in the kitchen tidying absolutely nothing with far more aggression than the task requires when he leans in the doorway and says, very carefully, “Did I do something?”
You don’t look at him. “No.”
Spencer comes a little farther into the room. “You’ve been weird all day.”
You turn and look at him flatly. “That’s rich coming from you.”
His brows draw together. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” You gesture vaguely at his whole irritatingly beautiful existence. “You’ve been acting bizarre since the appointment yesterday.”
Something flickers across his face.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “So this is about the appointment.”
“Partly.”
Spencer folds his arms. “What’s the other part?”
You glare at him.
He waits.
You hate when he does that. Calm, patient, terrifyingly sure that if he stands there long enough, you’ll crack on your own.
“Nothing,” you mutter.
“That’s definitely not true.”
You exhale sharply through your nose and look away. “You’re just… being annoying.”
“Annoying how?”
You stare at him a moment and suck in a tight breath. “You’re being so polite and respectful that it’s looping back around into driving me insane.” The words come out too fast, almost tripping over one another.
Spencer blinks.
You push on before your pride can stop you. “Ever since the doctor said—” You cut yourself off, grimacing. “You know. Ever since then, you’ve been acting like if you touch me, a panel of experts is going to kick in my front door and revoke your boyfriend privileges. Which makes absolutely no sense, since the doctor essentially gave you permission to act exactly opposite of that.”
To your annoyance, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“This isn’t funny,” you say.
“I know.” He pauses. “It’s a little funny.”
You glare at him until the twitch fades.
Then Spencer sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m…” He trails off, visibly searching for the least embarrassing version of his own thoughts. “I’m trying not to make it feel like some sort of… medically approved finish line. Or a milestone we have to hit right away because somebody in a white coat told us we could.” He pauses, gaze softening into something even more earnest. “Sex with you is always a big deal to me, and I— I didn’t want it to feel forced.”
The room goes quieter around the truth of that.
You look at him for a long second, your irritation shifting shape. “That’s… annoyingly sweet. And very thoughtful,” you huff.
Spencer looks wary. “You say that like being sweet and thoughtful is a bad thing.”
“Sometimes it is a bad thing!” you tell him. “Because now you’re acting like a monk.”
His eyebrows go up. “A monk.”
“Yes. A weirdly hot, deeply annoying monk.”
That gets a laugh out of him. He ducks his head once, and the sound of it loosens something in your chest.
Then he looks back up, eyes softer now. “You know I want you. I just…”
“Just what?” you ask.
His jaw flexes. “I don’t trust myself to get this exactly right. I… I want it to be perfect.”
You let that sit for a second.
Of course that’s what this is. He’s been silently tying himself in knots because the first time after all this matters to him enough that he’s terrified of getting it wrong.
As if anything about Spencer touching you has ever felt careless. As if every time he’s ever had you hasn’t felt exactly, devastatingly right.
“Spence,” you say, quieter now. “You have literally never gotten this wrong.”
His eyes flick back to yours.
“You should give yourself a little more credit,” you add.
Something softer moves through his expression at that, but the tension in the room doesn’t entirely loosen.
“I’m sorry I’ve been on edge all day,” you mumble. “I just… uh, didn’t sleep well. And things were already weird after the appointment, and then you spent all day acting all monastic, and it was annoying.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “Monastic.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He tilts his head slightly. “But I can see that there’s something else you’re not telling me.”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t profile me, Reid.”
He gives you a look that says really?
You fold your arms tighter. “Drop it.”
Spencer steps a little closer. “Please, just tell me. Did I do something specific to upset you this morning?”
“No,” you say. “My annoyance started when you were still asleep.”
He blinks. “What does that mean?”
You drag your hand down your face and refuse to look at him. “It means I was already in a bad mood by the time you woke up.”
“Why?”
“Spencer.”
His voice drops. Gentle. Curious. Much too perceptive. “Why?”
You stare at the cabinet over his shoulder like it might save you. It doesn’t.
When you finally speak, it comes out flat with embarrassment. “Because I had a dream about you.”
He goes perfectly still.
You can feel the heat climbing your neck now, which is deeply humiliating and somehow still not enough to stop you from making it worse.
“A very explicit dream,” you add. “And then I woke up next to you, and you were being all sweet and sleepy and impossible, and I’ve spent the entire day trying not to lose my mind while you’ve been walking around like you’ve taken a vow of chastity.”
For one long second, Spencer just stares at you.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
You glare at him. “Yeah. Oh.”
His hand comes up to run through his hair, which should not be as attractive as it is, before taking one slow step closer. “You had a sex dream about me.”
“Please don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
“Preferably not at all.”
That almost gets a laugh out of him, but his eyes stay fixed on your face. On your mouth.
“And you’ve been angry at me ever since,” he says softly.
“Not angry.” You fold your arms tighter, then immediately regret the defensive posture. “Just… severely inconvenienced by your entire vibe today.”
Spencer huffs a quiet breath. “My vibe.”
“Yes. All of your weird, noble self-restraint bullshit.”
His gaze drops for half a second. When it lifts again, it’s darker. Less careful. “You want me to stop being noble?”
The question lands low in your stomach.
You look at him for one long second, then say, “I want you to stop acting like you have to be afraid of this.”
“That,” he says, voice rougher now, “I can do.”
You tilt your chin up. “Good.”
That does it.
He crosses the space between you and kisses you before either of you says another word, fast and warm and far less careful than he’s been in weeks. You make a startled sound into his mouth and then he’s got one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him with a kind of urgency that feels so familiar it almost hurts.
You kiss him back just as hard, because whatever awkward, polite, maddening restraint has been sitting between you since the doctor’s appointment goes up in smoke the second his tongue slides against yours and his grip tightens on your body like he’s finally allowing himself to remember what it feels like to want you out loud.
He backs you into the counter.
Your hips hit the edge, and Spencer catches himself immediately, pulling back just enough to search your face.
“You okay?”
You could laugh at the reflexive question if you weren’t so busy trying to catch your breath.
“Yes,” you say, and then, because his eyes still look full of concern and guilt and about ten other things, you hook a hand into the front of his shirt and drag him back in. “Spence, please.”
That does something to him.
You feel it in the low sound he makes into your mouth, in the way his hands slide over your waist and hips and ass with a greedier kind of certainty now, in the way his body presses against yours until there’s nothing left between you except clothes and frustration.
You’ve missed this. Not just his mouth, not just his hands, but the particular electricity of being wanted by him. The way he’s never casual about it. The way wanting seems to move through his whole body like a current, making him shake just a little when he’s trying too hard to hold still.
You drag your fingers through his hair and he exhales against your lips, rough and wrecked enough to make heat slide lower in your body.
Then his hands are suddenly everywhere — one at your waist, one under your thigh — and before you can fully process it, he’s lifting you.
A startled laugh breaks against his mouth. “Spencer!”
“I know,” he murmurs, sounding like he absolutely does not know anything except that he needs you closer.
You hook your arms around his neck automatically, and he kisses you all the way down the hall, slow one second and hungry the next, like he keeps getting distracted by the fact that this is really happening. By the time he reaches the bed, both of you are breathing harder, the room suddenly too warm, the air charged with all the weeks of not doing this.
He sits on the edge of the mattress with you still in his arms, settling you into his lap like muscle memory.
You straddle him carefully, and for one suspended second, neither of you moves at all.
You can feel how hard he already is beneath you. He can definitely feel how wet you are. The realization lands between you like a match struck in the dark, and both of you go a little quieter with it.
Then Spencer lifts his hands to your face and kisses you again, slower now.
His fingers eventually slip under the hem of your shirt, and your breath catches. He peels the fabric up slowly, reverently, exposing skin inch by inch until he tosses it aside and just… looks at you.
Not at your breasts at first, though he notices those (obviously). Not at the waistband of your pants, though his hands twitch toward it. Instead, his gaze drifts to the scar on your side.
You suck in a sharp breath.
It isn’t that he hasn’t seen it before. He has, in bathroom fluorescents and early-morning light and the thin gray blur before dawn. He’s seen it while helping you change bandages, while handing you clean shirts, while pretending very valiantly not to stare as you step out of the shower.
But this is different.
This is the first time he’s looking at it with his hands already warm on your skin and his mouth pink from kissing you and want written so plainly across his face that you can’t hide from it. This is the first time the scar is here, in this moment, as part of something hungry instead of something clinical.
Some small, stupid muscle deep in your body braces before you can stop it.
Spencer notices, because of course he does.
His expression softens. He lifts one hand and traces the skin near the scar with the backs of his fingers, light enough to make you shiver. Then he bends his head and presses a kiss just above it.
Nothing dramatic or mournful. Just warm mouth, careful breath, and the kind of tenderness that makes your eyes sting before you can stop them.
He feels you react and looks up instantly. “Sorry, should I— Would you rather I didn’t?”
You shake your head too fast. “No, no. It’s not that.”
Spencer waits.
You swallow. “It just feels… different.”
Understanding moves through his face so gently it almost hurts.
His thumb strokes once over your waist. He nods softly, then he bends again.
This time, he lets his mouth linger. One slow kiss over the scar itself, then another just below it, then one at the curve of your ribs beside it, unhurried and unafraid and so heartbreakingly natural that whatever you’d been bracing for just… dissolves.
Not because he makes it disappear, but because he doesn’t.
Because he folds it into the wanting of you without making it something tragic or fragile or strange. Because he touches it like it belongs exactly where it is: on your body, in his hands, in this moment, as much a part of being wanted as any other inch of your skin.
Your fingers thread into his hair.
“Spencer,” you whisper.
He looks up, and there’s so much raw emotion on his face that your chest goes tight all over again.
“I need you to stop being perfect for, like, one second, or else I’m gonna explode.”
A startled, breathless laugh slips out of him. He ducks his head once, almost shy, then looks back at you with his mouth still curved.
“I’m just being myself,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “Exactly.”
He laughs, then mouths at your breast over the thin lace of your bra, and all coherent thoughts leave your body.
A broken moan escapes before you can stop it. Spencer groans softly at the sound and does it again, more deliberate this time, his tongue teasing through the fabric until your hips roll against him and he slides one hand around to your ass to help you move.
Your head falls back. The room spins pleasantly.
It’s not enough. Nothing about this feels like enough after waiting this long.
Your hands fumble with the buttons of his shirt, and he helps with shaking fingers, both of you half-laughing at how badly your coordination has abandoned you. By the time the shirt is open and pushed off his shoulders, you’re almost dizzy with relief.
His chest. His skin. His stupidly beautiful body, warm and solid under your hands.
You drag your palms over him, down his chest and stomach, and Spencer sucks in a breath that makes you feel downright vindicated.
“Missed this?” you tease.
He looks at you with pupils blown wide. “You have no idea.”
You hum. “Try me.”
Spencer takes his glasses off and drops them onto the nightstand with a clatter that would’ve made him twitch on any normal day. Then he cups your breasts through your bra with both hands, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden further under the lace.
“I’ve been trying,” he says quietly, and his voice has gone rough enough to make your thighs clench. “Every single day.”
Heat flashes through you.
You kiss him before he can see too much of that on your face, grinding down against him with a little more pressure this time. Spencer swears into your mouth and his hands tighten on you immediately.
“That,” he says, breathless, “is not fair.”
You do it again.
“Who said anything about fair?”
His laugh catches halfway to becoming a groan. Then he drags your bra straps down your shoulders before undoing the clasp and easing it off you with a slowness that makes your skin feel tight. The second he sees you bare, his whole face changes to that particular Spencer look, the one that says he’s overwhelmed by wanting and trying very hard to stay in his own body.
He kisses you like that too. Mouth at your throat, your collarbone, your breasts, one hand spanning your back while the other squeezes your ass almost helplessly whenever you make a sound he likes.
You’ve almost forgotten how noisy the two of you are together. How impossible it is not to be when everything feels this good.
“Take these off,” you whisper against his hair, tugging at his belt.
Spencer obeys immediately, getting you both undressed in a rush of hands and fabric and impatient mouths. Shirts first. Then his slacks and boxer briefs, your leggings and panties, one by one, until you’re both bare except for the mismatched socks he forgot to take off and you laugh so hard you nearly ruin the mood.
He looks down, mortified. “Oh no.”
“Keep them on,” you say. “It’s weirdly working for me.”
Then he’s laughing too, and the absurdity of it makes the whole thing sweeter somehow. Less like a medical milestone, and more like what it actually is: the two of you, still completely yourselves, finally getting each other back.
Spencer pushes you back onto the bed and kisses down your stomach and inner thighs with such obvious devotion that by the time his tongue finally drags through your slick cunt, you’re already shaking.
There’s nothing tentative about his mouth once he starts. Careful, yes. Attentive, obviously. But not tentative. He moves like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s learned your body by heart and spent the last two months being denied the chance to prove it.
Your thighs tighten around his head. Your fingers twist in the sheets.
“Spencer,” you gasp.
He groans into you at the sound of his name, the vibration going straight through your body. Then two fingers slide inside you and you practically sob with relief.
The stretch. The fullness. The filthy, perfect drag of his fingers while his mouth works your clit in the same steady rhythm that’s always destroyed you.
You come faster than you want to, sharp and bright and helpless, with both hands in his hair and his name falling out of your mouth like a prayer and a curse and a sob all at once. He works you through it with maddening patience until you’re twitching and trying to squirm away. He catches your hips, holding you open while he gentles, savoring you, listening to every little sound that spills out.
You drag him back up your body the second you can breathe.
Spencer kisses you then, deep and lingering, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He’s already so wound up that your first touch around his cock makes his whole body tense.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“Hi,” you murmur, smug and breathless.
He gives you a desperate sort of half-laugh and lets his forehead fall to yours while your hand works him slowly. He’s always been beautiful when he’s close, but this is different. Softer, somehow. More open. He’s not trying to be polished or sexy or anything but exactly what he is: a man very much in love and losing his mind about it.
Your thumb brushes the tip of his cock and his hips jerk.
“Okay,” he says, a little wrecked. “Okay, if you, uh, keep doing that, I’m going to…”
“You’re going to what?”
Spencer looks at you, offended and helpless all at once. “You know what.”
You kiss him to stop being mean, and that’s what undoes him in the end. Your mouth on his, your hand around him, his own body too gone to hold back any longer. He comes with a broken sound against your lips, his forehead pressed hard to yours, one hand gripping your thigh tight enough to leave marks.
Afterward, neither of you goes very far.
He folds down beside you, still breathing hard, and you end up half tangled together in the sheets, your fingers drifting through his hair while his mouth moves lazily over yours, your jaw, your throat.
The heat doesn’t disappear. It just softens around the edges, turning tender without losing any of its bite. His hand keeps returning to your side in those absent little strokes that aren’t really absent at all, thumb sweeping the skin near your scar like some part of him still needs the reminder that you’re here, warm and real and under his hands. You kiss and kiss and kiss until he’s hardening again between you.
“You okay?” he asks after a few minutes, low and serious again.
You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Very.”
“Any pain?”
“Just from how annoyingly good you are at all of this.”
Spencer closes his eyes and laughs against your shoulder. “That’s not really what I meant.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
He hums, unconvinced, and shifts up on one elbow to look at you properly. His gaze moves over your face like he’s checking for something only he can see.
“I know you want this,” he says quietly. “I also know abdominal surgery recovery, especially from something like a major gunshot wound, can be deceptive once the surface pain starts easing off. So I need you to be honest with me for a second.” His hand slides slowly over your waist, then lower, skimming your thigh. “Are you actually comfortable enough to keep going, or are you trying to tough your way through it because you’re impatient?”
You reach up and touch his face, letting your fingers trail over his jaw. “I’m not toughing my way through anything.”
Spencer’s eyes stay on yours.
“I’m comfortable,” you say, more clearly this time. “I want this. And if something hurts, I’ll tell you.”
He searches your face for another beat, then nods once, like he’s accepting terms more than asking permission.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
He kisses you once, deep and unsteady, then reaches into the nightstand drawer without taking his eyes off you. You watch him roll a condom on with careful fingers, his focus so intense it nearly makes you laugh.
Spencer settles between your thighs slowly, bracing most of his weight on his forearms, as if the idea of pressing too hard against you is enough to make his whole body tense. One of his hands slides down to your hip, thumb rubbing once, soothing and nervous all at once.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Promise.”
He nods, but you can feel the restraint in him. He kisses you once more, like he needs it, then reaches between you to guide himself into place.
The first nudge against your entrance is so careful it aches in an unexpected way — not physically, but just in how much emotion is packed into his restraint. Spencer’s breath catches. His forehead drops briefly to yours.
“You can stop me,” he says quietly. “At any point. Even if it’s halfway through. I mean it.”
Your fingers tighten on his shoulders. “Spencer.”
“Sorry.” He swallows. “I just need you to know.”
You soften, even through the heat thrumming low in your body. “I know,” you whisper. “Now come here.”
You take his face in your hands and kiss him softer than any of the other times tonight.
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, with enough care that you can feel every part of the stretch as it happens. Heat, fullness, pressure — all of it building so gradually your body has time to register each sensation before the next one arrives. You inhale sharply, and Spencer goes still immediately.
“Talk to me,” he says, voice rougher now.
You take a breath. “I’m okay. Just— just give me a second.”
Spencer nods, motionless except for the trembling effort it takes to stay that way. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the line of your jaw while he waits, his hand stroking slowly up and down your thigh like he’s trying to soothe both of you at once.
When the initial intensity eases and your body finally starts to open around him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and shift your hips the smallest bit closer.
“More,” you whisper.
Spencer’s eyes search yours. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
Spencer’s eyes close briefly at that, and then he slides in deeper.
It feels like being split open and soothed at the same time. Stretch and heat and relief so intense it’s as if your body is melting around him.
He still moves carefully, still watches your face for microexpressions. But the restraint loosens enough that each thrust gets a little deeper, a little less tentative, until the two of you find that familiar rhythm that belongs to you and no one else.
Spencer’s mouth stays everywhere. Your throat, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Every time you make a sound he likes, he kisses you harder. Every time your nails drag down his back, his hips stutter and he loses another inch of control.
You wrap a leg around his waist as best you can and pull him deeper.
Your orgasm builds slowly. It comes from the steady drag of his cock, the angle of it, the way one of his hands slips between your bodies to circle your clit without breaking rhythm. He’s so focused, so wrecked and earnest and needy, that you can feel yourself coming long before it actually hits.
“Spence,” you whine, and it comes out strangled.
His eyes lock on yours. “I know. I know, sweetheart. Come for me, please.”
You break around him with a cry, body clenching hard enough that Spencer shudders and nearly loses it with you. He keeps moving through it, slower now, like he can’t bear to stop just because either of you can barely think.
You drag him down into a kiss, and somewhere in the middle of it, the words come out:
“I love you.”
Before this very moment, you’d always assumed saying those words during sex would feel forced somehow. Cheesy. A little ridiculous.
But… it doesn’t. Right now, nothing else would be honest enough. There’s no other phrase in the English language that encompasses what you’re feeling quite like that one does.
Spencer goes still for half a heartbeat, then his whole face changes.
“I love you too,” he says tenderly. He kisses you once, hard and full and almost aching with how much he means it. “I love you so much.”
His movements start to falter then, because there’s only so much a man can do after weeks of restraint, one hand between your thighs, your cunt squeezing him on the heels of two orgasms, and an I love you still ringing through his bloodstream.
He comes with his face buried in your neck and your name on his lips, hips rocking once, twice, before he stills and just breathes, shaking a little.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Then Spencer lifts his head just enough to look at you.
You look wrecked. He looks worse.
“Hi,” you whisper.
He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Hi.”
You brush his hair back from his forehead. “You okay?”
Spencer kisses you once more, softer this time. “No,” he says. “I think I might actually be dead.”
“That’d be awfully inconvenient.”
“Very.”
You laugh, and this time it doesn’t hurt.
Later, after the condom is gone and the sheets have been straightened and Spencer has made you get up and pee and drink an entire glass of water, he slides back into bed in just his boxers, warm and familiar and yours.
His fingers drift to your scar again.
Your hand finds his hair. “Spencer.”
There’s so much in his face that for one impossible second, you almost can’t breathe. Love, obviously. Relief. Want that still hasn’t gone anywhere. Something close to awe.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
His expression says liar with devastating affection.
You lean in and kiss him before he can call you on it.
When you settle back against the pillows, Spencer draws you into him with one arm and tucks the blankets up over you. His hand stays splayed over your waist, warm and grounding.
For a minute, the room goes quiet except for the sound of both of you breathing and the faint hum of the city outside the windows.
Then Spencer laughs under his breath.
You tilt your head enough to look up at him. “What?”
His mouth twitches. “I still can’t believe you had a sex dream about me.”
Heat creeps up your neck all over again, and you bury your face back against his shoulder. “Can we not debrief the most humiliating parts of today now that you’ve benefited from them?”
Spencer’s laugh is warmer this time, low in his chest. “I’m not making fun of you.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m really not.” He tips his head down, trying to catch your eye. “I’m just… kind of flattered.”
You groan into his skin. “Please stop saying words.”
His hand slides slowly up and down your back. “You’re the one who told me.”
You lift your head again and narrow your eyes at him. “You pried.”
Spencer looks delighted by that accusation. “I asked one follow-up question.”
You should let it go. You really should. But instead, still dazed and loose-limbed and apparently incapable of self-preservation, you mutter, “It wasn’t even the first time.”
Spencer goes very still.
Slowly, very slowly, he shifts onto one elbow, looking at you now with open fascination. “What do you mean it wasn’t the first time?”
“I mean nothing. Go to sleep.”
His hand tightens at your waist, not enough to trap you, just enough to let you know escape is not on the table. “No, absolutely not. We are not moving on from that.”
You make a muffled sound of regret into his shoulder.
“When was it?”
You wave a hand vaguely. “A… while ago.”
“That’s not quantifiable. How long is ‘a while’?”
“A while, Spencer.”
He waits.
Of course he waits.
You should know by now that Spencer Reid can outlast almost anyone in a standoff, especially when curiosity is involved.
You stare at him, mortified, still a little dazed from the sex, too happy to put up a fight, and sigh.
“Do you remember when I had the flu, and you bribed Garcia with cake pops to get my address so you could check on me?”
His eyebrows lift. “Of course I remember. That was the first time I ever saw your apartment.”
“Right. And do you remember what I said when I first let you inside?”
You watch his face shift into that classically Spencer expression of deep focus as he searches back through his memories.
“Yes,” he confirms after a few moments. “I believe you said, ‘You woke me up from a dream,’ and then I—” He stops. “Oh.”
His expression softens so completely it almost hurts to look at.
“It was that kind of dream?” he asks, sounding genuinely stunned.
You shove your face back into his shoulder. “Yes,” you groan. “I was just getting to the good part when you knocked on the door, actually, so thanks for that.”
His shoulders shake with another laugh. “Wow.”
You glare up at him. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, which would be more convincing if he weren’t smiling like this is the best news he’s heard all week. “It’s just…” He shakes his head a little. “That’s a lot for me to process.”
“You’ll survive.”
He shifts, gentler now, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“That really was a while ago,” he muses.
You close your eyes and groan again, too tired to fake outrage properly. “Please drop it.”
He smiles against your skin. “In a minute.”
His hand finds yours under the blanket and laces through your fingers.
“If it’s any consolation, I had a crush on you back then too,” he whispers. “I’m sure you already knew that, but just so we’re clear, I did. I nearly passed out when you asked me to brush your hair and sent me into your bedroom to look for your hairbrush.”
You crack one eye open. “You hid it well.”
Spencer huffs a quiet laugh. “I absolutely did not.”
“No,” you admit, sleepier now, letting your fingers curl more tightly around his. “You really, really didn’t.”
That earns a softer smile from him. He brushes his thumb over your knuckles once, the gesture so familiar now it makes your chest ache in the best way.
“I’m glad you let me in,” he says quietly.
The words settle warm and heavy between you. You know he’s referring to you letting him into your apartment that day, but it could mean so much more than that.
You tip your face up just enough to kiss the underside of his jaw. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”
Spencer answers by drawing you a little closer.
You let him.
And sometime after that, with his hand still wrapped around yours, a dreamless sleep finally finds you.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
pairing: prince!clark kent x f!reader | wc: 4.3k | series m.list [here] | series playlist ♪˚｡⋆
a/n: i had so much fun writing this story, so i really hope you guys enjoy it as much as i do!! please let me know what you think <3 (also: i made a quick playlist if anyone wants to listen to what i had on while writing this au!)
Dawn had barely peeled its pale light over Berkshire when the newest sheet from The Silver Quill began its quiet journey from doorstep to doorstep. Folded in crisp ivory paper and sealed with a pressed wax feather, it carried that peculiar weight her readers had come to crave. Every gentleman paused longer than necessary to untie its ribbon. Every lady lifted the pages with a breath held just so. Every servant tucked their copies away to whisper over later. And every ambitious mother prayed that today’s scandal would not involve her household.
THE SOCIETY PAPERS OF THE SILVER QUILL
Published this morning for the discerning eyes of the ton
There are mornings when the ton awakens with little more than last night’s champagne and whispered regrets. And then there are mornings like today, when one return alone is enough to disrupt every embroidery circle from Berkshire to the far reaches of Somerset.
For after six long months abroad, His Royal Highness, Prince Clark, Duke of Berkshire, has returned to English soil.
Yes, dear reader, the Quiet Prince himself has resurfaced at last.
Fresh from diplomatic engagements in France and Prussia, His Highness arrived earlier this week with all the subtlety one might expect from a man who has made silence his closest companion. No flourish. No spectacle. And most curiously, no foreign bride upon his arm. The ton had expected an engagement, or at the very least a rumor of one. Instead, he steps back into the season alone, as he so often does, leaving every eager family scrambling once more to offer up daughters polished like silver and sons desperate for a royal introduction.
It is, after all, the first time he has deigned to be present during the social whirl in several years. His repeated absences have long been the subject of speculation. Some believe he avoids the season entirely. Others whisper that the prince’s heart is simply elsewhere. Wherever the truth lies, it appears that fate has delivered him back into our midst at the most opportune moment.
This evening, Westshire Palace opens its gilded doors for a Welcome-Home Ball in his honor. Rumor has it the chandeliers have been polished twice over, the orchestra doubled, and several families have commissioned gowns in colors chosen solely to catch his eye. Whether Prince Clark will grant a single dance or vanish the moment duty allows remains the ton’s favorite question.
Meanwhile, society keeps itself entertained. Lady Enderby has been taking suspiciously scenic walks with a gentleman who does not resemble her betrothed. Lord Waverly’s debts multiply faster than his excuses. And the Ashford twins have wagered an entire year’s allowance on which debutante will secure the prince’s attention first. One hopes they kept the receipt. The Quiet Prince is known for many things, but haste has never been one of them.
Speaking of haste… there is another figure whose presence has stirred curiosity.
When the moon rises over Berkshire, a certain blue-clad figure has been spotted on the rooftops. Swift as wind. Silent as shadow. Entirely inconvenient for anyone attempting mischief. Some claim he flies. Others insist he possesses strength beyond any mortal man. A few whisper he can hear secrets carried through stone walls and shuttered windows.
Who is he? A myth? A man? A warning?
Fear not. This author has every intention of drawing this mystery into the light.
Until then, stay vigilant. And above all, stay curious.
—The Silver Quill
The morning melted into evening far too quickly, the way it always did on the nights the ton sharpened its smiles and ambitions. By the time you stepped into the grand ballroom of Westshire Palace, the chandeliers were already in full glittering splendor, scattering warm light across polished marble floors and gilded pillars.
Your gown caught the glow as you moved, a soft sweep of silk in a pale shade touched with moonlight. The bodice was structured yet elegant, the neckline modest enough for propriety while still flattering enough to quiet any whisper of dullness. White silk gloves rose above your elbows, their smooth fit lending your posture a quiet formality.
In your right hand, you held a painted folding fan, its ivory ribs steady against your gloved palm as you let it drift in an easy arc. To anyone watching, the gesture looked effortless. Only you knew it was a distraction—a practiced grace meant to steady the thoughts turning beneath your composed exterior as the night’s possibilities gathered around you.
The Royal Welcome-Home Ball was already humming at full volume. Voices overlapped in excitement, all of them saying the same thing:
The Silver Quill’s paper.
Prince Clark’s return.
His dimples.
You nearly choked on that one.
Dimples. Good heavens. The ton could witness a royal kidnapping and still find time to swoon over his smile. You rolled your eyes more times than you could count, but you still glanced his way.
He looked every bit the returning prince: dark hair neatly styled, posture dignified, attire of deep royal blue. He greeted nobles with warm courtesy, never overwrought, never boastful, always gentle. A quiet storm of a man. But the crowd around him was too thick with anticipation, so you moved on before curiosity could betray you.
Your purpose here was far more interesting.
You drifted through the ballroom with familiar ease, your movements soft enough to be forgettable yet poised enough to invite conversation.
People spoke to you easily. They always did. Whether out of vanity, nerves, or fascination, they told you everything. Rumors about Lady Ashford’s scandalous letter. Complaints about the orchestra. Fresh speculation about the guardian figure leaping across Berkshire’s rooftops.
“Oh yes, my cousin swears he can hear through brick,” someone whispered dramatically.
“I’ve heard he carries criminals to the magistrate before sunrise,” another said.
You nodded thoughtfully, fanning yourself as if simply absorbing the ambiance while cataloging every useful detail.
It would have been enough to simply observe. Truly, it would have. But the men of the ton seemed unable to decide whether to pursue you or avoid you. A few approached with smiles that you quickly extinguished with a pointed question or a hint of intellectual curiosity. Others skirted around you entirely, as if one conversation might trap them in some verbal snare. Intellectual women were, after all, a known terror.
You spent most of the evening like that, watching the room from its quieter edges, collecting whispers, filing them away, noting who danced with whom and who pretended not to notice.
You danced only once. And that was entirely Lord Kane’s fault.
He found you the moment the orchestra shifted into something sweeping. It was uncanny how he always managed it. Every ballroom, every gathering, every time you attempted to melt into the background behind a wall of duchesses, lace, and powdered wigs. Somehow, he always located you with the unwavering determination of a hunting hound.
Before you could escape, his hand was offered, palm steady, smile far too pleased.
And so you danced. Or rather, he danced with you.
That distinction mattered.
When the dance came to its merciful end, you stepped back into the warm chaos of the ballroom, your fan cooling the faint flush of exertion as you resumed your quiet search for gossip that would shape tomorrow’s paper.
From across the room, your mother found your gaze. She stood near a marble column with Lady Bennett, both women resplendent in gowns meant to dazzle under the chandeliers. Her smile lifted when she saw you, soft and hopeful, a silent plea woven into it.
Join them. Participate.
You looked back with a very different plea.
Your returning look begged for mercy. A gentle, weary shake of your head told her everything.
Please do not ask this of me.
Not now. Not tonight. Not ever, if you had your way.
This exchange had repeated itself in countless ballrooms: Brookend manor, Berkshire townhouses, summer estates in Ascot. The setting changed, but the roles did not. She wanted you to belong to society. You wanted nothing to do with the performance of it.
You lifted your wrist, letting your nearly empty dance card sway gently. A victory. Most ladies would mourn its blank lines. You celebrated them. Every untouched space meant one less forced smile, one less polite conversation with a man destined to wilt under the weight of your wit.
If it were entirely up to you, you would not be here at all. Brookend had taught you to value comfort over spectacle, sincerity over pretense, and the peace of quiet thoughts over the roar of the ton’s collective ambition. Your family’s wealth was respectable enough to grant you a place among society, yet not ostentatious enough to blind you to its absurdities. You walked these halls by obligation, not desire, and you made certain that your presence reflected precisely that.
Still, you watched.
The ton revealed its truths most clearly when its guard was down, and tonight, everyone had surrendered their reason to the same distraction.
Prince Clark stood near the edge of the dance floor, positioned where the golden light softened the lines of his face. He was not dancing, just as he had not danced since his arrival. You had noticed it before others did, though soon they had noticed too. Whispers spread in soft little waves, but their fascination outweighed any concern. Society adored him far too much to question him.
His mere presence seemed to be entertainment enough.
You watched him for a moment longer, taking in the picture he presented. Quiet charm. Soft-spoken dignity. A prince who did not need to command attention in order to hold it. The room bent toward him naturally, as if drawn by gravity.
And yet you found yourself unmoved. Titles did not impress you. Nor did royal lineage or the sparkle of a crown. You had seen enough lords and earls crumble beneath your simplest question to know that rank often meant very little.
So you simply observed him as you would any other player on this glittering stage, filing the details away like ink on a fresh page.
The dance floor swirled. The orchestra swelled. Society swooned. And you, as always, stood just outside the frenzy, quietly taking notes on a world that never quite knew what to make of you.
The hours dragged on with the kind of royal insistence that made you suspect the Crown took a secret delight in stretching these events into eternity. The music had shifted from lively to languid, the orchestra playing as if they too were trapped in a gilded loop. Even the champagne in your hand, once a pleasant diversion, had lost its charm. You took another sip, hoping for even a hint of relief, but the bubbles barely made a dent in the monotony.
Just as the crystal left your mouth, you felt it.
A presence. Solid. Close. Intentional.
You did not turn. You had grown far too accustomed to men attempting to corner you at events like this, hoping to charm their way into conversation or, worse, your dance card. Instead, you straightened your spine, adjusting your fan in a slow, practiced movement. If he spoke, you would deploy the same strategy that always worked. A few pointed questions, a hint of unladylike wit, and they inevitably excused themselves with a flustered bow.
“Good evening.”
The voice slipped through the air beside your ear, smooth and refined, carrying the unmistakable polish of someone raised in halls of marble and little consequence.
You did not even grant him the dignity of a full pause.
“Is it?” you replied lightly, eyes still on the ballroom. “Or is it simply evening, with nothing particularly good about it?”
You brought the glass back to your lips, still refusing to turn. If he had sense, he would take the hint and drift away like the others.
But this one did not retreat. Instead, you caught the slightest shift in the air as he stepped closer, not enough to be improper, but enough to make his presence undeniably known. He moved into your periphery, the edge of his coat brushing the faintest distance from your gown, and at last he became visible.
Prince Clark.
He stood at your side now, tall and composed. His posture was relaxed but precise, the kind of ease that came from navigating court life with more patience than interest. His gaze, when it flickered to you, held a calm curiosity rather than expectation.
You allowed yourself a single measured glance at him, taking in the details that everyone else seemed willing to swoon over. Handsome, yes. Regal, certainly. But you had seen plenty of handsome men falter beneath a well-placed question, and polish alone had never mistaken itself for intellect in your presence.
And then, deliberately, you looked away.
Whatever reaction the prince expected—a flustered blush, a stolen glance, a curtsy dipped with awe—he did not get it.
Surely that would send him on his way.
It did not.
“Not quite to your liking this evening?” he asked.
The question was casual, almost idle, yet layered with something you couldn’t quite place. As though he had asked three questions at once and chose to let you decide which you wished to answer.
He could have meant the ballroom. The guests. The music. The company. Or even this very conversation. Something about the ambiguity made you instantly suspicious, yet you answered as easily as you breathed.
“No.”
The bluntness landed between you with perfect clarity. He should have taken offense. Or stepped back. Or ended the conversation entirely.
Instead, he chuckled.
“I shall be certain to convey your sentiments to the household,” he said.
“Oh, I do not fault them for the arrangement,” you replied smoothly, letting your gaze drift across the opulent décor.
It was all decadence layered on decadence, a spectacle meant to impress but failing to spark anything in you beyond mild fatigue.
“They are only executing what is required of them.”
Your eyes drifted back to him at the end of your sentence, and for a brief moment, the two of you were suspended in a quiet pocket of the ballroom. His posture did not change. His composure did not falter. But his expression shifted in a way so subtle it bordered on secret. The faint ease in his gaze stilled, replaced by something quieter. Curious.
And that was all it took.
The glances began. First from the ladies nearest you, then from their chaperones, then from half the room. The ton’s attention spread like wildfire, drawn not by anything dramatic, but by the simple, astonishing fact that the Quiet Prince was speaking to you longer than he had spoken to any woman tonight. You did not care for the implication, nor did you wish to encourage it, but as the Silver Quill, you would certainly document it. After all, society’s stares were as telling as any confession.
Clark’s gaze dipped, almost imperceptibly, to your wrist.
To your dance card.
“It seems your night has been lonely,” he said, voice gentle but threaded with something thoughtful.
You followed his line of sight and regarded the nearly empty card. Most would have faltered, offered some excuse, perhaps even apologized for appearing unpopular. You simply lifted your chin.
“Where most people find loneliness,” you said softly, “I find peace.”
Clark considered this, his lips curving upward in a small, knowing smile. “Then perhaps you and I value the same things.”
You studied him, taking in the calmness of his voice and the ease with which he said it. “Or perhaps,” you countered, “we have both mistaken stillness for comfort. Loneliness wears many disguises. Isn’t it possible we don’t know the difference?”
He paused. His chest rose with a measured breath as though your words had touched some hidden part of him. Something contemplative flickered in his eyes.
Then he spoke, his voice lower now, sincerity softening its edges.
“A person who did not know the difference would never have thought to ask.”
Your lashes lifted at that, and when your eyes met his, his gaze held yours—open, unguarded—for a single suspended heartbeat.
The sounds of the ballroom returned in a distant blur, but his attention did not waver.
“Dance with me.”
The request did not fall lightly. It carried a weight no simple turn about the floor should possess. Gentlemen asked you to dance with regularity. That required no deliberation.
The closing waltz was another matter entirely.
It was deliberate. Public. A declaration without words.
Your answer should have been immediate, but the question caught you so off guard that your thoughts tangled.
You didn’t say yes.
You didn’t say no.
You simply stared.
And somehow, that silence was enough for him.
Or perhaps he had already decided.
Before you could gather your composure, Clark reached for the glass in your hand. His movements were gentle, unhurried, leaving you ample time to withdraw if you wished. Your fingers loosened instead, allowing him to lift the champagne flute and pass it to a nearby servant with a quiet nod that carried more authority than volume.
Then his hand returned to you.
There was no hesitation. No awkward fumbling or overeager reach. Just a confident connection, warm and steady, as if this were a dance you had both begun long before your bodies ever moved. The noise of the ballroom dimmed again, replaced by the faint swell of the orchestra preparing for the final piece of the evening.
He led you toward the floor, and the movement felt unbroken, like water flowing around obstacles rather than pushing through them. Whispers grew instantly. Heads turned. Fans lifted. You could practically feel the shift ripple through the ballroom as realization dawned on the ton.
The Quiet Prince, who had danced with no one all evening, was leading you onto the floor.
If the room had not taken notice before, it certainly did now.
The music unfurled, graceful and slow. Clark lifted your hand and placed his other gently at your waist. Nothing about the hold was subtle. It was steady, composed, but what shocked you more was how unintrusive it felt.
Most men held you too tightly, trying to assert themselves through touch they did not earn. Clark’s hand, though firm, carried no demand, no presumption. It simply guided. Supported. Matched your movements with an ease you had rarely experienced.
Your hand rested on his shoulder, light but assured, the way a woman prepares herself for the possibility of surprise. Your posture was flawless, your chin lifted just enough to meet his gaze without seeming impressed by it. Cautious awareness flickered in your eyes, a quiet warning that you did not fall easily—least of all because a prince offered a waltz.
The orchestra eased into the first measures. And then you moved.
The turn was seamless. Any hesitation that remained in you failed to reach your steps. His hand settled more securely at your waist, warm and certain, guiding with an ease that did not crowd. It was the first dance in recent memory in which you felt no need to instinctively retreat.
After a few rotations, he spoke again.
“Your dance card,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “It truly remained empty the entire evening?”
You let out a barely audible sigh. “You seem overly interested in a piece of parchment, Your Highness.”
“Not in the parchment,” he corrected smoothly. “In you.”
You nearly missed a step. He noticed, of course he did, but he continued without a hint of triumph.
“I’ve heard of you, Lady Y/N of Brookend.”
Your brows knit, the confusion immediate. Brookend had status, yes, but not the sort that would land you in palace gossip.
“It was nothing unfavorable,” he assured quickly, eyes warm with sincerity. “Only that you are spoken of highly… but with a measure of caution.”
“Caution,” you repeated, coolly. “How flattering.”
His smile flickered, soft and unbothered. “I meant it as neither praise nor insult. Only truth.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That men are interested in you.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line, but he went on before you could redirect the subject.
“There is no reason for your card to be blank,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear it over the violins. “Unless you intended it to be.”
A beat passed. You said nothing. He had already reasoned his way to the answer.
So you slipped into something easier, more familiar, the sharp wit that kept most men at arm’s length.
“All men care about are horses, and fighting, and whatever else they choose to waste their time with,” you said lightly.
“Perhaps,” he replied, “that describes only the men you have encountered thus far.”
You arched a brow. “Are you suggesting you are an exception?”
“Undoubtedly.” His hand adjusted—almost imperceptibly—at your waist as he guided you through a turn that drew you nearer than before. “Though I do like horses. I have little patience for fighting. And as for how I choose to waste my time…” He paused, letting the moment breathe around you. “I prefer pursuits that actually matter.”
You huffed a soft laugh. “That is exactly what those kinds of men say. Charm their way through a conversation until a woman falls at their feet.”
His mouth curved, quiet amusement dancing in the lines of his expression. “Have I charmed you, then?”
“Not in the slightest.”
He didn’t argue. Did not attempt to persuade you otherwise. He simply smiled—small, knowing, unbearably gentle.
Like he had discovered a truth and was content to wait for you to reach it on your own.
And then the two of you simply kept dancing.
The orchestra carried the final waltz through its closing passages, the ballroom turning like a living constellation around you. His movements were smooth, steady, easy to follow. You hated that you noticed that. Hated that dancing with him felt less like being led and more like being accompanied.
But the song ended as all songs do.
When the final notes of the waltz faded, he released your hand with a practiced bow. You curtsied in return with equal poise, both of you slipping into the formalities expected of a prince and a lady of society. A brief exchange of polite farewells, a nod that felt heavier than it should have, and then he drifted back into the crowd with the same quiet grace that had defined him all evening.
The orchestra did not resume. Instead, a murmur began to travel the room, subtle at first, then swelling as footmen moved quietly through the edges of the ballroom. Doors were drawn open. Cool night air spilled inward, stirring skirts and candle flames alike.
Moments later, the royal family took their place at the front of the ballroom. Conversation dimmed at once. The king’s voice carried easily across the room as he announced the evening’s finale: fireworks in the palace courtyard, in honor of the prince’s return.
The crowd shifted at once.
You felt it before you joined it—that collective pull toward spectacle. Your parents moved with the rest of the ton, and you followed, the ballroom gradually emptying behind you in a hush of silk and measured steps.
The night air greeted you fully this time, crisp enough to slip through the edges of your gown and brush coolly against the bare skin above your gloves. You exhaled, steadying yourself as the courtyard filled. Torches flared along the pathways. Lanterns swayed gently from the branches overhead, their glow pooling in soft amber circles across the stone.
Your mother stood beside you, absolutely alight with excitement.
“A waltz,” she whispered, her smile wide enough to rival any lantern flame. “The closing waltz, darling. With the prince. What on earth did you speak of? Was he gracious? Did he smile? Did he hold you properly? Did—”
“Mother,” you murmured, studying the unlit sky as though it were of far greater interest, “it was a dance, not a proposal.”
She continued regardless, her questions tumbling one over another in eager succession, scarcely pausing long enough for breath. Your father endured it with quiet amusement, his hands folded neatly behind his back. From time to time, he cast a glance your way—as though confirming you had weathered the spectacle intact.
Around you, whispers rippled through the crowd. Fans fluttered. Young ladies threw speculative glances. You felt eyes on you everywhere you turned.
You had danced with the prince.
That alone would govern tomorrow’s gossip.
Which meant, with a symmetry you could only describe as unfortunate, you would be obliged to write of yourself in the next Silver Quill column. The inconvenience announced itself almost immediately behind your temples.
A firework finally erupted above you in a vivid burst of blue, its sparks raining like scattered jewels before fading into the night. Another followed, then another, until the entire sky pulsed with color.
After a moment you let your gaze drift from the heavens to the crowd below—part habit, part curiosity. Lords and ladies watched the sky with open delight. Debutantes clung to one another with shrill excitement. Servants lingered near the archways, whispering.
Everyone was present.
Except one.
Prince Clark was nowhere to be found.
Your brow lifted. Fireworks meant to honor the beloved prince… without the prince?
Odd.
Even stranger was that no one else seemed to notice. The ton remained blissfully enamored with the spectacle above, their cheers rising with each explosion of light.
You lifted your eyes back to the sky, letting the matter settle in the quiet corner of your mind where unanswered questions tended to collect.
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summary: A concerned Spencer Reid shows up at your doorstep when you miss two days of classes, bearing take out and gentle reassurance. Somehow he ends up in your bed.
contents: 5.2k words, hurt/comfort + fluff! (Don't let that bed thing fool you it's clickbait) prof!reader monumental crash out/breakdown (SO much crying, forgetting to eat, cancels her classes), fake relationship (OR IS IT), no use of y/n, reader wears glasses, and is described to be kind of broke, insecurities, possibly inaccurate depiction of post grad education, reader doesn't like talking about her dissertation (mecore), domestic fluff.
a/n: Sorry it took so long lol real life was actually kicking my ass and I'm convinced I forgot how to write like idk how I feel about majority of the writing on this EUGH pls let me know what you think bc I had half a mind to delete the whole thing. It's so disgustingly self-indulgent, but very soft and sweet, I wish he was real 💔gif by the GOAT @reidgif
You can count on your two hands the amount of times you've cancelled your classes.
Often, the reason is you'd caught something so contagious it would be downright irresponsible to subject other people to your presence. Once, because you'd gotten into an accident (not your fault, though it totaled your car and you didn't have the money for a replacement. You are still using public transport to this day.)
But you do not cancel classes if you could help it. Fevers? Paracetamol. Too much on your plate? Sleep isn't that important.
Teaching higher education does have a tendency to be slightly more lenient on these things. You know professors who do it. Higher than you in the hierarchy. Figures of authority, respected people, not just the slacker newbies or the lazy hotshots.
But you love being in class. You love physically standing in a room and coaxing ideas and participation from your students. You wouldn't be in this field, barely making money doing this if you didn't.
And most days, that love and passion is enough to push you forward, even when you're swamped. Even when it's socially acceptable to take the time off to catch up on research or grading, the same way some students will skip one class to prepare for another.
Today is not one of those days.
Last night, you'd received two emails back to back, both of which contain bad news. You'd lost several minutes just staring before gathering enough courage to read, and even then, you're convinced the universe is conspiring against your academic career.
Rejected for a scholarship grant from a few months ago—the one you had been hoping would allow you to teach a lower course load for the next semester.
As if that isn't enough, your PhD. advisor returned your initial data findings with a very succinct note on top of the document: Insufficient. Stop skipping over steps and go back to close reading the material before applying theory. And then, beneath it, a long list of suggested books to add for your related literature.
You thought you'd gotten over it last night—already spent an embarrassing two hours just sobbing over the amount of work you'd have to do. Woken up to disgusting, puffy eyelids in the morning, the color of an angry rash.
But no, this morning, somewhere between your coffee and brushing your hair, the tears inevitably started to fall again. Creasing the impeccably applied makeup that was meant to hide the evidence of your tears last night.
Despite your notes being in perfect order, and your discussion outlines ready to go, you do not feel like you're in any state to be seen in public, much less teach, so you do something you've never done before in your four years of teaching: you cancel your classes. For attendance, you place a discussion board up and ask them to submit a 200 word discussion about the poetry reading assignment you had previously assigned.
It's early enough in the morning that none of your students would have been in class yet, though some early risers reply with thoughtful platitudes. You'll deal with the rest of the paperwork later.
With that taken care of, you take the biggest, most grounding inhale before dealing with the brunt of your work: your dissertation.
Insufficient data. It blinks up at you like a curse, and you almost want to throw your laptop out of rage. Right, because reading through six books isn't enough. Like your advisor hadn't looked through your proposal, and fucking accepted it before you started in earnest.
The rest of the day is a haze. Truthfully, you don't get anything done, simply staring at the words before you as if they've somehow transformed into an incomprehensible language. You try searching for the reference recommendations, intending to make some headway through the readings, but only find half in the local libraries. Some bookstores carry the titles, but between the shipping and the prices of each book, there's no way you could afford all of them. You're too tired to try searching through the annals of the internet.
By the time night arrives, your vision has started swimming. No amount of blinking makes the stinging in your eyes go away. Possibly a mixture of strain and the excessive crying you've done all day. There's a dull throb by your temples and the space between your brows feel like something's trying to push from inside out. You haven't had anything to eat.
Still in this frustrating, zombie-like haze, you sent and email the classes you have tomorrow and cancel them too.
Two canceled classes in a row. That's a new record.
With a sigh, you force yourself to eat a couple of crackers until the pain in your stomach subsides and your apartment stops swimming whenever your gaze lifts from your laptop. Sleep tugs at you, sweet and insistent, just as the last of your laptop's battery drains.
You wake up to knocking. Sunlight drenches your apartment in brilliant gold, harsh in its brightness, which tells you it's late in the morning. Possibly noon. The screen of your laptop remains blank when you press the power button, indicating it's dead, so you reach for your phone to check the time.
1:26 pm.
Well shit.
The knocking persists, and you're forced to ignore the 40-something notifications on the screen in favor of whoever is on the other side of your door.
"Hold on, I'm coming." you push your glasses up your nose, blinking as the world sharpens and comes into focus, and tug a robe over yourself. There's an incessant throbbing at your temples and your legs feel wobbly. Fuck's sake.
You crack your door open with a grumpy frown.
Spencer Reid stands right outside, properly dressed and bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. His face is filled with an innocent concern that morphs to confusion, then slight amusement, before settling back to concern.
Your frown deepens. "What're you doing here?"
"It's the second day you've missed work," he says, voice low and soothing, like he's afraid you'd slam the door in his face. "Didn't return any of my texts, or Carrie Myers'. We both agreed it wasn't like you, so I came to check."
"Don't you have classes?"
"It's my lunch break." he lifts a paper bag, smiling. "I brought ramen. I figured you'd want something with a broth, in case you're sick… are you sick?"
"No," you admit, opening the door wider to let him in. "I'm not sick, it's—wait, how'd you even get my address?"
"Carrie gave it to me." He sets the food on the kitchenette in the corner. He sweeps his gaze around, studying the state of your studio, and you wince at what he might find. What he might think.
"Are you sure you're not sick? Your eyes and nose are all red, there's tissue everywhere. I was debating buying some medicine too. People tend to get some form of cold as the weather gets lower due to the—"
"I'm not sick, Spencer, but thank you for your concern." You wave him off.
"Oh… then why?"
"It's my dissertation." you force a laugh, self deprecating.
He looks at you blankly.
You stare back at him. When it becomes clear he expects more explanation, you add:
"I got my advisor's feedback for my initial findings."
Spencer blinks, like he's trying to decipher a puzzle from your words. "You skipped classes because you got feedback?"
You cheeks burn, though you're not sure if it's from indignation or embarrassment. Most post-grad students understand that 'feedback' is code for I spent the next several hours sobbing and contemplating my life choices.
"Have you never had a draft return to you with so many corrections you want to, I don't know, just throw up?" you ask instead.
It's not his fault, you tell yourself, it isn't a universal experience to have crippling anxiety over feedback, after all.
He shakes his head. "Well, no. Feedback is part of the academic process. I find it to be very stimulating."
"Must be nice." you mutter, "Really, you've never cried over a shitty draft? Or a failed test?"
"I've never failed a test." He winces as he says it, like he realizes his words would just make you feel worse right after they're out of his mouth.
And he's right. Tears spring to your eyes at the unfairness of it all. Right. Of course. At some point, you must have forgotten he's a genius. How silly of you to think you're somewhat equals, just because you're friends. No, he outclasses you in experience, education, and intellect. He doesn't struggle over this the same way you do.
"Well, fuck, good for you." you try to say it as a joke, but the words fracture around a sob.
"I meant–" he isn't able to tell you what he meant as your embarrassingly loud sobs interrupt his words, and then he's right there, crossing the space and gathering you into his arms as fresh tears streak hot down your cheeks.
The world turns to slurry when he takes your glasses off and places it on the counter. Then, ever so gently, his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you into his chest.
You don't fight it. It's inexcusable, how many times you'd cried the past two days, but there doesn't seem to be an end to your tears. Especially now, when Spencer's got you wrapped up and pressed against him like you're sacred and fragile, something he wants to protect.
Something splinters inside you, and it erupts through your tears, free flowing and spurned on by his warmth. By his comfort. No one's held you like this in ages, you realize. You shudder in his arms, suddenly cold.
"Shhh," you feel his chin pressing against your hair, his free hand rubbing circles over your back. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just let it out."
You sob, half convinced you're ruining his blazer, and too exhausted to care. Beneath your cheek, the fabric grows damp from your tears, and sob even more, guilty now for dumping this on him when he was probably expecting someone delirious from fever. Instead, he's saddled with a weepy, mess feeling ashamed for being so vulnerable, and god you don't even want to imagine how you look right now.
Even more, it all feels so right, being held like this. Cocooned in his warmth and the clean, perfect smell of him, and the pressure of his arms around your body like a grounding force when you've been sick with anxiety and self doubt and stress.
"Sorry," you mumble voice thin and watery with tears.
"Don't apologize for having feelings and caring about your work." he whispers, the circles on your back continuing despite your tears subsiding. "I may not have the exact same experience, but I do understand the… the feelings of inadequacy and frustration and how overwhelming it can all get."
"No, like, I'm sorry for ruining your clothes. And making you worry."
"Don't be," you feel a deep sigh heave out of his body, the air tickling your ear. "If you're at a point where you've missed two days of work because of this, then you clearly needed a good cry, darling."
"I thought we agreed to only use that in public."
He laughs, slowly unwinds himself from you. His big hands cup your face, tilting your head up to look at him. Big, earnest eyes stare at you, the light making them glint amber. "I think we can make an exception right now."
You feel the swell of his thumbs smoothing over your skin, catching the lingering tears with a gentleness that makes you want to start crying all over again. And you must look like you're about to, possibly from a swift glassiness covering your eyes, or a quiver of your lips, because his whole face softens with even more concern.
He says your name and you watch his lips wrap around the syllables, languid and sure, like he likes the taste of them on his tongue.
Before you know it, he's pressing those same lips on your forehead, quick and chaste, leaving the patch of skin burning. His thumbs keep swiping over your cheekbone, back and forth, like it's instinct. And maybe it is. It's the same motion he does over your knuckles when he holds your hand.
You barely manage to keep yourself upright from the realization.
"I have to go back," he says, sounding apologetic, "I have a lecture at 2 that I can't miss, but I'll come here as soon as everything's dismissed, okay?"
"You don't have to." Your insistence is beginning to sound ridiculous, but he doesn't make fun, or get frustrated.
"I know." he presses his lips to your forehead again, a brief, almost noncommittal thing you're worried will occupy your mind for the rest of the day. "I know. But I want to, really."
And it's stupid, the way your chest tightens at that softness, the way you just want to sink into it and let him envelop you.
"Eat. Please." his head jerks back to the counter, at the takeout ramen he thoughtfully brought.
You nod, numbed by surprise and anxiety and an inexplicable, vague ache beneath your sternum.
You wish you could pinpoint where it is, file it as something fixable through medication or surgery, but you know deep in your gut that it isn't that type of affliction. If only it is; if only you could be rid of it through some magic pill.
Spencer looks like he wants to say more, but he lets his hands drop to your shoulders instead, squeezing there firmly, and then he's walking out the door, leaving you reeling in the middle of your messy apartment.
It takes a while before you're able to unroot your feet from the spot, blinking dumbly at the food he's set for you. Finally, you slump into your little dining set to eat, fully braced to have some cold noodles, but to your surprise, the whole thing is still warm.
Funnily enough, you don't think it's the cause of the warmth spreading through your whole body.
You apartment is a mess. Not in a quirky, lived in way either, but reaching slob levels, someone-might-suspect-you-of-hoarding kind of mess. Clothes strewn about, mixed with books and pens, stacks of papers from your students everywhere, like your small studio is a weird stew of everything that makes up who you are.
You're a little embarrassed that Spencer had to see it in this state—it isn't normally this bad, but the past few days have been so busy and then you hadn't had time to tidy up any of it. If you'd known he's coming, you would have at least hidden the worst of it. Shoved them under your bed or the closet, kept up the impression that you've got everything under perfect control.
But, having something in your stomach has given you some clarity. You move, albeit mechanically, to tidy your space, stacking back the books you don't even remember grabbing from the shelves, making your bed, clearing the takeout and other trash that might still be around.
Once your studio resembles something respectably habitable, you finally trudge to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror stares back at you, puffy-eyed and familiar, with skin that's somehow both dry and disgustingly oily. You wince.
A small part of you twists when you realize Spencer saw you like this. Unadorned, raw, not very pretty. But it prompts annoyance from a bigger, more rational part, because why the hell do you care that Spencer Reid saw you in such a state?
It's the vulnerability, you think, it's not fun to be taken by surprise when you're in such a state, especially by someone who has never seen you this way before. After all, you've always prided yourself in appearing competent and professional, so as to avoid the judgment.
The small part tells you it's also embarrassment—he just saw you without make up, held you when you hadn't even made an effort to smell nice. Tells you that, as much as you'd like to pretend you're above it—the vanity of perception, this projection of confidence—you aren't immune to it.
What the actual fuck.
You strip off your pajamas and hop beneath the spray, welcoming the cold.
It will, hopefully, jolt these stupid thoughts right out of your system. It's a quick shower, almost clinical in the order—shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Lotion when you've dried off, then you leave your hair alone, knowing you'll probably regret it later.
Dressed and feeling slightly better, you curl up with your plugged laptop, this time not bothering with the dissertation. Not yet.
Instead, you file the necessary paperwork for your sudden absence, and read through the discussion boards you've assigned for your classes. Still doing work, still being productive, but avoiding what's been causing the bulk of your stress. You'll figure it out when you're in a better state of mind.
Around six, your phone rings. Dr Four Eyes. Spencer. Calling, which he rarely does. Usually, he'll text, but seeing as you'd accidentally ignored sixteen texts from him (and even more from Carrie), he seems to have taken the more direct approach.
"Hello?"
"Hey," his voice is soft, "Did I wake you?"
"No, do I sound that bad?"
He chuckles. "You don't, sorry. I just assumed you'd be sleeping or something. Getting rest."
"I told you, I'm not sick." Besides, you've done nothing but sleep and cry for the past day, you're getting a little sick of it.
He hums like he's not entirely convinced, and you hear faint chatter in the background. Sounds of life. You wonder where he is. You wonder if you can ask. Is that something the two of you can do? If he can come over unannounced, then you're allowed to ask where he is, right?
Yes. That's how friends work. And the two of you are friends.
"Where are you?"
"At a Chinese restaurant," he says.
Oh. You thought he's coming over. But before you could dwell on the dull sting of disappointment that shoots through you, he continues.
"That's why I called. Wasn't sure what you wanted."
Oh.
"Or if you even liked Chinese food. I should've asked first. I'm still in line, it's not too late to find another place, if you want something else."
"Spencer," you laugh, interrupting him before he begins to monologue, "It's fine. I'll have some lo mein, please."
"Got it," he replies, and you could almost see him nodding in earnest. "I'll be there within the hour, hopefully."
"Okay. I'll, uh, see you."
"See you."
"And Spencer?" your voice has lowered, suddenly a little shy.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
For a moment, all you can hear are the sounds of the restaurant, conversations and footsteps and music and clanging utensils all muffled through the phone. And then, "It's my pleasure."
—
He comes as promised, looking like some sort of messy haired angel bearing more takeout and a satchel. You let him in without suspicion or confusion this time, but feeling slightly exposed.
"Have you talked to Carrie? She's been worried sick, and I didn't have a chance to talk to her after my classes."
"Yeah, I did." You'd sent your friend a very apologetic text, and then another one that simply said comments about my dissertation. Carrie had sent a throwing up emoji and said I believe in you honey, let me know if you need any help.
Spencer makes a beeline for your counter again, unpacking takeout boxes like this is totally normal.
You clear your throat, feeling awkward in your own home, and begin laying out glasses and a pitcher of cool water, "I'm sorry you're stuck with me on a Friday night."
"Please, stop apologizing for something I volunteered to do." he replies gently, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice now. "Besides, where else do you think I should be?"
You shrug. "Out. I dunno, maybe with your–"
"My girlfriend?" he looks up, grins as if to say it's supposed to be you remember, and you want to simultaneously punch those dimples off his face and press your lips on each indent.
"Your friends." you glare, accepting your takeout box of lo mein with a huff.
Spencer laughs. "I think I'm exactly where I should be—taking care of my 'girlfriend' who missed two days of work."
And you really do try not to let that affect you because you know he's kidding, this relationship is fake, but there's warmth spreading just beneath your skin until the tips of your fingers tingle.
"Do you want to talk about it? The dissertation." Spencer asks. He's sitting on the armchair across from your bed and eating the rest of the wontons with a fork.
You'd both abandoned your sorry excuse of a dining table and found more comfortable spots. You're sitting cross legged on your bed facing him, napkins laid in front of you to catch any bits of food.
"Not really." you groan, setting aside your empty carton of food. "It's nothing bad, I promise. But I didn't get the scholarship grant I applied for either and I got saw the emails at the same time, so it was like… a lot."
"Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't even know you applied for a grant."
You shrug. "I passed it before I even met you. I guess it never came up. That's just how it goes, though—too many applicants, too little funding. Honestly, I'm used to the rejection, it just so happened to be one right after the other, you know?"
"It can be overwhelming." he's watching you without judgment, eyes the color of oak in the artificial light of your apartment. "If I could be of any help, you know how to reach me."
"Uh, if you happened to have eight grand lying around, I'd really appreciate it."
"I believe I'm your fake boyfriend, not your sugar daddy."
"Ew, that sounds weird coming from your mouth." you wrinkle your nose, exaggerating your disgust, just to watch him smile. "Besides, you asked how you can help."
He laughs. "I guess I could sell my first editions, if you need the money that badly."
"Oh my god, please don't. Don't think I can live with that baggage." you lay down, still on your side so you can look at him, smiling. "But now that you've mentioned it, maybe you can help me find books. For my RRL."
He nods, the food pausing in mid-air. "Yes. Definitely, send me the titles."
"Tomorrow. I don't want to deal with it right now anymore." you squeeze your eyes shut and will the world to fall away. "I've kind of had enough of the pity party I gave myself."
"I don't think that's what you were doing."
"Wallowing in my pain isn't a pity party? Feeling sorry for myself and second guessing how I even earned my way into my candidacy isn't a pity party?"
"No." his voice gentles, which doesn't match the intensity in his eyes, "Self doubt is a human emotion, and you shouldn't flagellate yourself for needing a break once in a while."
You're quiet for a moment, but then whisper. "It feels undeserved."
"What does?"
"All this… cancelling my classes, not doing anything."
"You mean taking a break?" his brows furrow, and you're not quite sure what to make of the expression on his face. It's more intense than you're used to, like he's ready to begin arguing.
"This—I don't need a break. Nothing about what I do warrants something as dramatic as this."
"You're a Phd. candidate, doing research for your dissertation, writing and publishing shorter articles, all on top of teaching—what is it, three? Undergrad courses." Spencer points out.
You look down pointedly, lips pulled in a tight line. It's not really something you like discussing out loud, precisely because most people always sound so horrified.
You get nice things when you've accomplished something.
A break has to be earned. So does respect, and your position at the university, and your dissertation.
Which makes this impromptu vacation so much more guilt consuming. You hadn't done a good job. You'd been rejected. Rebuked, on two different instances. And yet you'd spent the last two days at home, crying like an idiot.
"Hey," Spencer says again, gentling his voice, "I'm sorry. You said you didn't want to talk about it. We can… I'll drop it for now."
For now. Hopefully, his eidetic memory fails him and it never comes up again (unlikely, but a girl can dream). You smile, eyes flicking up to meet his tentatively. "Thanks."
You watch him, sitting in your armchair. He seems so painfully right, limbs arranged in that haphazard way you've come to learn means he's relaxed, and you have to fight the urge to reach over and poke him, just to make sure he's real.
"What?" his brows have met in the middle again, but this time out of self consciousness, "Sorry, did you want more?" he angles the carton to you.
"No, it's okay. Don't feel like getting up."
"Oh. Well, here," he spears a wonton with the fork and stands, the food held aloft like an offering.
There's too little time to do anything but blink and accept, mouth parting for the food, eyes fixed at his ankle, which you judiciously decide are the most interesting thing in the room. And you thank the heavens that they are. Interesting, that is.
Otherwise, your mind would have done something unreliable and silly, like linger on how long his fingers are, and wonder what it would feel to trace the veins that crisscross over the backs of his hands and crawl up beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt.
But you are rightfully distracted by what peeks from his very professional dress pants—some very fun, very mismatched socks.
You reach out, hand curling around his forearm, both to stop him from going back to the armchair and to hoist yourself up for a better look. Black with robots on one foot, blue and gray stripes on the other.
"You do know socks typically come as a pair, right?" you say around the mouthful of food.
He shakes his head, settling on the edge of your bed, tentative as if he's afraid of imposing. "I'm aware. This is a deliberate choice."
Like a fool, you scoot to give him more room. More encouragement. Spencer takes the hint and fully situates himself by your legs.
"I didn't realize the great genius doctor Spencer Reid had such strong fashion choices." you grin when he laughs.
"It's a… thing. A luck thing."
"A luck thing?"
"Bad things tend to happen when I wear matching socks."
"That's oddly superstitious for a man of science."
"It's not superstition if it's backed by statistics."
You fully sit up now, grinning, eager to prod at his hypothesis. "Do you mean to say you've conducted enough research to reach this conclusion?"
"Indeed. I'm 81% more likely to stumble when my socks match."
"You don't think you've just conditioned yourself into being more clumsy on those days, just to subconsciously prove a point?"
Spencer shakes his head defensively. "The clumsiness isn't the only manifestation. A bad exam result–"
"I thought you'd never failed a test."
"A bad result doesn't always mean a failed one," he counters, smirking.
Your eyes roll at his smug expression, but the smile twitching at your own lips makes the action comes across fond. "How long ago is this data? I doubt you've taken any recent exams."
"Old… it started when I was young."
"How young?"
"Six." He says, laughs at the look of incredulity on your face. "Maybe it's outdated data, but the socks stuck."
"Mhm, FBI agent, professor and a fashion icon. What can't you do?"
Spencer laughs, and you have half a mind to record him, just so you can replay it over and over again. He offers another bite to you, and you've relaxed enough to accept it, though your gaze is still fixed on his silly socks.
He's quiet for a moment, wiggling his ankles to make you chuckle.
"You know, while it may be true that I've never failed an academic test, I have also failed others." he murmurs.
"Like?" you sit up, knees tucked to your chest, arms banded around them. You're on one end of your bed, and he's sat on the other. Casual, intimate.
Platonic, you tell yourself.
"Gun qualifications. I was really bad at those. Physical exams–oh, I had to be in remedial for those." he smiles, gaze dropping to the patterns on your bedspread. "Honestly, in my first few years with the FBI, my mentors had to write multiple letters vouching for me before I could be allowed on the field."
"So what I'm learning is you're a teacher's pet."
He laughs. "I'm just saying. I've… Earlier, when I said I've never failed one. I misspoke. I'm sorry I upset you."
"No, don't," you sigh, resting your chin on your knees. "It's okay, I was already upset. Anything would have set me off."
"Even so. I don't want you to think I'm unfeeling, or insensitive. I—it's hard for me to read the room, sometimes." he reaches out, gently takes one of your hands.
You have the urge to pull away, only because it feels good and you want him to keep doing it. Doing this, even when the two of you are alone and there's no need to act like a couple.
You squeeze his hand instead. "I don't think that about you at all."
He smiles, soft and warm and not the first time, you feel utterly doomed.
"Maybe not, but I'm still sorry. And… well, yes, I do know how it feels to be so anxious over something it makes me physically ill." he squeezes your hand back and doesn't let go. "And if that's how you've been feeling since yesterday, then you shouldn't feel guilty for missing a couple of days to sort yourself out."
"You said we wouldn't talk about it anymore." you remind him with a pout.
Spencer chuckles. Squeezes your hand again, thumbs moving in slow, absentminded circles like it's second nature, "All right, I'll stop. What do you want to talk about instead?"
"I dunno. Maybe nothing." you admit, feeling scraped raw. He honors it, staying quiet and holding your hand, until you add, "I don't want to keep you."
He shakes his head. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
"Even if you're just sitting with me, doing nothing?"
"I'm holding your hand." he says, tightening his palm around yours with a soft smile, "That's not nothing."
And maybe you've done nothing to deserve his kindness, or his company, but you smile and let yourself enjoy it all the same.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
more prof spencer x prof!reader fics here!
summary: getting shot was dramatic, but recovering is worse. especially now that spencer reid has a key to your apartment and a color-coded plan for your survival.
genre: hurt/comfort, flangst tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, mentions of a gunshot wound/incision/scar (not graphic), reader is prescribed narcotics (not a plot point or issue but still, TW if you want to avoid), caretaker spencer reid, arguments, reader is very bad at being taken care of, spencer is clingy, actually they’re both clingy, domestic fluff, kissing, no use of y/n. fyi this fic will make more sense if you’ve read liminal first! 6.6k words
a/n: to everyone who waited patiently while i worked through writer’s block and life stuff, thank you :’) sorry if this is a tad boring but i felt like it wouldn’t be right to ignore reader’s recovery phase after getting shot. next part won’t take as long I promise lol | GIF by @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
The ride home from the hospital takes longer than it should.
It’s D.C., which means everything is fifteen minutes away yet somehow still takes an hour, so you’re half asleep against the window by the time Spencer pulls into your building’s parking garage. The pain meds haven’t knocked you out completely; they’ve just dulled you into a soft, irritated haze where your body feels like it belongs to someone else and you’re borrowing it under protest.
Spencer circles around the car before you can reach for the handle. Of course he does.
“I can do it,” you mumble as he opens your door.
“I know,” he replies, voice gentle in that maddening way that makes it impossible to argue with him. “Let me anyway.”
He reaches down and offers you his hand. Your fingers curl around his and he steadies you as you shift out of the car, careful of your side, careful of everything. The movement pulls at the tender spot against your ribs and you suck in a breath through your teeth.
Spencer’s eyes flick to your face immediately.
“I’m okay,” you insist.
He nods like he hears you, but his hand tightens just slightly like he doesn’t believe you. “Just— please take it slow,” he says. You bite back the instinct to snap, because you know he’s doing it with love and fear in equal measure.
He guides you toward the elevator, and you lean in closer to him as the elevator doors slide shut. Spencer presses the button for your floor with his free hand, then glances down at you.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.
You snort, which is a terrible idea, because laughing hurts. “Please stop talking to me like I’m a wounded bird.”
His mouth twitches. “You are kind of a wounded bird.”
“I’m not a bird,” you say. “If anything, I’m—” You pause, searching for something that feels like you. “A raccoon.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “A raccoon?”
“Mean, scrappy, nocturnal,” you list. “Has tiny hands.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “You do not have tiny hands.”
“Compared to yours, I do.”
His gaze drops to your intertwined fingers. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, grounding stroke that makes something in your chest loosen.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, very quietly.
You blink at the elevator doors and pretend the sudden tightness in your throat is from the stale air. “You’ve seen me literally all day, every day.”
“True,” he agrees. “But you know what I mean.”
The elevator dings.
Spencer’s hand slips from yours to your lower back as you walk. You make it three steps before you realize your key isn’t in your pocket, because you haven’t worn pants with real pockets in… well, a while.
Spencer doesn’t even slow down. He just reaches into his jacket and pulls out his keyring—
His keyring, now featuring his very own key to your apartment.
The memory flickers in, fast and foggy. You, doped up and pissed off, shoving your spare into his palm because you needed your iPod and your charger and really anything to pass the time that wasn’t hospital-grade.
You told yourself giving him a key was practical.
He told himself the same thing. His eyes still went bright anyway.
Back in the present, your stomach does a weird little flip.
He catches it. “I— I can give it back,” he says quickly. “If you want.”
You shake your head softly. “Don’t be dumb,” you murmur.
Spencer fights a smile as he slides the key into the lock like he’s done it a hundred times. The door opens and warm air spills out, carrying the scent of laundry detergent and candles and your apartment’s familiar, slightly dusty personality.
You step inside and stop in your tracks.
Your records are still on their shelves; your boots are still kicked off by the entryway; your leather jacket is still draped on the back of a chair. It’s the same place you left the morning you got shot.
But it’s also… different.
Cleaner, for one. Dishes gone. Counters wiped. Blankets folded. There’s a paper grocery bag on the table and a small tray of gauze and medical tape and antibacterial soap next to the sink.
And then you notice it: more of Spencer’s things that weren’t here before. A few more of his books added to your shelves. His telescope set up by the living room window. The blanket he usually keeps on the back of his couch, now taking up residence on yours. A soft gray cardigan hanging on the hook by the door like it belongs here.
Like he belongs here.
“I, uh, stopped by yesterday while you were napping to make sure things were in order before your discharge,” Spencer explains, hovering close but trying not to look like he’s hovering.
You glance at him. “So you cleaned, and made yourself at home as well?”
Spencer’s smile is tired but real. “Yes,” he admits. “I told you already, you’re going to heal, and I'm going to be with you for all of it.”
Your apartment has always been the place you can shut the door and disappear, the place no one has a key to unless you hand it over. Your spine should go stiff at the sight of his cardigan on your hook. You should feel your skin crawl.
But instead, you feel… strangely steady.
Spencer watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to insist he doesn’t need to stay with you during your recovery.
You don’t say anything.
Spencer’s hand finds yours again and he guides you toward your room. He helps you sit on the edge of the bed and immediately starts arranging pillows behind you with the intensity of someone building a small, medically approved throne.
“You’re nesting,” you observe.
“I’m just making sure you have enough support to keep your weight off your side," he explains, adjusting one pillow two inches.
You stare at him. “Spencer.”
He pauses, hands still on the pillow. “Yeah?”
“You’re going to drive yourself insane,” you tell him, softer than you mean to.
“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “But… you’re here.”
Your pulse trips. You swallow around it.
He clears his throat and reaches into his bag on the floor. “Okay. Let’s discuss your medication regimen.”
You groan. “Oh my god.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “I… I made a schedule.”
“I figured you did.”
“It’s not too complicated,” he says, already defensive, which would be funny if it didn’t hit something tender. “It’s just so you don’t take too much of anything by accident, and so you don’t miss any doses. And there are—” He stops, catches himself, steadies. “There are options, for the, uh, painkillers, depending on your level of discomfort.”
He holds up a sheet of cardstock paper with times and dosage details and color-coded checkboxes to keep track of everything.
You stare at it. Then at him. “You’re being such a dad.”
“I’m being practical.”
“Sure, dad.”
Spencer sighs, but his hand keeps shaking slightly as he lays the paper on your nightstand. “Please don’t call me that. And just… will you humor me?”
You pick up the paper and tap it once with your finger. “Fine. But if you laminate this, I’m telling Morgan.”
Spencer’s laugh is quiet, relieved. “Fair.”
He brings you a glass of water and sits down on the edge of the bed. He watches you take the first dose like he’s counting the seconds between your breaths.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“Definitely.” He leans in and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth like he can’t help it. “I can’t help it. I’m just so glad you’re here,” he murmurs between more kisses.
“Someone’s feeling sappy,” you tease.
“Is a man in love not allowed to be sappy?”
Oh. There’s that word again—
Love.
It still feels new, and weird, and wonderful every time you hear it.
“Mm, fine. I guess it’s allowed,” you relent.
Later, after somehow staying upright long enough to brush your teeth and change into pajamas, you settle back into bed. Spencer fusses with the blankets for a minute, and then just… stops.
He stands there, hands flexing once at his sides.
“Well?” you ask, squinting. “What are you waiting for?”
Spencer’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay careful. “I… I was going to go sleep on the couch.”
You stare at him. “…Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re still healing, and I don’t want to—” He swallows. “I don’t want to risk hurting you. And I thought you might want space.”
Something in your chest pinches at the worry in his voice.
“Spence,” you say gently. “Get in.”
He hesitates.
You pat the mattress with as much authority as you can manage while held together by stitches. “I’m not asking you to wrestle me. I’m just asking you to sleep next to me.”
Spencer’s eyes soften. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m… tired of waking up in a bed without you,” you admit.
That does it. He eases down with ridiculous care, like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of being the one to crack you.
He wraps his arm around you gently, and you shift the smallest amount closer. It’s enough for him to go still before relaxing fully.
“Welcome home,” he whispers, his breath warming the back of your neck. “I love you.”
You close your eyes and let yourself believe it.
—
Your first week home becomes a series of tiny negotiations and small victories.
Spencer sets alarms for your meds; you take the antibiotics but hold off on the narcotics as long as you can manage. He makes you eat something with protein in it; you complain the entire time and still finish the bowl. Garcia shows up with a care package that includes fuzzy socks and another stuffed animal you swear you don’t want. Morgan checks in with a text every day. JJ and Emily drop off a stack of case files you’re “not supposed to look at,” but they do it with a wink. Rossi swings by once with a tray of homemade carbonara and a strict warning not to overdo it.
Once, in the middle of the night, Spencer wakes up suddenly and bolts upright, eyes wide like he’s listening for a sound only he can hear. You don’t ask why — you just slide your hand into his and feel him remember how to breathe.
By day six, you can walk to the kitchen without getting dizzy. By day seven, Spencer’s started to say “love you” whenever he leaves the room the same way he says “be right back,” and your reply becomes automatic. Love you too.
It scares you a little.
It steadies you more.
—
By the time you hit the two-week mark, you can do most of the basics again. Not the big things; not the things that matter to your pride — but the small things. The humiliating little tasks that used to be so automatic you never thought about them. Standing at the sink long enough to wash your face without needing to sit down. Walking from the bedroom to the couch without holding your breath like you’re bargaining with your own ribs. Pouring yourself a glass of water and not feeling your vision tilt.
You can do those things now, but Spencer still acts like you can’t.
It becomes routine: Spencer anticipating your needs before you can even admit you have them. He gets you a blanket before you feel cold. He slides a pillow behind your back before you realize you’re slouching. He asks if you’ve eaten. He asks if you’ve taken your meds. He asks if you’ve reached your step goal yet. He asks you to rate your pain on a scale of 1-10. He watches your face when you breathe.
You tell yourself it’s love, because you know it is. But it’s not just that — it’s love twisted with fear so tightly they’ve fused together.
This morning, you wake up to Spencer sitting beside you in bed with a book open in his lap. His glasses are on. His hair is messy in that soft way it always gets when he’s been running his hands through it.
He looks down when you move. His gaze goes instantly to your side, like he can see through the blanket.
“How’s your pain?” he asks.
You blink at him. “Good morning to you too.”
His mouth twitches, apologetic. “Sorry. Good morning, honey.”
You shift carefully and an ache blooms, dull and annoying. You keep your face neutral anyway.
“My pain is fine,” you insist. “I’m gonna go make coffee.”
Spencer closes his book immediately. “I can do it.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed. “I didn’t ask you to.”
He’s already up. He’s always already up. Like some nervous part of him has been waiting for the moment you try to do something alone so he can step in before anything goes wrong.
“Just let me,” he insists.
You ignore him and stand slowly, starting toward the kitchen.
Spencer follows you. It’s like walking with a shadow that thinks it’s your supervisor.
“I’m not going to faint, Spencer,” you say, eyes forward.
“I know,” he replies.
You get to the kitchen and reach for the cabinet. Spencer reaches first.
You stop. Stare at his hand on the mug.
He freezes, then slowly draws it back like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing.
You take the mug. You feel him watching you the entire time you set it on the counter.
When you reach for the coffee grounds, Spencer’s hand darts out again. Your fingers still.
He notices and drops his hand like it burned you.
You inhale slowly and feel the pull in your incision. That little reminder that your body is still healing, still tender, still not yours to command.
“Stop,” you say quietly, turning around to face him.
Spencer looks up. His expression is filled with concern. “Stop what?”
“Everything. You’re trying to do everything for me.”
His brows lift. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is,” you insist, and the sharpness comes out before you can sand it down. “You’re hovering constantly, Spencer. I’m not trying to run a marathon. I’m making a pot of coffee.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m not trying to stop you from making coffee. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t overdo it.”
“No. You're suffocating me.”
The word lands hard in the small kitchen.
Spencer goes still. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick toward your side, then back to your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue with you or agree.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe. Sue me, but I’d rather annoy you than miss something.”
“I am safe,” you say. “I’m home. I’m alive. I’m not bleeding out.”
Spencer’s throat moves as he swallows.
“You think I don’t know that?”
You hate yourself for it, but this frustration has been building for days. For every moment you’ve tried to be grateful and patient and reasonable while slowly going insane.
“I think you’re acting like I can’t even make coffee without dying,” you snap.
“That’s not true.”
“Is it not?” You gesture around the apartment. “You’ve taken over everything, Spencer. You refill my water. You carry my phone. You bring me snacks like I’m a toddler. You keep asking me if I’m okay every five minutes.”
Spencer exhales slowly. “Because you keep lying.”
Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You do,” he says, and now his voice is sharper too, because you pushed and pushed until you found the edge. “You tell me you’re fine and then I catch you grimacing when you stand up. You say your pain is nothing and then your hands shake when you reach for something. You think I don’t notice?”
You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears.
“I didn’t want you to notice,” you admit quietly.
Spencer’s expression flickers. “I can’t not notice.”
He steps closer, hands open at his sides like he’s trying to show you he’s not trying to control you.
“I love you,” he says, quiet but firm. “And I watched you almost die. So yes, I’m going to ask if you’re okay. I’m going to be too careful. I don’t know how not to be right now.”
Your chest tightens, and for a second you almost crumble. It would be easier if the problem was that he didn’t care. It would be easier if you could be righteously angry.
But he cares so much it’s spilling everywhere, and you don’t know where to put it.
“I know,” you say, voice rough. “I know you love me. I know why you’re acting like this. That’s not the problem.”
Spencer’s eyes search yours. “Then what is?”
You swallow.
The real answer has been sitting in your throat like a stone.
“It doesn’t feel like we’re dating anymore,” you admit finally.
Spencer blinks, startled. “What?”
“It feels like I have a live-in nurse,” you say, and your tone turns bitter because you hate that you’re admitting this out loud, “who happens to share a bed with me. And yeah, you hold my hand, and you kiss my forehead, and you tell me you love me. But it… it doesn’t feel romantic.”
Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks genuinely caught off guard, like he’s been so consumed by the task of keeping you safe that he hasn’t realized what he’s been losing in the process.
“I didn’t know it felt like that for you,” he says finally. “I thought… I thought being careful was part of loving you right now.”
“I know,” you say, frustrated now for reasons that have nothing to do with coffee. “And I know it probably sounds selfish and unfair and maybe a little insane, considering the circumstances. But I’m not asking you to forget I’m healing.” Your throat tightens. “I’m asking you to act like you still want me.”
Spencer goes very still.
His eyes soften first, then darken with something complicated. Guilt. Hurt. Fear. Desire that he’s been keeping on a leash.
“You think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice low.
Heat crawls up your neck. You look away, because it’s humiliating. “It’s hard to tell anymore.”
Spencer makes a small sound. He steps closer and gently circles your wrists with his fingers. His gaze is steady, intense, very Spencer. The kind of intensity that feels like being seen too clearly.
“I want you all the time,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
He raises one hand to cradle your face, his thumb slowly brushing over your pulse point.
“I want you when you’re asleep,” he continues, voice quiet but unwavering. “I want you when you roll your eyes at me and call me insufferable. I want you right now while you’re mad at me in this kitchen.”
He swallows, throat working, as if the truth tastes sharp.
“But you’re healing,” he says, and now the fear edges back in. “I’m terrified of being careless for one second and making things worse. I’m terrified you’ll push yourself because you think you have to prove something. So I… I’ve been trying to be good.”
You stare at him, heart pounding hard enough to feel it in your fingertips.
“That’s the problem. You’re being so good you’re not being you.” You let out a shaky breath and your anger collapses into something messy and raw and honest. “I miss you,” you admit, and it feels ridiculous because he’s been in your apartment every day, in your bed every night, literally holding you together with his hands. “I miss you acting like my boyfriend. I miss flirting. I miss you looking at me like you can’t help it. I miss feeling like we’re… us.”
Spencer’s eyes go bright. He blinks once, fast. He loosens his grip around your wrist and slides his palm into yours.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“You were busy keeping me alive.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay serious. “I was busy being scared.”
You take a careful breath.
“I’m scared too,” you confess. “I hate needing help. I hate feeling weak. I hate that my body can’t do what I want it to do. And I hate that I’m… mad at you for loving me, because it makes me feel like a terrible person.”
“You’re not terrible,” Spencer says immediately.
“I kind of am,” you mumble.
Spencer shakes his head, firm. “You’re human. And you’re injured. And you’re used to being in control.”
You scowl. “I’m still in control.”
He raises his brows. “You were literally shot.”
You glare at him. “Stop bringing that up.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches again, but then he grows serious, leaning in a little closer.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Tell me what you need.”
You hate the question immediately, which is usually how you know it matters.
“I need you to stop treating me like I’m going to break,” you reply. “I need you to let me do things myself sometimes.”
Spencer nods once. “Okay.”
“And I need you to… still be my boyfriend,” you add, voice smaller. “Not just my caretaker.”
Spencer’s gaze softens. “I can do that.”
You swallow. “Can you?”
His thumb strokes your knuckles, grounding.
“Yes,” he says, and there’s something steadier in him now, something like a decision. “I can. I want to.”
He hesitates a moment, then leans in and kisses you. It’s careful, because he’s careful, but it’s not chaste. It’s Spencer kissing you like he’s been holding back and he’s finally letting himself show you that he hasn’t stopped wanting you for even a second.
Your hand tightens around his. Your body aches. Your chest aches more.
When he pulls back, he stays close enough that you can feel his breath.
“I’m still your boyfriend,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
Your eyes burn. You blink hard and try to cover it with sarcasm. “Good. Because your bedside manner was getting a little weird, Doc.”
Spencer lets out a quiet laugh, relief threaded through it. “Okay. New rule,” he says, voice gentle but serious.
You squint. “Oh god.”
He looks amused. “You get to tell me when you want help. I’ll try my best to stop jumping in first unless it’s something genuinely unsafe.”
“And you,” you say, because it can’t be one-sided. “You’re allowed to… check in. But not every five minutes.”
He nods. “Reasonable.”
“And,” you add, because you can’t stop yourself, “you have to kiss me like that once a day.”
His brows lift teasingly. “Only once a day?”
“At minimum,” you reply.
His smile turns soft and devastating. “Deal.”
You exhale slowly, the fight draining out of you. Spencer lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. It’s old-fashioned in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“Alright. So. You’re making coffee,” he says.
“I am,” you confirm.
He steps back, hands up in mock surrender. “And I’m letting you.”
You glare. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he replies, and his voice is lighter now. “You’re making it weird.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and reach for the coffee grounds again.
This time, Spencer doesn’t move.
He just watches you like you’re something miraculous and frustrating and real.
And when you glance up at him, he says it, quiet and easy, like it belongs in the kitchen with the smell of coffee:
“I love you.”
Your heart stutters.
You roll your eyes, because you have a reputation.
“I love you too,” you say, and then add, “Now go sit down. Your nervous energy is making me nervous.”
Spencer laughs, and the sound feels like the first truly normal thing that’s happened in your apartment in days.
—
Time starts moving again in small ways.
Over the next few weeks, your world expands by degrees. The apartment stops feeling enormous. You start taking longer walks — first to the elevator and back, then downstairs to the lobby, then out onto the sidewalk for ten slow minutes of fresh air that leave you more tired than they should. The bruising fades from angry purple to yellow, then disappears entirely. The incision stops feeling like a live wire every time you breathe and settles into something duller, meaner, more familiar. A scar instead of an open wound. You still hurt, but it’s the kind of hurt you can plan around now.
By the start of week five, Spencer’s back at Quantico. It makes him miserable in a way he tries very hard to hide, but he fails, just as miserably. He packs your lunch like you’re the one leaving. He leaves sticky notes around the apartment with things like eat something real and take the pain meds if you need them and drink more water in his messy, sweet scrawl. He texts you reminders you absolutely do not need. He calls on his lunch break just to hear your voice, then pretends he had a real reason to call.
You let him lie about that.
That Friday, he comes home early. His tie is loose. His shoulders are tight. He drops his bag by the door and crosses straight to you on the couch, leaning in to kiss you hello longer than usual, like he’s trying to reassure himself you’re still here.
You pull back just enough to study his face. “What’s wrong?”
Spencer exhales and rests his forehead against yours for a beat. “There’s a case,” he says quietly. “They need me to start traveling with the team again.”
The news settles awkwardly in your chest. You’ve been waiting for this part. Expecting it, even. Spencer was always going to go back into the field eventually. Still, the thought of him being somewhere else while you’re here makes your apartment feel different before he’s even gone.
You keep your face even. “Okay.”
Spencer’s eyes soften. He looks at you for a second like he knows that one word is doing a lot of work.
“It’ll only be a few days,” he says. “And I’ll call whenever I can.”
You huff softly through your nose. “You already call me too much.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m choosing to hear that as encouragement.”
That earns the smallest smile from you.
He kisses you again, careful and warm. “If you need me, you call,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I don’t care where I am.”
You roll your eyes because you have standards. “Please. I’m not going to interrupt an active FBI investigation unless I’m on fire.”
Spencer leans back just enough to give you a look. He brushes his thumb over your cheek once, then kisses the corner of your mouth. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Yeah,” you mutter. “You better be.”
And when he pulls away, the apartment already feels a little too quiet.
—
The first thing you learn after Spencer leaves is how quickly absence can rearrange a room.
The second thing you learn is something deeply offensive: you miss him instantly.
Not in a cute, wistful way, but in a way that makes your ribs ache with the wrong kind of pressure. Like your body has gotten used to having his presence pressed up against it all the time, and now it’s confused about what to do with itself.
It’s ridiculous.
You’ve been alone your whole life. You practically invented solitude as a coping mechanism. You used to go entire weekends without speaking to another person and call it self-care.
Now your apartment feels wrong without the sound of Spencer moving through it.
You glare at the empty room like it personally betrayed you. “This is stupid,” you mutter.
The room does not apologize.
—
Spencer calls you before he even lands.
He calls again after they get to the hotel. He calls in the morning while he’s walking from the briefing room to the SUV. He calls between interviews. He calls so often you start to wonder if the team is going to file a formal complaint.
By the second day he’s away, Morgan texts you:
Reid is being weird.
You reply:
you say this as if that’s not his default setting
Morgan sends back a laughing emoji and nothing else, which is somehow the most Derek Morgan response possible.
On Spencer’s third call of the morning, you answer with, “Hi. Yes. I’m still alive. No, I have not mysteriously dissolved into a puddle in the hour since we last spoke. How’s your day going?”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “Okay. Sorry. I’m not trying to be overbearing.”
“You’re not,” you tell him, because it’s true. “You’re just being a little annoying.”
His laugh is soft. “That’s fair.”
You shift on the couch and glance at the TV, muted. A mindless reality show you haven’t really been watching. You haven’t been able to focus on anything longer than ten minutes since he left, which is deeply humiliating.
“How’s the case?” you ask, because it feels normal. It feels like you.
Spencer’s voice changes, subtly, work mode creeping in. “It’s… messy,” he says. “There’s a pattern, but it’s inconsistent. Rossi thinks the unsub is escalating, but we don’t have enough to confirm it yet.”
You sit up a little straighter without thinking. Your body protests and you ignore it, because you’re you.
“What does victimology look like?” you ask.
Spencer pauses. You can practically hear the smile in his voice. “You miss it.”
“I miss not being stuck on my couch like a Victorian invalid,” you correct. “And yes. I miss the job. Obviously. Now tell me the details.”
He fills you in in careful, bite-sized pieces, like he’s worried you’ll get too invested and push yourself. You listen anyway. You ask questions. You feel the familiar itch in your brain — the one that only casework scratches.
Later that night, he texts you a selfie.
It is, without exaggeration, one of the worst photos you’ve ever seen. It’s also, unfortunately, adorable.
The angle is off. His face is too close to the camera. Part of his head is cropped out. His glasses are crooked. Half his hair is sticking up. He’s wearing a ridiculously patterned shirt you’ve mocked before. He’s very obviously pouting.
The caption reads:
Proof of life. Promise I’m not miserable.
You stare at it for ten full seconds, then burst into laughter so loud you immediately regret it. You clutch your side, wheezing, and type back:
that is the face of a man who is definitely miserable (and has definitely never taken a selfie before)
His reply comes fast:
Rude.
You laugh again, softer this time, and the warmth that spreads through you is almost annoying. Because he’s not here, and you somehow still feel held.
—
This morning, you overdo it.
You decide you can carry a package up to your apartment from the lobby without a cart because it’s not that heavy and you’re not helpless and you’re not weak and you’re not—
Your body disagrees halfway to the elevator.
By the time you make it back into your apartment, you’re sweaty and irritated and your side feels tight and angry. You sit down hard on the couch and stare at your hands like they personally failed you.
You could take a breath, take something for the pain, pretend it didn’t happen, and tell Spencer weeks later as a funny anecdote so he doesn’t freak out.
You could.
Instead, you pick up your phone and call him.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
“Don’t freak out,” you say.
Spencer goes silent for a beat. “That’s a terrible way to start a conversation.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back against the couch. “I picked up a package from the front desk. It was heavier than I thought. Now my side hurts and I’m annoyed.”
Spencer exhales sharply, and you can hear the fear in it, the way his nervous system still doesn’t know the difference between discomfort and disaster.
“Okay,” he says, voice steadying as he forces it into place. “Are you bleeding?”
“No.”
“Are you dizzy?”
“A little, but that’s mostly because I’m mad.”
Spencer makes a sound that might be a laugh if he wasn’t so wrecked. “Can you check your incision for me? Just to make sure nothing pulled since it’s not completely scarred over yet?”
You do, carefully, lifting the edge of your shirt. “It’s fine. Everything looks the same.”
“Okay,” he says again, softer. “Okay. Take the pain medication you’re supposed to take. Not the ‘I’m stubborn and I’ll suffer’ version.”
“Fine.”
“And hydrate,” he adds.
“Yes, dad.”
Spencer exhales through his nose. “I already told you not to call me that.”
“Then stop sounding like you’re about to ground me.”
A tiny, unwilling laugh slips out of him. “That’s fair.” He lets out a breath that actually sounds like relief. “Thank you,” he adds quietly.
You blink. “For what?”
“For calling,” he says. “For telling me instead of… pretending it’s nothing.”
Something warm twists in your chest.
“You’re welcome,” you say, trying to keep it light. “I’m okay, I promise. Don’t cry about it.”
“I’m not going to cry.”
“You sound like you want to cry.”
Spencer huffs. “I’m having a very normal reaction from three states away.”
You smile into the phone before you can stop yourself. “Okay.”
His voice softens. “I love you.”
The words don’t scare you the way they used to. Instead, they settle you.
“I know. I love you too.”
—
When Spencer walks through your door the following evening, you can tell immediately he’s been holding himself together with sheer force of will.
His suit is rumpled. His curls are wind-mussed. His eyes look tired in a way that makes you want to pull him into bed and keep him there for a week.
He drops his bag by the door and crosses the apartment in three long strides, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He stops in front of where you’re sitting on the couch and just looks at you.
“You’re okay,” he says breathlessly.
You tilt your head. “I told you I was.”
Spencer crouches in front of you, hands on your knees, careful not to jostle you. He presses his forehead to your thigh for a second, eyes closed, and you feel him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for days.
“You missed me,” you say, because you’re you.
Spencer lifts his head and looks at you with a tired, helpless kind of honesty. “Yes.”
You smile, soft around the edges. “Good.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm and grounding, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.
When he pulls back, his thumb strokes your knee absent-mindedly. “I hated being away from you.”
You arch a brow. “You’re going to have to get better at it. It’s still gonna be a while before they sign off on me coming back to work.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “I’ll try.”
He stands and holds out his hand to help you up, like he always does now. You take it, because you’re learning when to let him.
He pulls you into his chest carefully, arms wrapping around you. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing each other in, the apartment finally feeling right again.
“You’re home,” you murmur.
Spencer kisses your hair. “I’m home.”
—
Later that night, the apartment settles into one of those rare, quiet silences that actually feels earned.
The dishes are done. The lights are low. Somewhere outside, a siren passes and fades. Spencer checks the lock twice, the same way he always does.
You’re already in bed when he comes back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He sets one on your nightstand, slides in beside you, and reaches automatically for the book he abandoned on the nightstand before he left.
You’ve been watching him since he walked into the room, which becomes obvious the second he looks up and catches you in the act.
His mouth lifts at one corner. “What?”
You shrug one shoulder against the pillow. “Nothing.”
Spencer gives you a look over the top of his glasses. “That’s almost never true.”
“You just look weirdly good in my bed. It’s annoying.”
That gets a real laugh out of him, soft and surprised. “Weirdly good?”
“Yeah. Like you belong there or something. It’s very rude.”
Spencer closes the book and sets it aside. He shifts closer, careful by habit now, one hand settling lightly at your waist. His thumb moves once, slow and absentminded.
“I do belong here,” he says gently. “You gave me a key.”
You snort. “Under duress.”
“And yet you haven’t asked for it back.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t get smug. It’s unattractive.”
Spencer’s smile softens. He studies you for a beat, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter.
“You okay?”
The question lands differently now. Less like triage. More like him.
You take your time answering. “Yeah,” you say. Then, because that’s not quite enough and he’ll hear that immediately, you add, “I just keep having these moments where I look at you and remember all over again that this is real.”
His expression changes at that, just enough to make your chest tighten.
“What part doesn’t feel real?” he asks.
You glance back at him. “All of it. Mostly the part where you love me enough to alphabetize my spice cabinet and terrorize me with sticky notes and call me seventeen times a day when you leave town.”
Spencer looks faintly offended. “It was not seventeen times.”
“It was close enough.”
He huffs a laugh, but there’s something softer under it. Something a little wrecked.
You shift a little closer, the motion slow and careful. His hand tightens at your waist on instinct, then eases when you settle.
“I’m still getting used to it,” you admit.
“To what?”
You look at him for a long second before answering. “Having someone I miss before they’ve even been gone a full day,” you say. “Having someone who…” You stop, annoyed at yourself, then force it out anyway. “Who feels this much like mine.”
Spencer goes very still. Then he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair back from your face, fingertips skimming your temple tenderly.
“You say things like that,” he murmurs, “and somehow you still wonder why I can’t help but call.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm and careful in all the places that matter. It starts soft, but there’s heat under it almost immediately. Enough to make your pulse jump. Enough to remind you both of what’s waiting on the other side of healing.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours.
“I love you,” he says quietly, like the words still matter too much to ever get careless with them.
They do. They probably always will.
You touch his arm, then slide your hand down until your fingers lace with his.
“I know you do,” you whisper first, because you can’t help yourself.
Spencer’s mouth twitches.
Then you add, “I love you too.”
His eyes close for a second, and something in his face loosens, like he’ll never quite stop being affected by hearing it.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You have physical therapy in the morning.”
You groan. “Way to kill the vibe.”
Spencer smiles against your skin. “I’m a professional.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he says, settling beside you, hand still wrapped around yours under the blanket, “you love me.”
You let out a soft breath that might be a laugh, might be surrender, might be something a little too close to actual happiness.
“Yeah,” you murmur into the dark. “And yet.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
summary: getting shot was dramatic, but recovering is worse. especially now that spencer reid has a key to your apartment and a color-coded plan for your survival.
genre: hurt/comfort, flangst tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, mentions of a gunshot wound/incision/scar (not graphic), reader is prescribed narcotics (not a plot point or issue but still, TW if you want to avoid), caretaker spencer reid, arguments, reader is very bad at being taken care of, spencer is clingy, actually they’re both clingy, domestic fluff, kissing, no use of y/n. fyi this fic will make more sense if you’ve read liminal first! 6.6k words
a/n: to everyone who waited patiently while i worked through writer’s block and life stuff, thank you :’) sorry if this is a tad boring but i felt like it wouldn’t be right to ignore reader’s recovery phase after getting shot. next part won’t take as long I promise lol | GIF by @reidgif 🫶🏼
greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀
The ride home from the hospital takes longer than it should.
It’s D.C., which means everything is fifteen minutes away yet somehow still takes an hour, so you’re half asleep against the window by the time Spencer pulls into your building’s parking garage. The pain meds haven’t knocked you out completely; they’ve just dulled you into a soft, irritated haze where your body feels like it belongs to someone else and you’re borrowing it under protest.
Spencer circles around the car before you can reach for the handle. Of course he does.
“I can do it,” you mumble as he opens your door.
“I know,” he replies, voice gentle in that maddening way that makes it impossible to argue with him. “Let me anyway.”
He reaches down and offers you his hand. Your fingers curl around his and he steadies you as you shift out of the car, careful of your side, careful of everything. The movement pulls at the tender spot against your ribs and you suck in a breath through your teeth.
Spencer’s eyes flick to your face immediately.
“I’m okay,” you insist.
He nods like he hears you, but his hand tightens just slightly like he doesn’t believe you. “Just— please take it slow,” he says. You bite back the instinct to snap, because you know he’s doing it with love and fear in equal measure.
He guides you toward the elevator, and you lean in closer to him as the elevator doors slide shut. Spencer presses the button for your floor with his free hand, then glances down at you.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs.
You snort, which is a terrible idea, because laughing hurts. “Please stop talking to me like I’m a wounded bird.”
His mouth twitches. “You are kind of a wounded bird.”
“I’m not a bird,” you say. “If anything, I’m—” You pause, searching for something that feels like you. “A raccoon.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “A raccoon?”
“Mean, scrappy, nocturnal,” you list. “Has tiny hands.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “You do not have tiny hands.”
“Compared to yours, I do.”
His gaze drops to your intertwined fingers. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, grounding stroke that makes something in your chest loosen.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, very quietly.
You blink at the elevator doors and pretend the sudden tightness in your throat is from the stale air. “You’ve seen me literally all day, every day.”
“True,” he agrees. “But you know what I mean.”
The elevator dings.
Spencer’s hand slips from yours to your lower back as you walk. You make it three steps before you realize your key isn’t in your pocket, because you haven’t worn pants with real pockets in… well, a while.
Spencer doesn’t even slow down. He just reaches into his jacket and pulls out his keyring—
His keyring, now featuring his very own key to your apartment.
The memory flickers in, fast and foggy. You, doped up and pissed off, shoving your spare into his palm because you needed your iPod and your charger and really anything to pass the time that wasn’t hospital-grade.
You told yourself giving him a key was practical.
He told himself the same thing. His eyes still went bright anyway.
Back in the present, your stomach does a weird little flip.
He catches it. “I— I can give it back,” he says quickly. “If you want.”
You shake your head softly. “Don’t be dumb,” you murmur.
Spencer fights a smile as he slides the key into the lock like he’s done it a hundred times. The door opens and warm air spills out, carrying the scent of laundry detergent and candles and your apartment’s familiar, slightly dusty personality.
You step inside and stop in your tracks.
Your records are still on their shelves; your boots are still kicked off by the entryway; your leather jacket is still draped on the back of a chair. It’s the same place you left the morning you got shot.
But it’s also… different.
Cleaner, for one. Dishes gone. Counters wiped. Blankets folded. There’s a paper grocery bag on the table and a small tray of gauze and medical tape and antibacterial soap next to the sink.
And then you notice it: more of Spencer’s things that weren’t here before. A few more of his books added to your shelves. His telescope set up by the living room window. The blanket he usually keeps on the back of his couch, now taking up residence on yours. A soft gray cardigan hanging on the hook by the door like it belongs here.
Like he belongs here.
“I, uh, stopped by yesterday while you were napping to make sure things were in order before your discharge,” Spencer explains, hovering close but trying not to look like he’s hovering.
You glance at him. “So you cleaned, and made yourself at home as well?”
Spencer’s smile is tired but real. “Yes,” he admits. “I told you already, you’re going to heal, and I'm going to be with you for all of it.”
Your apartment has always been the place you can shut the door and disappear, the place no one has a key to unless you hand it over. Your spine should go stiff at the sight of his cardigan on your hook. You should feel your skin crawl.
But instead, you feel… strangely steady.
Spencer watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to insist he doesn’t need to stay with you during your recovery.
You don’t say anything.
Spencer’s hand finds yours again and he guides you toward your room. He helps you sit on the edge of the bed and immediately starts arranging pillows behind you with the intensity of someone building a small, medically approved throne.
“You’re nesting,” you observe.
“I’m just making sure you have enough support to keep your weight off your side," he explains, adjusting one pillow two inches.
You stare at him. “Spencer.”
He pauses, hands still on the pillow. “Yeah?”
“You’re going to drive yourself insane,” you tell him, softer than you mean to.
“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “But… you’re here.”
Your pulse trips. You swallow around it.
He clears his throat and reaches into his bag on the floor. “Okay. Let’s discuss your medication regimen.”
You groan. “Oh my god.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “I… I made a schedule.”
“I figured you did.”
“It’s not too complicated,” he says, already defensive, which would be funny if it didn’t hit something tender. “It’s just so you don’t take too much of anything by accident, and so you don’t miss any doses. And there are—” He stops, catches himself, steadies. “There are options, for the, uh, painkillers, depending on your level of discomfort.”
He holds up a sheet of cardstock paper with times and dosage details and color-coded checkboxes to keep track of everything.
You stare at it. Then at him. “You’re being such a dad.”
“I’m being practical.”
“Sure, dad.”
Spencer sighs, but his hand keeps shaking slightly as he lays the paper on your nightstand. “Please don’t call me that. And just… will you humor me?”
You pick up the paper and tap it once with your finger. “Fine. But if you laminate this, I’m telling Morgan.”
Spencer’s laugh is quiet, relieved. “Fair.”
He brings you a glass of water and sits down on the edge of the bed. He watches you take the first dose like he’s counting the seconds between your breaths.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“Definitely.” He leans in and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth like he can’t help it. “I can’t help it. I’m just so glad you’re here,” he murmurs between more kisses.
“Someone’s feeling sappy,” you tease.
“Is a man in love not allowed to be sappy?”
Oh. There’s that word again—
Love.
It still feels new, and weird, and wonderful every time you hear it.
“Mm, fine. I guess it’s allowed,” you relent.
Later, after somehow staying upright long enough to brush your teeth and change into pajamas, you settle back into bed. Spencer fusses with the blankets for a minute, and then just… stops.
He stands there, hands flexing once at his sides.
“Well?” you ask, squinting. “What are you waiting for?”
Spencer’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay careful. “I… I was going to go sleep on the couch.”
You stare at him. “…Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re still healing, and I don’t want to—” He swallows. “I don’t want to risk hurting you. And I thought you might want space.”
Something in your chest pinches at the worry in his voice.
“Spence,” you say gently. “Get in.”
He hesitates.
You pat the mattress with as much authority as you can manage while held together by stitches. “I’m not asking you to wrestle me. I’m just asking you to sleep next to me.”
Spencer’s eyes soften. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m… tired of waking up in a bed without you,” you admit.
That does it. He eases down with ridiculous care, like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of being the one to crack you.
He wraps his arm around you gently, and you shift the smallest amount closer. It’s enough for him to go still before relaxing fully.
“Welcome home,” he whispers, his breath warming the back of your neck. “I love you.”
You close your eyes and let yourself believe it.
—
Your first week home becomes a series of tiny negotiations and small victories.
Spencer sets alarms for your meds; you take the antibiotics but hold off on the narcotics as long as you can manage. He makes you eat something with protein in it; you complain the entire time and still finish the bowl. Garcia shows up with a care package that includes fuzzy socks and another stuffed animal you swear you don’t want. Morgan checks in with a text every day. JJ and Emily drop off a stack of case files you’re “not supposed to look at,” but they do it with a wink. Rossi swings by once with a tray of homemade carbonara and a strict warning not to overdo it.
Once, in the middle of the night, Spencer wakes up suddenly and bolts upright, eyes wide like he’s listening for a sound only he can hear. You don’t ask why — you just slide your hand into his and feel him remember how to breathe.
By day six, you can walk to the kitchen without getting dizzy. By day seven, Spencer’s started to say “love you” whenever he leaves the room the same way he says “be right back,” and your reply becomes automatic. Love you too.
It scares you a little.
It steadies you more.
—
By the time you hit the two-week mark, you can do most of the basics again. Not the big things; not the things that matter to your pride — but the small things. The humiliating little tasks that used to be so automatic you never thought about them. Standing at the sink long enough to wash your face without needing to sit down. Walking from the bedroom to the couch without holding your breath like you’re bargaining with your own ribs. Pouring yourself a glass of water and not feeling your vision tilt.
You can do those things now, but Spencer still acts like you can’t.
It becomes routine: Spencer anticipating your needs before you can even admit you have them. He gets you a blanket before you feel cold. He slides a pillow behind your back before you realize you’re slouching. He asks if you’ve eaten. He asks if you’ve taken your meds. He asks if you’ve reached your step goal yet. He asks you to rate your pain on a scale of 1-10. He watches your face when you breathe.
You tell yourself it’s love, because you know it is. But it’s not just that — it’s love twisted with fear so tightly they’ve fused together.
This morning, you wake up to Spencer sitting beside you in bed with a book open in his lap. His glasses are on. His hair is messy in that soft way it always gets when he’s been running his hands through it.
He looks down when you move. His gaze goes instantly to your side, like he can see through the blanket.
“How’s your pain?” he asks.
You blink at him. “Good morning to you too.”
His mouth twitches, apologetic. “Sorry. Good morning, honey.”
You shift carefully and an ache blooms, dull and annoying. You keep your face neutral anyway.
“My pain is fine,” you insist. “I’m gonna go make coffee.”
Spencer closes his book immediately. “I can do it.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed. “I didn’t ask you to.”
He’s already up. He’s always already up. Like some nervous part of him has been waiting for the moment you try to do something alone so he can step in before anything goes wrong.
“Just let me,” he insists.
You ignore him and stand slowly, starting toward the kitchen.
Spencer follows you. It’s like walking with a shadow that thinks it’s your supervisor.
“I’m not going to faint, Spencer,” you say, eyes forward.
“I know,” he replies.
You get to the kitchen and reach for the cabinet. Spencer reaches first.
You stop. Stare at his hand on the mug.
He freezes, then slowly draws it back like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing.
You take the mug. You feel him watching you the entire time you set it on the counter.
When you reach for the coffee grounds, Spencer’s hand darts out again. Your fingers still.
He notices and drops his hand like it burned you.
You inhale slowly and feel the pull in your incision. That little reminder that your body is still healing, still tender, still not yours to command.
“Stop,” you say quietly, turning around to face him.
Spencer looks up. His expression is filled with concern. “Stop what?”
“Everything. You’re trying to do everything for me.”
His brows lift. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is,” you insist, and the sharpness comes out before you can sand it down. “You’re hovering constantly, Spencer. I’m not trying to run a marathon. I’m making a pot of coffee.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m not trying to stop you from making coffee. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t overdo it.”
“No. You're suffocating me.”
The word lands hard in the small kitchen.
Spencer goes still. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick toward your side, then back to your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue with you or agree.
“I’m just trying to keep you safe. Sue me, but I’d rather annoy you than miss something.”
“I am safe,” you say. “I’m home. I’m alive. I’m not bleeding out.”
Spencer’s throat moves as he swallows.
“You think I don’t know that?”
You hate yourself for it, but this frustration has been building for days. For every moment you’ve tried to be grateful and patient and reasonable while slowly going insane.
“I think you’re acting like I can’t even make coffee without dying,” you snap.
“That’s not true.”
“Is it not?” You gesture around the apartment. “You’ve taken over everything, Spencer. You refill my water. You carry my phone. You bring me snacks like I’m a toddler. You keep asking me if I’m okay every five minutes.”
Spencer exhales slowly. “Because you keep lying.”
Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You do,” he says, and now his voice is sharper too, because you pushed and pushed until you found the edge. “You tell me you’re fine and then I catch you grimacing when you stand up. You say your pain is nothing and then your hands shake when you reach for something. You think I don’t notice?”
You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears.
“I didn’t want you to notice,” you admit quietly.
Spencer’s expression flickers. “I can’t not notice.”
He steps closer, hands open at his sides like he’s trying to show you he’s not trying to control you.
“I love you,” he says, quiet but firm. “And I watched you almost die. So yes, I’m going to ask if you’re okay. I’m going to be too careful. I don’t know how not to be right now.”
Your chest tightens, and for a second you almost crumble. It would be easier if the problem was that he didn’t care. It would be easier if you could be righteously angry.
But he cares so much it’s spilling everywhere, and you don’t know where to put it.
“I know,” you say, voice rough. “I know you love me. I know why you’re acting like this. That’s not the problem.”
Spencer’s eyes search yours. “Then what is?”
You swallow.
The real answer has been sitting in your throat like a stone.
“It doesn’t feel like we’re dating anymore,” you admit finally.
Spencer blinks, startled. “What?”
“It feels like I have a live-in nurse,” you say, and your tone turns bitter because you hate that you’re admitting this out loud, “who happens to share a bed with me. And yeah, you hold my hand, and you kiss my forehead, and you tell me you love me. But it… it doesn’t feel romantic.”
Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks genuinely caught off guard, like he’s been so consumed by the task of keeping you safe that he hasn’t realized what he’s been losing in the process.
“I didn’t know it felt like that for you,” he says finally. “I thought… I thought being careful was part of loving you right now.”
“I know,” you say, frustrated now for reasons that have nothing to do with coffee. “And I know it probably sounds selfish and unfair and maybe a little insane, considering the circumstances. But I’m not asking you to forget I’m healing.” Your throat tightens. “I’m asking you to act like you still want me.”
Spencer goes very still.
His eyes soften first, then darken with something complicated. Guilt. Hurt. Fear. Desire that he’s been keeping on a leash.
“You think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice low.
Heat crawls up your neck. You look away, because it’s humiliating. “It’s hard to tell anymore.”
Spencer makes a small sound. He steps closer and gently circles your wrists with his fingers. His gaze is steady, intense, very Spencer. The kind of intensity that feels like being seen too clearly.
“I want you all the time,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
He raises one hand to cradle your face, his thumb slowly brushing over your pulse point.
“I want you when you’re asleep,” he continues, voice quiet but unwavering. “I want you when you roll your eyes at me and call me insufferable. I want you right now while you’re mad at me in this kitchen.”
He swallows, throat working, as if the truth tastes sharp.
“But you’re healing,” he says, and now the fear edges back in. “I’m terrified of being careless for one second and making things worse. I’m terrified you’ll push yourself because you think you have to prove something. So I… I’ve been trying to be good.”
You stare at him, heart pounding hard enough to feel it in your fingertips.
“That’s the problem. You’re being so good you’re not being you.” You let out a shaky breath and your anger collapses into something messy and raw and honest. “I miss you,” you admit, and it feels ridiculous because he’s been in your apartment every day, in your bed every night, literally holding you together with his hands. “I miss you acting like my boyfriend. I miss flirting. I miss you looking at me like you can’t help it. I miss feeling like we’re… us.”
Spencer’s eyes go bright. He blinks once, fast. He loosens his grip around your wrist and slides his palm into yours.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“You were busy keeping me alive.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay serious. “I was busy being scared.”
You take a careful breath.
“I’m scared too,” you confess. “I hate needing help. I hate feeling weak. I hate that my body can’t do what I want it to do. And I hate that I’m… mad at you for loving me, because it makes me feel like a terrible person.”
“You’re not terrible,” Spencer says immediately.
“I kind of am,” you mumble.
Spencer shakes his head, firm. “You’re human. And you’re injured. And you’re used to being in control.”
You scowl. “I’m still in control.”
He raises his brows. “You were literally shot.”
You glare at him. “Stop bringing that up.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches again, but then he grows serious, leaning in a little closer.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Tell me what you need.”
You hate the question immediately, which is usually how you know it matters.
“I need you to stop treating me like I’m going to break,” you reply. “I need you to let me do things myself sometimes.”
Spencer nods once. “Okay.”
“And I need you to… still be my boyfriend,” you add, voice smaller. “Not just my caretaker.”
Spencer’s gaze softens. “I can do that.”
You swallow. “Can you?”
His thumb strokes your knuckles, grounding.
“Yes,” he says, and there’s something steadier in him now, something like a decision. “I can. I want to.”
He hesitates a moment, then leans in and kisses you. It’s careful, because he’s careful, but it’s not chaste. It’s Spencer kissing you like he’s been holding back and he’s finally letting himself show you that he hasn’t stopped wanting you for even a second.
Your hand tightens around his. Your body aches. Your chest aches more.
When he pulls back, he stays close enough that you can feel his breath.
“I’m still your boyfriend,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
Your eyes burn. You blink hard and try to cover it with sarcasm. “Good. Because your bedside manner was getting a little weird, Doc.”
Spencer lets out a quiet laugh, relief threaded through it. “Okay. New rule,” he says, voice gentle but serious.
You squint. “Oh god.”
He looks amused. “You get to tell me when you want help. I’ll try my best to stop jumping in first unless it’s something genuinely unsafe.”
“And you,” you say, because it can’t be one-sided. “You’re allowed to… check in. But not every five minutes.”
He nods. “Reasonable.”
“And,” you add, because you can’t stop yourself, “you have to kiss me like that once a day.”
His brows lift teasingly. “Only once a day?”
“At minimum,” you reply.
His smile turns soft and devastating. “Deal.”
You exhale slowly, the fight draining out of you. Spencer lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. It’s old-fashioned in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“Alright. So. You’re making coffee,” he says.
“I am,” you confirm.
He steps back, hands up in mock surrender. “And I’m letting you.”
You glare. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he replies, and his voice is lighter now. “You’re making it weird.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and reach for the coffee grounds again.
This time, Spencer doesn’t move.
He just watches you like you’re something miraculous and frustrating and real.
And when you glance up at him, he says it, quiet and easy, like it belongs in the kitchen with the smell of coffee:
“I love you.”
Your heart stutters.
You roll your eyes, because you have a reputation.
“I love you too,” you say, and then add, “Now go sit down. Your nervous energy is making me nervous.”
Spencer laughs, and the sound feels like the first truly normal thing that’s happened in your apartment in days.
—
Time starts moving again in small ways.
Over the next few weeks, your world expands by degrees. The apartment stops feeling enormous. You start taking longer walks — first to the elevator and back, then downstairs to the lobby, then out onto the sidewalk for ten slow minutes of fresh air that leave you more tired than they should. The bruising fades from angry purple to yellow, then disappears entirely. The incision stops feeling like a live wire every time you breathe and settles into something duller, meaner, more familiar. A scar instead of an open wound. You still hurt, but it’s the kind of hurt you can plan around now.
By the start of week five, Spencer’s back at Quantico. It makes him miserable in a way he tries very hard to hide, but he fails, just as miserably. He packs your lunch like you’re the one leaving. He leaves sticky notes around the apartment with things like eat something real and take the pain meds if you need them and drink more water in his messy, sweet scrawl. He texts you reminders you absolutely do not need. He calls on his lunch break just to hear your voice, then pretends he had a real reason to call.
You let him lie about that.
That Friday, he comes home early. His tie is loose. His shoulders are tight. He drops his bag by the door and crosses straight to you on the couch, leaning in to kiss you hello longer than usual, like he’s trying to reassure himself you’re still here.
You pull back just enough to study his face. “What’s wrong?”
Spencer exhales and rests his forehead against yours for a beat. “There’s a case,” he says quietly. “They need me to start traveling with the team again.”
The news settles awkwardly in your chest. You’ve been waiting for this part. Expecting it, even. Spencer was always going to go back into the field eventually. Still, the thought of him being somewhere else while you’re here makes your apartment feel different before he’s even gone.
You keep your face even. “Okay.”
Spencer’s eyes soften. He looks at you for a second like he knows that one word is doing a lot of work.
“It’ll only be a few days,” he says. “And I’ll call whenever I can.”
You huff softly through your nose. “You already call me too much.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m choosing to hear that as encouragement.”
That earns the smallest smile from you.
He kisses you again, careful and warm. “If you need me, you call,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I don’t care where I am.”
You roll your eyes because you have standards. “Please. I’m not going to interrupt an active FBI investigation unless I’m on fire.”
Spencer leans back just enough to give you a look. He brushes his thumb over your cheek once, then kisses the corner of your mouth. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Yeah,” you mutter. “You better be.”
And when he pulls away, the apartment already feels a little too quiet.
—
The first thing you learn after Spencer leaves is how quickly absence can rearrange a room.
The second thing you learn is something deeply offensive: you miss him instantly.
Not in a cute, wistful way, but in a way that makes your ribs ache with the wrong kind of pressure. Like your body has gotten used to having his presence pressed up against it all the time, and now it’s confused about what to do with itself.
It’s ridiculous.
You’ve been alone your whole life. You practically invented solitude as a coping mechanism. You used to go entire weekends without speaking to another person and call it self-care.
Now your apartment feels wrong without the sound of Spencer moving through it.
You glare at the empty room like it personally betrayed you. “This is stupid,” you mutter.
The room does not apologize.
—
Spencer calls you before he even lands.
He calls again after they get to the hotel. He calls in the morning while he’s walking from the briefing room to the SUV. He calls between interviews. He calls so often you start to wonder if the team is going to file a formal complaint.
By the second day he’s away, Morgan texts you:
Reid is being weird.
You reply:
you say this as if that’s not his default setting
Morgan sends back a laughing emoji and nothing else, which is somehow the most Derek Morgan response possible.
On Spencer’s third call of the morning, you answer with, “Hi. Yes. I’m still alive. No, I have not mysteriously dissolved into a puddle in the hour since we last spoke. How’s your day going?”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “Okay. Sorry. I’m not trying to be overbearing.”
“You’re not,” you tell him, because it’s true. “You’re just being a little annoying.”
His laugh is soft. “That’s fair.”
You shift on the couch and glance at the TV, muted. A mindless reality show you haven’t really been watching. You haven’t been able to focus on anything longer than ten minutes since he left, which is deeply humiliating.
“How’s the case?” you ask, because it feels normal. It feels like you.
Spencer’s voice changes, subtly, work mode creeping in. “It’s… messy,” he says. “There’s a pattern, but it’s inconsistent. Rossi thinks the unsub is escalating, but we don’t have enough to confirm it yet.”
You sit up a little straighter without thinking. Your body protests and you ignore it, because you’re you.
“What does victimology look like?” you ask.
Spencer pauses. You can practically hear the smile in his voice. “You miss it.”
“I miss not being stuck on my couch like a Victorian invalid,” you correct. “And yes. I miss the job. Obviously. Now tell me the details.”
He fills you in in careful, bite-sized pieces, like he’s worried you’ll get too invested and push yourself. You listen anyway. You ask questions. You feel the familiar itch in your brain — the one that only casework scratches.
Later that night, he texts you a selfie.
It is, without exaggeration, one of the worst photos you’ve ever seen. It’s also, unfortunately, adorable.
The angle is off. His face is too close to the camera. Part of his head is cropped out. His glasses are crooked. Half his hair is sticking up. He’s wearing a ridiculously patterned shirt you’ve mocked before. He’s very obviously pouting.
The caption reads:
Proof of life. Promise I’m not miserable.
You stare at it for ten full seconds, then burst into laughter so loud you immediately regret it. You clutch your side, wheezing, and type back:
that is the face of a man who is definitely miserable (and has definitely never taken a selfie before)
His reply comes fast:
Rude.
You laugh again, softer this time, and the warmth that spreads through you is almost annoying. Because he’s not here, and you somehow still feel held.
—
This morning, you overdo it.
You decide you can carry a package up to your apartment from the lobby without a cart because it’s not that heavy and you’re not helpless and you’re not weak and you’re not—
Your body disagrees halfway to the elevator.
By the time you make it back into your apartment, you’re sweaty and irritated and your side feels tight and angry. You sit down hard on the couch and stare at your hands like they personally failed you.
You could take a breath, take something for the pain, pretend it didn’t happen, and tell Spencer weeks later as a funny anecdote so he doesn’t freak out.
You could.
Instead, you pick up your phone and call him.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
“Don’t freak out,” you say.
Spencer goes silent for a beat. “That’s a terrible way to start a conversation.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back against the couch. “I picked up a package from the front desk. It was heavier than I thought. Now my side hurts and I’m annoyed.”
Spencer exhales sharply, and you can hear the fear in it, the way his nervous system still doesn’t know the difference between discomfort and disaster.
“Okay,” he says, voice steadying as he forces it into place. “Are you bleeding?”
“No.”
“Are you dizzy?”
“A little, but that’s mostly because I’m mad.”
Spencer makes a sound that might be a laugh if he wasn’t so wrecked. “Can you check your incision for me? Just to make sure nothing pulled since it’s not completely scarred over yet?”
You do, carefully, lifting the edge of your shirt. “It’s fine. Everything looks the same.”
“Okay,” he says again, softer. “Okay. Take the pain medication you’re supposed to take. Not the ‘I’m stubborn and I’ll suffer’ version.”
“Fine.”
“And hydrate,” he adds.
“Yes, dad.”
Spencer exhales through his nose. “I already told you not to call me that.”
“Then stop sounding like you’re about to ground me.”
A tiny, unwilling laugh slips out of him. “That’s fair.” He lets out a breath that actually sounds like relief. “Thank you,” he adds quietly.
You blink. “For what?”
“For calling,” he says. “For telling me instead of… pretending it’s nothing.”
Something warm twists in your chest.
“You’re welcome,” you say, trying to keep it light. “I’m okay, I promise. Don’t cry about it.”
“I’m not going to cry.”
“You sound like you want to cry.”
Spencer huffs. “I’m having a very normal reaction from three states away.”
You smile into the phone before you can stop yourself. “Okay.”
His voice softens. “I love you.”
The words don’t scare you the way they used to. Instead, they settle you.
“I know. I love you too.”
—
When Spencer walks through your door the following evening, you can tell immediately he’s been holding himself together with sheer force of will.
His suit is rumpled. His curls are wind-mussed. His eyes look tired in a way that makes you want to pull him into bed and keep him there for a week.
He drops his bag by the door and crosses the apartment in three long strides, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He stops in front of where you’re sitting on the couch and just looks at you.
“You’re okay,” he says breathlessly.
You tilt your head. “I told you I was.”
Spencer crouches in front of you, hands on your knees, careful not to jostle you. He presses his forehead to your thigh for a second, eyes closed, and you feel him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for days.
“You missed me,” you say, because you’re you.
Spencer lifts his head and looks at you with a tired, helpless kind of honesty. “Yes.”
You smile, soft around the edges. “Good.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm and grounding, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.
When he pulls back, his thumb strokes your knee absent-mindedly. “I hated being away from you.”
You arch a brow. “You’re going to have to get better at it. It’s still gonna be a while before they sign off on me coming back to work.”
Spencer’s mouth twitches. “I’ll try.”
He stands and holds out his hand to help you up, like he always does now. You take it, because you’re learning when to let him.
He pulls you into his chest carefully, arms wrapping around you. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing each other in, the apartment finally feeling right again.
“You’re home,” you murmur.
Spencer kisses your hair. “I’m home.”
—
Later that night, the apartment settles into one of those rare, quiet silences that actually feels earned.
The dishes are done. The lights are low. Somewhere outside, a siren passes and fades. Spencer checks the lock twice, the same way he always does.
You’re already in bed when he comes back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He sets one on your nightstand, slides in beside you, and reaches automatically for the book he abandoned on the nightstand before he left.
You’ve been watching him since he walked into the room, which becomes obvious the second he looks up and catches you in the act.
His mouth lifts at one corner. “What?”
You shrug one shoulder against the pillow. “Nothing.”
Spencer gives you a look over the top of his glasses. “That’s almost never true.”
“You just look weirdly good in my bed. It’s annoying.”
That gets a real laugh out of him, soft and surprised. “Weirdly good?”
“Yeah. Like you belong there or something. It’s very rude.”
Spencer closes the book and sets it aside. He shifts closer, careful by habit now, one hand settling lightly at your waist. His thumb moves once, slow and absentminded.
“I do belong here,” he says gently. “You gave me a key.”
You snort. “Under duress.”
“And yet you haven’t asked for it back.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t get smug. It’s unattractive.”
Spencer’s smile softens. He studies you for a beat, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter.
“You okay?”
The question lands differently now. Less like triage. More like him.
You take your time answering. “Yeah,” you say. Then, because that’s not quite enough and he’ll hear that immediately, you add, “I just keep having these moments where I look at you and remember all over again that this is real.”
His expression changes at that, just enough to make your chest tighten.
“What part doesn’t feel real?” he asks.
You glance back at him. “All of it. Mostly the part where you love me enough to alphabetize my spice cabinet and terrorize me with sticky notes and call me seventeen times a day when you leave town.”
Spencer looks faintly offended. “It was not seventeen times.”
“It was close enough.”
He huffs a laugh, but there’s something softer under it. Something a little wrecked.
You shift a little closer, the motion slow and careful. His hand tightens at your waist on instinct, then eases when you settle.
“I’m still getting used to it,” you admit.
“To what?”
You look at him for a long second before answering. “Having someone I miss before they’ve even been gone a full day,” you say. “Having someone who…” You stop, annoyed at yourself, then force it out anyway. “Who feels this much like mine.”
Spencer goes very still. Then he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair back from your face, fingertips skimming your temple tenderly.
“You say things like that,” he murmurs, “and somehow you still wonder why I can’t help but call.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and warm and careful in all the places that matter. It starts soft, but there’s heat under it almost immediately. Enough to make your pulse jump. Enough to remind you both of what’s waiting on the other side of healing.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours.
“I love you,” he says quietly, like the words still matter too much to ever get careless with them.
They do. They probably always will.
You touch his arm, then slide your hand down until your fingers lace with his.
“I know you do,” you whisper first, because you can’t help yourself.
Spencer’s mouth twitches.
Then you add, “I love you too.”
His eyes close for a second, and something in his face loosens, like he’ll never quite stop being affected by hearing it.
“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You have physical therapy in the morning.”
You groan. “Way to kill the vibe.”
Spencer smiles against your skin. “I’m a professional.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he says, settling beside you, hand still wrapped around yours under the blanket, “you love me.”
You let out a soft breath that might be a laugh, might be surrender, might be something a little too close to actual happiness.
“Yeah,” you murmur into the dark. “And yet.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
Spencer prides himself on his ability to detect lies, to spot the tiniest inconsistencies in a person's story — it's the one thing he has always been able to rely on.
Which is why he feels such a disdain for the BAU's newest member. Unlike the rest of the team, Spencer isn't fooled by her veneer of normalcy. There's something off about her; a lack of warmth in her smiles, a lack of light behind her eyes...
She's hiding something. He knows she is.
He just needs to prove it, and her house of cards will come crashing down.
DISCLAIMER: this fic, whilst it is an x reader, features no use of y/n. the reader is instead referred to in vague terms — such as she or girl — or by her woefully ironic nickname: angel. additionally, the fic is narrated exclusively in third-person.
get to know angel here !
ACT ONE
001. Seven's a Crowd
when a new agent unexpectedly appears in the bullpen, spencer 'hates change' reid grows suspicious. can this mysterious woman be trusted, especially after he catches her in a lie on her first day?
002. Lucretius: Chaos and Order
five months into the new agent's stay at the BAU, she earns herself a nickname — one that spencer believes to be wholly undeserved. as tensions continue to grow, so does spencer's suspicion.
003. The FBI Code of Conduct
after an incident on the jet almost leads to a physical altercation. both spencer and angel are subjected to lectures regarding their recent conduct. spencer tries to repair a bridge that was never built, and angel receives a call from her past.
004. Rackensack
the BAU are called out to the remote town of st paul, arkansas to investigate a series of murders that leave windpipes crushed and fingers broken. when residents don't want to point fingers, can the team solve the case before the unsub finds their next victim? to make things worse, angel and reid have to share a motel room.
005. Smoking Kills
angel decides that the only way to get this case moving is to face their number one suspect one-on one. she quickly learns that such recklessness comes with a price.
006. Power
the team drag angel out on one of their notorious end-of-week evenings at the bar. with tensions at an all time high, can spencer keep himself in check after one too many whiskeys? (NSFW)
007. Family Matters
a case in alexandria hits a little too close to home for angel. despite their sour relationship, she is willing to risk her life, and her job, for spencer when a home visit go south.
008. City of Angels
the BAU are summoned to los angeles to tackle another series of murders. maybe it's just the humidity, but things are beginning to heat up between spencer and his 'angel'. (NSFW)
009. Dreams, Nightmares
a nightmare. a pain-in-the-ass case. an interrogation that ends with a flipped table. these long days in la seem to have softened the hard shells of two problem agents.
010. Emergency Stop
a conduct review with strauss turns into an argument that should end her career, but angel returns to her desk without as much as a written warning. spencer finally snaps as she pushes him to his limit. (NSFW)
011. Control
after the incident in the elevator, after getting spencer to admit that no, he doesn't hate her, angel decides it's about time she rewarded him. after all, it would be a shame to leave him in such a state of desperation again. (NSFW)
012. The 206
a glimpse behind the curtain reveals a side of angel that spencer had not known existed. but whatever flame was kindled that night is extinguished when angel must follow the team to the worst place on earth: home.
013. Respect
when a case leaves her with nothing but a haunted heart and a terrible, bone-deep exhaustion, spencer offers angel a shoulder to lean on. she expresses her gratitude by humiliating him in front of the team, and pisses him off for the 'last' time.
014. Unforeseen Circumstances
an unexpected phone call may ruin spencer's sunday plans, but it also provides him with the opportunity to go on a date with his 'enemy' whom he has definitely not caught feelings for. too preoccupied with his newfound optimism, he fails to notice the unease that trickles in through the cracks of this spur-of-the-moment meeting.
015. Work the Case, part one
when it's revealed that angel is now missing, aaron hotchner has a choice to make. does he bring in the team and expose angel's criminal past, ruining their perception of her? or does he handle this alone and hope for the best? meanwhile, angel has a much needed catch-up with a certain ex-boyfriend.
016. Work the Case, part two
the BAU are forced to reconcile with their coworker's criminal past. tensions rise as they realise the extent of her lies and begin questioning their faith in hotch. meanwhile, angel receives a call that completely derails her escape plan.
017. Back to New York
spencer has been kidnapped, and the BAU are falling to pieces trying to find him. but whilst they're scouring cctv footage from the safety of the academy, a certain angel has taken matters, and a loaded gun, into her own hands.
018. "Angel"
with angel having vanished once more, the team are left to pick up her pieces, and break even more rules, in the hopes of tracking her down. meanwhile, angel confronts the ghost of her past and things take an unexpected turn.
019. Questions Without Answers
when angel wakes up in the hospital, she expects to find herself utterly alone but, as it turns out, a certain genius has been camping at her bedside all day. their reunion is, however, overshadowed by their unit chief and his desire to know the truth about angel and her past.
and more to come...
Status report: unfinished, more chapters coming soon!
okay i just read all of this in one day and HOLY FUCKKKKKKK angelreid you have bewitched me i am in love with you both please just run away and be happy together i love you
i have SO many thoughts but all i can get out is MOREEE i can not WAIT for more. as soon as there's a new upload (whenever that may be of course there is NO rush take your time!!!!) I will be sat front and centre oh my goshhh
Spencer prides himself on his ability to detect lies, to spot the tiniest inconsistencies in a person's story — it's the one thing he has always been able to rely on.
Which is why he feels such a disdain for the BAU's newest member. Unlike the rest of the team, Spencer isn't fooled by her veneer of normalcy. There's something off about her; a lack of warmth in her smiles, a lack of light behind her eyes...
She's hiding something. He knows she is.
He just needs to prove it, and her house of cards will come crashing down.
DISCLAIMER: this fic, whilst it is an x reader, features no use of y/n. the reader is instead referred to in vague terms — such as she or girl — or by her woefully ironic nickname: angel. additionally, the fic is narrated exclusively in third-person.
get to know angel here !
ACT ONE
001. Seven's a Crowd
when a new agent unexpectedly appears in the bullpen, spencer 'hates change' reid grows suspicious. can this mysterious woman be trusted, especially after he catches her in a lie on her first day?
002. Lucretius: Chaos and Order
five months into the new agent's stay at the BAU, she earns herself a nickname — one that spencer believes to be wholly undeserved. as tensions continue to grow, so does spencer's suspicion.
003. The FBI Code of Conduct
after an incident on the jet almost leads to a physical altercation. both spencer and angel are subjected to lectures regarding their recent conduct. spencer tries to repair a bridge that was never built, and angel receives a call from her past.
004. Rackensack
the BAU are called out to the remote town of st paul, arkansas to investigate a series of murders that leave windpipes crushed and fingers broken. when residents don't want to point fingers, can the team solve the case before the unsub finds their next victim? to make things worse, angel and reid have to share a motel room.
005. Smoking Kills
angel decides that the only way to get this case moving is to face their number one suspect one-on one. she quickly learns that such recklessness comes with a price.
006. Power
the team drag angel out on one of their notorious end-of-week evenings at the bar. with tensions at an all time high, can spencer keep himself in check after one too many whiskeys? (NSFW)
007. Family Matters
a case in alexandria hits a little too close to home for angel. despite their sour relationship, she is willing to risk her life, and her job, for spencer when a home visit go south.
008. City of Angels
the BAU are summoned to los angeles to tackle another series of murders. maybe it's just the humidity, but things are beginning to heat up between spencer and his 'angel'. (NSFW)
009. Dreams, Nightmares
a nightmare. a pain-in-the-ass case. an interrogation that ends with a flipped table. these long days in la seem to have softened the hard shells of two problem agents.
010. Emergency Stop
a conduct review with strauss turns into an argument that should end her career, but angel returns to her desk without as much as a written warning. spencer finally snaps as she pushes him to his limit. (NSFW)
011. Control
after the incident in the elevator, after getting spencer to admit that no, he doesn't hate her, angel decides it's about time she rewarded him. after all, it would be a shame to leave him in such a state of desperation again. (NSFW)
012. The 206
a glimpse behind the curtain reveals a side of angel that spencer had not known existed. but whatever flame was kindled that night is extinguished when angel must follow the team to the worst place on earth: home.
013. Respect
when a case leaves her with nothing but a haunted heart and a terrible, bone-deep exhaustion, spencer offers angel a shoulder to lean on. she expresses her gratitude by humiliating him in front of the team, and pisses him off for the 'last' time.
014. Unforeseen Circumstances
an unexpected phone call may ruin spencer's sunday plans, but it also provides him with the opportunity to go on a date with his 'enemy' whom he has definitely not caught feelings for. too preoccupied with his newfound optimism, he fails to notice the unease that trickles in through the cracks of this spur-of-the-moment meeting.
015. Work the Case, part one
when it's revealed that angel is now missing, aaron hotchner has a choice to make. does he bring in the team and expose angel's criminal past, ruining their perception of her? or does he handle this alone and hope for the best? meanwhile, angel has a much needed catch-up with a certain ex-boyfriend.
016. Work the Case, part two
the BAU are forced to reconcile with their coworker's criminal past. tensions rise as they realise the extent of her lies and begin questioning their faith in hotch. meanwhile, angel receives a call that completely derails her escape plan.
017. Back to New York
spencer has been kidnapped, and the BAU are falling to pieces trying to find him. but whilst they're scouring cctv footage from the safety of the academy, a certain angel has taken matters, and a loaded gun, into her own hands.
018. "Angel"
with angel having vanished once more, the team are left to pick up her pieces, and break even more rules, in the hopes of tracking her down. meanwhile, angel confronts the ghost of her past and things take an unexpected turn.
019. Questions Without Answers
when angel wakes up in the hospital, she expects to find herself utterly alone but, as it turns out, a certain genius has been camping at her bedside all day. their reunion is, however, overshadowed by their unit chief and his desire to know the truth about angel and her past.
and more to come...
Status report: unfinished, more chapters coming soon!
i’ve been rewatching the first season of criminal minds (as one does) and I can’t help but notice and yearn for the attention to detail that slowly started fading in the later seasons. i miss the scholastic choice of colors and lightning that seemed just right for the show, the quirky transitions, the random slow-mo shots like at the end of the first episode where it dramatically zooms into Gideon’s eyes while he is being chased by the gunman, the comedic relief :( i know that as the show became bigger everything had to be more simple and standaridized but the first few seasons have a charm to them that the others lack. and it pains me so much when I see people say that they skip the first 3 seasons of the show because they don’t like Gideon or because they think it’s obvious that Mandy Patinkin hated the role. personally, I don’t think it’s that obvious, and if it was then it certainly served its purpose because as the show went on Gideon didn’t particularly love his job either. what do you mean you skipped the first 3 seasons??? the seasons that gave us revelations, profiler profiled, seven seconds, lucky???? not to mention some of the best finales. no one probably cares about this but I love this show and i feel very strongly about it 😭
summary: Spencer doesn’t understand the significance of a social media hard launch. To compromise, he invites you as his date to a faculty soiree, prompting a night filled with nosy colleagues, and PDA you tell yourself you don't enjoy.
contents: 6.4k, FLUFF, fake relationship, prof!reader with glasses, no use of y/n, so much denial, SO MUCH DENIAL, prof!reader being god’s strongest (and stupidest) fucking soldier, nosy colleagues, age/generational gap mentions, public “relationship” debut ohemgee, Spencer is the definition of “in a world of boys he’s a gentleman,” DARLING!!!, cute lil heart to heart at the end where they clocked each other's tea, soooo fluffy i gave myself type 2 diabetes
a/n: Thank you anon for this idea!!! I took some liberties, but the general vibe is the same I think. Pls suspend disbelief idk if universities actually organize soirees/parties for their faculty lol. Sorry for taking so long i hope this was worth the wait ilyyyy
You like to consider the online world as a vast socio-cultural landscape, entirely separate from reality but not removed from it. An ever-shifting space full of contradictions—curated perfection alongside messy authenticity, anonymity meeting identification. Some academics find it to be the perfect playground. Others, not so much.
You are one of the former. You think the digital space is both baffling and intriguing, which means you spend your precious spare time trying to understand it. But work and research keeps you busy, so the latest trends are often lost on you.
Spencer Reid is even worse at it.
Academic curiosity drives your participation. Spencer outright refuses. He considers his email social media.
Thus, getting him to commit to a hard launch post is proving to be a problem.
“But why?” he asks, sitting across from you at the spot you’ve accepted as your regular corner at The Brewery, brows knit in genuine confusion. “If you have to post one, then post it on your account. Why do I need to make my own?”
“So I can tag you!” you reply. This has been your third attempt at convincing him to make an Instagram account, even an empty, private one. You’re not even sure he knows what tagging means.
Truthfully, you’re not entirely sure what the purpose of a hard launch is, only that a lot of couples do it. From your observations and quick research (read: clicking on the first four, non AI-generated articles from Google), it’s meant to be both an announcement and a milestone. A combination of the inherently narcissistic look at us that tends to drive social media, and a more serious we’ve been dating long enough to know that we like each other and decided to make things exclusive. Equal parts celebratory and gloating.
Spencer doesn’t see the point of it.
“You can just write my name in the textbox.” he says, stirring another spoonful of sugar into his half-empty cup of coffee.
“Fine,” you relent, pushing your glasses up. “Damn it, I thought the third time was going to be the one to convince you.”
“Ah, third time’s indeed a charm, but in this case, it worked out in my favor.”
You get a very childish desire to pout, but that’s tamped down because you are a professional. Pouting is off the table, thank you very much. Instead, you let a sigh heave out, slow and annoyed.
Spencer’s teasing smile melts and blurs into affection and you’re forced to look back down at your tea again.
You hate how viscerally your body responds to him, always on the verge of burning when he’s near, your stomach roiling unpleasantly when he smiles just so. You are convinced that, deep in your soul, you still loathe him, and such physical reactions are mere evidence of this loathing.
Primal biology telling you to run far, far away and cancel this fake relationship arrangement.
Of course, you’re in too deep now. Might as well see this through, at least until your best friend’s wedding.
“Three’s an interesting number,” he starts when you make no reply, “It’s consistent across a number of mythologies and cultures, manifesting as a motif about—”
Your gaze flits back up, questioning. “What are you doing? Why the—what?”
He hesitates. “Erm, I thought you’d enjoy a discussion on the historical significance of the number. Since that expression didn’t simply spring from a vacuum. For centuries, the number three has always been present. Carl Jung even wrote about it, though I’m sure you already know that.”
“Are you trying to distract me by nerding out about the number three?”
“That, and steering the topic away from Instagram.”
A very unprofessional, very unserious, very loud snort leaves your body.
“That’s a new sound.”
“You’re keeping track of my… sounds?”
“I can’t help but remember everything you do.”
Another very unprofessional sound escapes, like a croak tripping its way out of your throat.
Spencer flushes. “No, no, I just mean, with my eidetic memory—”
“—Right, of course—”
“—not meant to be creepy—”
“—You’re the furthest thing from creepy.”
“It’s–I can’t exactly forget.” he runs a hand through his hair, chuckling lightly. “You. I can’t forget you. Or anything, really—”
“Spencer. I get it.” You do. You really, really do. It’s how his brain functions. Doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t make you special. “It’s fine, you don’t have to make me feel better about anything. I’ll post a picture by myself, if that’s the most you’ll let me do.”
“Yes, that’s–that’s fine. I just don’t want to make an account of my own.”
At the look of defeat on your face, he softens, hand reaching over the table. Presumably to touch yours. You cut it off by wrapping both palms over your teacup, and watch as he curls his into a fist in the middle of the table.
“Hey, it’s nothing personal, okay? I simply don’t want another avenue for students to find me.”
For the second time, you wince. He’s right, and it’s a little silly that you didn’t consider that.
“I didn’t think of that.” you admit quietly. “Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” His head tilts, curls catching the light. “Why’s it so important to you, anyway?”
You flush, averting your gaze from him—haloed and patient and entirely distracting. “It just seemed like something people did in normal relationships, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know, actually, no one in my circle is particularly fond of social media.” Spencer says, “Old friends, current colleagues.”
“It’s not like I spend all my time online,” you say, feeling a little defensive.
Spencer bridges the gap between your hands, fingertips landing on your wrist, his next words dipped in apology. “I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“I know,” you accept his warmth, even though it’s doing nothing to untangle the mess in your head right now. You stare at his hand, risk a glance up to his face, before glaring into your tea again. Finally, the words spill. “I don’t want them to think we’re just hooking up.”
“Oh? And who’s they?”
“Who else? The busybodies in the faculty.” You whisper the last part. The topic of your ‘relationship’ has shifted the rumors away from Spencer and his female students, but now, the speculation is about you. “I’d like to set things straight.”
You don’t tell him why it’s so important, why there’s a knot in your stomach every time he refuses. That you can’t afford getting a reputation for fooling around with a colleague. He could probably get away with it—he’s on track for a tenure position, with his amount of education and expertise across multiple fields.
You’re not even done with your PhD., studying a subject where opportunity is already quite scarce, up against savants and trailblazing thinkers. Geniuses. People like Spencer Reid, who, for his whole life, probably had grants and scholarship opportunities falling at his feet.
Spencer watches you with that indecipherable gaze, the one that makes the knot in your stomach tangle in on itself. You try not to shift in your seat, but restlessness overwhelms you anyway so you pull your glasses off and wipe away imaginary smudges.
“Would a public event count as a… a hard launch?” he asks suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“If we attend something together, say… a dinner party where I introduce you as my girlfriend, does that count?”
“I suppose it does, yeah. It’s still a public declaration, just not online.”
“Okay, then you can make a post online, and I’ll take you as my date, so we have all bases covered.”
“And whose dinner party do you suggest we crash?”
“Not crash. And not a dinner party either,” his lips twitch. You try to figure out if it’s a smile or a wince, but he smooths his expression and continues. “The soirée this weekend. We might as well go together.”
The soiree. You’d gone to it when you were still new, bright eyed and eager, but now the thought nauseates you. It’s something of a tradition for faculty, meant to encourage mingling among departments. A night of connections.
Or, in your experience, three to four hours of elaborate peacocking and dick measuring contests.
You used to think it was worth it—it’s free, for one thing, fully catered with a buffet table for the attendees. But after a couple of times, it became clear to you that it’s a shallow night. Connections only work if you already know the right people to initiate you into new groups. Asserting yourself simply makes one look needy and desperate.
Besides, most professors use the night as an excuse to drink and try to sleep with the young, inexperienced hires.
“I guess now would be a good time to tell you I wasn’t planning to go.”
Spencer’s brow quirks. “Why not?”
“Carrie hates them, so I didn’t have anyone to go with me. And it’s not fun going there alone, everyone gets so cliquey.” Once again, some version of the truth.
“But I’m going,” Spencer says, smiling, “So you won’t be alone. And what better way to announce to everyone that this is a serious relationship than coming together as a pair?” He highlights the word serious with a conspiratorial wink.
You must look unconvinced, because he adds, "It would be good practice too. Facing people together. We need to do that before the wedding, make sure what we're doing is believable."
You hate that he makes sense. You hate that he took your problem seriously, why couldn’t he have been dismissive and condescending about this? Why did he have to find a compromise? Now, if you disagree, you’re going to be the unreasonable one.
With a sigh, you nod. “All right, fine. Only if you promise to keep me company the whole night. I don’t want to deal with anyone hitting on me.”
The night of the soiree, you trade your usual wool slacks and button down shirts with the safest option in your closet—a classic little black dress and tights. You know they’d scoff if you came in your usual work clothes, but mumble snidely if you wore anything fancier. As usual, your presence requires a balancing act, one that you wish you didn’t have to adhere to, but you’ve mastered nonetheless. Not out of any love for these unspoken rules, but for survival.
It’s topped off by your vintage leather coat, and black heels you begrudgingly wore after a five minute mental debate in front of the mirror. Spencer would be picking you up, and the promise of not needing to walk or drive seems like a good enough trade off.
After a spritz of your favorite perfume and a prayer, you rush downstairs to wait for him outside. Braving the cold feels like a better alternative to inviting him up to your unit. Too intimate.
“Part of me was hoping you’d decide to ghost.” you say, arms crossed over your chest as he walks up to where you’re standing at the threshold of your apartment building.
“Ghost?” Like you, he’s traded his sweaters with a suit jacket, and tamed his wild curls somewhat, cutting a striking figure as he approaches you.
“Ghost, as in you don’t show up without explanation.” Squinting, you look past him and study his car. Ancient, sputtering there on your apartment building’s driveway. “Maybe we should take a cab instead.”
“I’ll have you know, my car is in pristine condition.” he says.
“It looks older than both of us combined.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Indeed, it’s a vintage model but I assure you—”
“Doctor,” a smile breaks across your lips, “I was exaggerating.”
He chuckles, breathless. Something in his posture is different, shoulders braced straighter than usual. His ears are pink, though that could be from the cold.
“I–I see. But it’s a perfectly safe car, and I’m a very cautious driver.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor Reid, I trust you.” you reply, tucking your hand into the crook of his proffered elbow. “You could’ve just honked, you know, you didn’t have to escort me like this.”
“I don’t wish to contribute to this city’s noise pollution.” Spencer says with a shake of his head. He reaches the passenger’s side before you, fumbling with the handle. “Besides, that’s rude.”
“I wouldn’t have minded, you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”
He squints, hovers over the door and studies you and the words you tossed so carelessly into the air. “It wasn’t trouble.” he says, “Why do you think a little effort is trouble?”
The door slams shut as you process his question, wondering whether he expects a response or if it’s rhetorical.
Once he settles in the driver’s seat, you answer anyway. “It’s not that. We’re just–we’re not an actual couple, Spencer, you don’t have to do that stuff when it’s just the two of us.”
Spencer blinks. Stares at you with those owlish eyes, and clicks his seatbelt in place. “I’d do it regardless. It isn’t an act, but if it makes you uncomfortable–”
“No, no.” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to soothe out this conversation before it tangles into something. “I’m fine. Really. And I appreciate you doing that, it’s very… gentlemanly.”
He nods once, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and pulls out of your driveway. Spencer does prove to be a very cautious driver, though you can’t help but watch him. There’s constant movement that wouldn’t normally be there—fingers tapping against the wheel, mouth twitching every so often.
“Everything okay?” you say.
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know, you have this… weird energy right now.”
“What? No, I don’t.” His voice goes at least an octave higher, words tumbling out so fast the sentence sounds more like one long, multisyllabic word.
“Uh huh.” your eyes narrow, “What’s the problem, Spencer? Was it because of what I said earlier?”
“No, you’re fine.”
“Then what? Are you nervous?”
Another twitch of his mouth. He keeps his eyes diligently on the road.
“It’s okay if you are. I know I am,” you admit softly, “But we already talked about the details of how we supposedly got together. You’ve got eidetic memory, you should be able to remember all of them.”
“Right.” The car stops at a red light, and he finally looks over at you. “We enjoyed each other’s company so much I decided to ask you out. I took you to the cinema where we watched Casa Blanca, and then went out for dinner after.”
“Exactly. Dinner at that Italian restaurant in Dupont Circle.” They’re half truths—you two have been hanging out a lot after all, and you both have seen Casa Blanca, and enjoy the restaurant. Just never been there together. “I doubt they’d ask anything beyond that. We’re a new couple.”
He nods, as the car thrums to life again. It’s quiet the rest of the ride. The kind that makes you shift, not necessarily in discomfort, but charged with something you can’t quite name.
Upon leaving the car, Spencer escorts you once again, but this time you accept it without comment. The venue is located on the second floor, and any assistance is welcome when walking up flights of stairs in your heels.
It’s a familiar scene. Professors, instructors, teaching assistants, even some plucky undergrads, all idly milling in the large conference hall, which is all done up and decorated elegantly. Tables line one side of the wall, some with neatly arranged hors d'oeuvres and drinks, the others yet to be filled. You know from experience that a large buffet will follow once people are more settled.
Your hand, still tucked in Spencer’s right elbow, curls in on the fabric of his blazer. He must feel it, because his left hand comes up to cover yours, warm and reassuring.
“Why don’t we see if anyone from the English department is here?” he suggests, leading you around the outskirts of the crowds. You nod, scanning around for someone from your department. The only person you want to see is Carrie Myers, the Shakespearean professor, but you know for a fact she wouldn’t be here. Still, you wouldn’t complain if you found a familiar face.
Hell, you would even take seeing your advisor, even if that meant getting questioned over your dissertation.
Before you even make it through one side of the hall, a stout man corners Spencer. He’s smiling, and speaks with a low voice, full of curiosity.
“Dr. Reid! How nice to see you join us,” his gaze slides over to you, “With…one of your grad students, I presume?”
You flush. You introduce yourself, colder than usual, even though the man seems well meaning. “He’s not my advisor, I’m with the English department.”
“Ah! My apologies,” the older man flinches.
Spencer clears his throat. “This is Dr. Mendez, he’s a professor on anthropology.”
“Yes, yes. It’s lovely to meet you, the English department tends to be… a little insular. I’m glad you came.” The older man, Dr. Mendez, replies. He reaches out a hand, looking so genuinely contrite and welcoming you find yourself smiling in reassurance.
“It’s a pleasure.” you say, shaking his hand, “I normally don’t attend, either, but Spencer has been quite persuasive.”
Dr. Mendez’s eyes flicker to where you and Spencer are connected, and he lets out a pleasant little chuckle. “I see. Well, you two are more than welcome to join us at our table. I believe Dr. Joaquin is arriving in a while.”
Your eyes widen. “Dr. Joaquin, as in the Linda Joaquin, the professor emerita?”
“The one and only.” Dr. Mendez winks, “Come find me later, both of you! She loves picking apart the ideas of teachers from different fields.”
“We would be more than honored.” Spencer says, waving as Dr. Mendez parts with a hearty laugh.
“How’d you know Dr. Mendez?” you ask once the old man is out of earshot.
“Back when I was a profiler, I’d consult with him on certain cold cases to gain a different perspective.” Spencer replies, guiding you to the refreshments table. His brow is furrowed. “Does that happen often? Professors and their graduate students?”
You snort. “More than you think. Why else do you think it’s become such a cliche?”
He considers for a moment, filling two cups with a deep pink iced tea. “I guess that’s better than dating the undergrads.”
“Mhm, I suppose. But only if there’s no husbands or wives involved.”
“Married professors—”
“Keep your voice down, oh my god!”
“Sorry,” he winces, looking around as if to make sure nobody heard the two of you gossiping, “I guess I never noticed these kinds of relationships happening when I was still getting my degrees.”
“Makes sense, considering you were, what, 16 when you were in college?”
“How’s that relevant?”
You fight back a smile. “No offense, Spencer, but if you’re still a little oblivious at 40, then I can’t imagine how bad you were at 16.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m 38.”
“My point still stands.” you grin, cocking your head to one side. “38, huh? All this time, I thought I was ‘dating’ a forty year old. No wonder your car is what it is.”
He glares, then turns away, carrying both cups of iced tea. “If you’re going to be rude, you can get your own drink.” Despite that, his voice remains light, teasing.
“Hey!” you laugh, tugging his elbow gently, “I’m sorry, don’t leave me.”
He relents without protest, smiling at you as he relinquishes one cup. His fingers brush against yours at the exchange, and suddenly your throat feels more parched than usual. You lift it to your lips and half of the contents slide down your throat, chilly yet still useless.
“Would you like to part ways and mingle on your own, or shall we follow Dr. Mendez?” Spencer asks.
The promise of speaking with a professor emerita has you intrigued, so you slip your hand into his arm again. “You promised to keep me company all night, Dr. Reid.”
“I did.” he grins, already scanning the crowd for signs of the older professor.
“So be prepared to get sick of me.”
Spencer tilts his head to catch your eye, grinning that stupid, dimpled smile of his. “I think the statistical probability of that is very low.”
It’s fun. Surprisingly.
You’re aware that this night’s success is partially because you’re hanging on Spencer’s arm—he’s the one everybody wants to meet. The impressive and distinguished one that leaves everybody in awe, and you’re his delightful girlfriend, teaching English and still earning her stripes.
However, the part is exhilarating, even if it’s only tonight. Because being with him opens doors. People with influence, none of the sleazy hotshot faculty trying to take you home, or older professors talking at you. Spencer buffers you from the worst, and gives you room for the best.
And for that, you lean into the part with gusto, clinging to his arm the whole time, beaming at every academic that introduces themselves to him first, always him, you’ll come second, but that’s okay. Better second than none at all. It’s not real, anyway.
This whole night is a facade, the same as your relationship, but it is a lie that bears benefits.
Tenured professors actually take you seriously, giving you advice and advance information that make your head swarm with ideas and schedules and research you’re itching to dive into.
Spencer, for his part, stands beside you like the perfect boyfriend, gently nosing at your temple every once in a while, as if to say I’m here, I’m with you, jumping in when asked, but he seems content to let you do the talking once you’ve been introduced.
The two of you flit from one group to the next, anthropology to psychology and somehow make it over to the maths department, speaking with two older professors of statistics who found a kindred spirit in Spencer.
Your feet are killing you, but for once, it’s actually worth it. A small part of you is actually quite glad to have come.
The ladies from statistics decide to adopt the two of you for the night, ushering you to their table. Spencer seems excited to continue with the conversation with them, so you excuse yourself and head to the bathroom.
As you wash your hands, you find Leah Ryan exiting one of the stalls. Despite being from the engineering department, the two of you know each other by virtue of being roughly the same age, and being in the same situation: female PhD candidates balancing between teaching and conducting research for your respective dissertations.
Having those things in common means there’s only two ways your relationship can go: being in complete, genuine support of each other, or entering into a soul consuming competition. It is simply how these things go. There’s a limited amount of opportunities, limited funding and scholarship grants if you aren’t rolling in money.
Leah, however, belongs in a completely different field, which automatically eradicates any competition, meaning you’d simply get to bond over the workload and fatigue and the inevitable male colleagues who never take you seriously.
“Leah, hi!” you grin, happy to see a familiar, friendly face.
“Hey,” she leans in, pressing her cheek to yours and imitating the sound of kisses being exchanged. “I saw you’ve been with Dr. Reid all night! So the rumors are true, then? You’re dating?”
“We are.” you punctuate that with a nod, as if the double affirmation would make your relationship more truthful. “It’s still pretty new, but it’s been really nice.”
“I’m glad!” Leah squeezes your upper arm, then leans in and lowers her voice conspiratorially, “A lot of people were saying he’s another one of those types, you know, but I hope for your sake he’s not. You deserve better than that.”
Those types. Blithely going from one romantic entanglement to the next, with no regard from whatever broken hearts are left in their wake. There are more of them working in the university than one would expect.
“I’d like to think I’m a good judge of character.”
“That’s true. He also seems so smitten with you, so that’s good.”
“He does?”
Leah tilts her head to the side. “Why do you sound so surprised? He’s your boyfriend, he should be smitten.”
“Of course, yes,” you’re glad your voice doesn’t crack as you speak, “I, um, I wasn’t expecting people to notice.”
“That he looks at you like you gave him the solution to the Hodge conjecture?”
You blink.
“That is to say, like you’ve performed some sort of miracle. Jesus incarnate. Like he’d devote his life to you, like the apostles did with Jesus.”
“Have you ever considered abandoning engineering and shifting to creative writing?”
Leah rolls her eyes, following you as you walk out of the bathroom. “I’m just saying. He’s besotted, and I’m very happy for you.”
Wow, Spencer Reid’s a better actor than you anticipated, if people are this convinced of his performance. Who would have thought?
“Thanks, Leah. Let’s hope it lasts.” you reply, glancing around. Spencer’s gotten up from the table and is now escorting Professor Miller, one of the ladies from statistics, to the refreshments table.
Leah follows your gaze and smiles.
Spencer chooses that exact moment to look over his shoulder and, like a big, stupid cliche, catches your eye all the way from the other side of the room. He smiles, nods once in acknowledgement, before focusing once again on Professor Miller.
There it is again, that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach.
An average English speaker knows somewhere around 20,000 to 35,000 words in the language. You’ve dedicated your life to this language, its expressions and borrowed words and the literary worlds created from them, and yet you still can’t put a name to this.
Leah giggles. “Well, if a serious relationship is what you want, then I hope it lasts too.”
“Mhm hmm.” Spencer’s holding two plates, patiently following Professor Miller as she picks and chooses through the available dishes.
“Honey, you’re not even looking at me anymore.”
Your gaze snaps back to Leah, sheepish and mortified. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be, this is adorable. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before.”
“Like what? Distracted? I don’t think that’s cute.”
“No, not that. Smitten.” Leah smiles.
Warmth floods through your body, lingering at your toes and the very tips of your fingers. You nudge the conversation to something more neutral, until it coasts past Spencer Reid, and Leah’s excitedly telling you about the essay she’d gotten published recently.
By the time you part from her, Spencer is back at the table with Professor Miller. He is completely rapt on the conversation, but immediately turns when he feels you return.
“Hey.”
You tug your chair closer and sink into his side.
“Hey,” his voice warms with concern. An arm instantly wraps over your shoulders. Its weight is reassuring and you curl into him a little deeper. “Are you okay, darling?” he keeps his voice low, just for you so there's really no need for the endearment. A part of you is glad he said it anyway.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“It’s just been a long night.”
“We can go after they serve dinner.” He rests his chin atop your head, so you’re tucked perfectly against his neck.
Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t be so brazen, but the constant socializing has completely drained you. You’re tired, and he’s warm, and you’re in no mood to think about fake dating and PDA boundaries.
Professor Miller breaks her passionate discussion on the statistics of motorcycle related accidents to swoon.
“Oh, you two are making me think of Gilbert and I,” the older lady presses a hand to her chest, eyes growing misty. “Although, at your age, we were already married.”
Warmth floods your cheeks. You feel Spencer’s gulp against your cheek.
“We’re a long way from that.” you manage to say, giggling lightly.
“We’ve only started dating last month.” Spencer adds with a nervous chuckle.
“Hmph, you young people like to dawdle and waste so much time.” she rolls her eyes.
You shake your head, pulling away to sit straight. “We just want to make sure it’s right.”
She sighs and gives you a look. Spencer presses his lips to your forehead, light and sweet, like he’s not entirely sure he should be doing this, and you’re all saved from further conversation by the announcement of the main course.
You grit your teeth through the whole thing, lining up for the buffet and piling on so much food on your plate some of it threatens to spill over. A couple of people chuckle discreetly when they see your plate, but you’re determined not to stand for the rest of the night. If being seen as a glutton is the price to pay, you’d happily accept it.
When the time for desserts comes, you look at Spencer with wide, desperate eyes. “I don’t think I can stay another minute.”
“You don’t want dessert?”
“Spencer, if I stand, I’m convinced my toenails will crack and bleed.”
“I’ll get it for you, you don’t have to stand.” he says, already pushing his chair back.
“No, you don’t have–”
“Darling,” he squeezes your hand, eyes pleading, “Let me. It’s no big deal, really.”
He’s gone before you can protest, and returns with dessert for the whole table. He comes back carrying two plates piled high with slices of fruit, and tea cakes and sugar cookies, one for the stat profs to share, the other for the two of you.
“Dr. Reid, you are a sweetheart.”
He shakes his head with a smile, bashful and blushing, the very picture of a sweetheart.
Professor Miller gives you a pointed look. “Missy, gentlemen like this are a dime in a dozen in this day and age. Do not let him go.”
You suppress a laugh. “I will keep that in mind, ma’am.”
It never occurs to you to worry. That, if people are this convinced, maybe it should be a cause for concern. All sorts of complications could arise from this. But tonight, you’re riding a high, you’re exhausted, and there’s no room for your usual rationality.
At last, at last the night dwindles.
Well, not for the rest of the attendees, most of whom are now pleasantly buzzed and wandering around like bees in a garden. Even the statistics professors have left your table to converse with more people.
You and Spencer have decided an Irish goodbye is the best way to escape, given that you’re starting to slump. Literally, your ankles and toes feel like jello, if jello also stung and throbbed incessantly. You’re convinced your toes would burst if you tried to say goodbye to all the people you’d met from earlier in the night.
Spencer tugs you closer to the wall just as you reach the top of the staircase. “Hey, I think you should take off your shoes.”
“Huh?”
“Take off your shoes, wearing high heels for extended periods of time can cause a variety of foot problems. You’re already in pain, continuing to walk on them might–"
“They aren’t that high, Spencer. I can walk to the parking lot just fine.”
“We’re going to have to go through at least two more staircases before we even get outside.” Spencer points out. “Just take them off.”
“And what, go barefoot?”
“No, I’ll carry you to the car.”
He says it so plainly. No bells and whistles, no grand gestures, looking at you with so much sincerity shining through his eyes you find yourself just staring back at him.
Then you laugh.
“No.”
“No?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t carry me.”
He frowns. “I’m stronger than I seem, you know.”
“That’s not what I–look, you don’t need to do that, Spencer. Really. I can walk.”
And, because apparently the universe loves it when you make a fool of yourself, you stumble not even three steps away. Spencer’s hand curls around your elbow like it's a reflex to catch and straighten you.
“Please.” he breathes, and you don’t really understand why he’s the one begging to carry you, only that it makes your stomach churn.
“I don’t want you breaking your back on my behalf, old man.” you reply, turning to weak jokes instead of confronting this head on.
“Unless something terrible happens, the possibility of fractures from piggyback rides are statistically low,” he explains, “I’d be more likely to pull a muscle or pinch a nerve than break a bone.”
“Figure of speech, Spencer. But fine, if you insist.” you grumble, holding onto his arm for leverage while you wiggle your feet out of your heels. The tension on your toes and ankles eases automatically once you're planted firmly on the ground. You bend to collect your heels and look at him awkwardly. “Uh, how do we do this?”
Spencer takes the shoes from your grasp, moves a couple of steps below you until you’re eye to eye. Then he turns, and crouches slightly, one hand keeping himself balanced on the wall.
This is so ridiculous. So, so ridiculous. It’s not even anywhere in your list of rules because you never thought you’d even be in this position. You shouldn’t be in this position, and yet…
You brace yourself on his shoulders, and hop. Both arms slide loosely around his neck, dress riding up as your legs bracket his hips. Spencer’s arms hook under them, securing you on his back.
Mentally, you’re just thanking the version of yourself from four hours ago, who had the foresight to wear tights with this dress.
“Ready?” Spencer asks.
“Ready.” His hair tickles your cheek, and the scent of cedar and cinnamon hits your nose. He walks slowly, slightly hunched over so his center of gravity isn’t all out of sorts with the extra weight on his back. One step at a time, down, down, as careful as he is with driving.
“I don’t understand you,” you mumble into his hair, happy that he’s looking away. Maybe if you don’t see those eyes of his, you can finally get through this conversation without sounding like a fool. “You don’t have to go out of your way for me. I doubt people will notice.”
“I’m not doing it to prove anything to other people.” he replies softly.
“No? Then… then what’s the point? I’m not your actual girlfriend.”
“You’re not,” he agrees, sounding just as pensive. He’s quiet for a moment, bracing himself on the railing. You can’t blame him, these stairs are steep. “But you’re still my friend. And you’re in pain. If I’m in a position to help, I’d like to do that.”
“Hm. Maybe you just like being needed.”
He laughs. “I don’t think you need me.”
“No, I don’t…” you hum in agreement, “Maybe not needed then. Maybe… useful.”
He’s quiet. You wonder if you’ve overstepped, an apology already forming on your lips.
“Maybe you’re right.”
It’s loaded with years of history and emotional baggage you don’t quite understand, and aren’t sure you should have access to. Your words suddenly feel too mean, even though you don’t intend them to be. You feel his arms flex around your thighs, and mistake it for tension.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to analyze you.” you whisper as he carries you out the door and into the chilly night air.
“It’s okay.” he opens the passenger’s side, before easing you from his back.
You slip into his car quickly, feeling small and confused, the high of the soiree crashing like a wave, brilliant but fleeting. He’s quiet for the whole drive, like he’s turning over in his head your last conversation, as if hidden behind your words, he’ll find another facet of himself he’s never quite considered before.
“I know this thing is transactional,” you say finally, when he turns into your street, “We’re in this silly fake relationship thing because it helps us both, but Spencer, I hope you know that’s not how I see you. Us. Like, beyond this arrangement, you’re my friend too, and it’s not because you’re useful to me.”
He keeps his eye on the road, but you see his mouth pulling taunt, followed by a bob of his throat.
“And I hope you don’t feel like you need to be useful. Or like, a perfect gentleman or whatever. I’m fine. I’m pretty low maintenance, if you haven’t noticed.” you continue, staring at his profile as he pulls into your driveway.
Spencer finally looks at you, eyes still golden even in the darkness of his car. “I appreciate that. Trust me, I don’t think you’re using me either.”
“Okay. Good.” you smile.
“I enjoy doing things for other people,” his eyes flit over your face, and maybe it’s a trick of the light–or dark–but you could swear they linger a second too long at your lips. “And, well, you’re allowed to accept it…when people do things for you. When I do things for you. You don’t have to worry that I’m somehow inconveniencing myself, darling, I just like doing it.”
Your stomach lurches again, violently, toes curling into the carpeted floor of his car. Darling. darlingdarlingdarlingdarling.
“Right… because you like to help your friends, and we’re friends.”
Spencer’s mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Then he blinks, once, and nods.
“Exactly–yes, that’s what friends are for.” he says, voice reedy and cracking at the edges.
“Yeah. Yeah.” you nod. Clear your throat. Eject your seatbelt off, mechanical and rigid, trying to focus on getting out of his car, and not how close he is, not the freckles on his face and the flecks of warm green in his eyes. When did he get this close? “And, um, thank you for tonight. For playing along with everything.”
“Of course.” he hasn’t moved, blinking slow and sluggish while your movements grow clumsy from your rush.
“People really bought it.”
He hums, finally leaning back, placing both hands on the wheel. “Then we’ll have no problem doing the same thing for your best friend’s wedding.”
“Yeah.” you have one foot out the door, but some indecipherable thing compels you to stay. You clear your throat. “Drive safe, Spencer.”
“I will. Sleep well, darling.”
You don’t bother reminding him you’re alone. Like he said, you’re allowed to enjoy things. And selfishly, ridiculously, the little pet name just happens to be one of them.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
more prof spencer x prof!reader fics here!
summary: you wake up in spencer’s bed to feather-light fingers tracing your freckles like they’re constellations.
genre: fluff tags/content: this fic takes place after operation mystery girl (in the relationship era) // reader is elle's sister, non-sexual nudity (but sex from the night before is implied), spencer is soooo down bad & in love, reader has freckles on her back, just tons of soft sweet mushy romantic fluff. inspired in part by the text pictured above (found on pinterest). no use of y/n. 0.9k words
requests: here & here a/n: it’s greenaway!reader marathon day 5! thanks for being here to celebrate 2k with me 🤍 two more event fics left, coming wed & fri!
Morning comes together in quiet fragments at Spencer’s apartment.
A strip of light slips through the blinds and lands across the bed. The sheets are tangled from sleep and from everything that happened before sleep, and you’re there in the middle of it — warm, nude, face turned against his pillow like you belong in his space the same way his books belong on his shelves.
You’re on your stomach, sheets draped low over your hips and legs. Spencer’s awake already, laying on his side and propped up on one elbow, watching you in a way that might look clinical on anyone else. On him, it just looks like awe.
It doesn’t seem to matter how many nights you’ve ended up here, how many mornings he’s woken up with your body pressed into his sheets and your presence pressed into the quietest parts of him. It still hits him like the first time, every time.
Last night is still everywhere — in the faint ache in his shoulder where you bit down, laughing into his skin; in the way his hands remember the shape of your hips against his palms; in the soft bruise of tenderness behind his ribs when he thinks about waking up sometime around three, half-asleep, reaching for you just to make sure you were still there and finding you already reaching back, already aching to blur the edges of where your body ends and his begins.
His fingertips hover over your back and settle, light as breath. He traces one freckle, then another. He wants to count them, endeavoring to learn everything there possibly is to know about you, but his brain keeps doing what it always does: it starts connecting dots.
He finds a pattern near your right shoulder blade that makes his chest tighten, stupid and fond. A circular little cluster of six freckles followed by three more in a line, scattering off to the side like a tail.
It looks almost like a comet, he thinks. Something bright and fiery and beautiful that shows up without warning and changes the entire sky.
Before he can help it, his thumb makes a gentle arc around the shape.
Your breathing shifts. You make a quiet sound into the pillow, and Spencer freezes.
You blink awake in pieces. There’s a second where you don’t move at all, just register the comfort of warmth and softness and the faint drag of fingertips across your skin.
You grumble sleepily, then your voice comes. “Mmmph. What’re you doing?” you ask, still only half-conscious.
Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks suddenly embarrassed, as if he’s been caught staring at you in public instead of in his own bed.
“I was—” He clears his throat softly. “I was trying to count your freckles.”
“Count my freckles,” you mumble in echo, shifting your head just enough to look at him. Your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, lashes smudged a little. You look wrecked in the gentlest way. Spencer has to swallow.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter. “And the little… moles, er— beauty marks. I don’t know which term you prefer, but I do think they’re beautiful.”
“You’re so weird,” you whisper after a moment. There’s no bite in it.
His smile goes crooked. “I know.”
You watch him for a second like you’re deciding whether to be annoyed or amused. Then you bend to look over your shoulder to where his hand rests on your back.
“So how many did you count?”
Spencer’s thumb makes a slow circle around one freckle. “I kept losing track,” he admits. “I started seeing constellations.”
“Constellations…?”
He nods. The blush in his cheeks deepens. “There’s one right here,” he adds, softer, and he traces a small shape near your shoulder blade. “It looks like a comet.”
You squint, trying to follow his finger, and something in your expression shifts — like you’re trying not to smile and failing.
“A comet,” you repeat. “That’s what you see?”
“Y-yeah. Is that weird? I’m sorry. I promise I think it’s pretty. Everything about you is pretty. And comets are… rare and beautiful, and—”
“Spence,” you interrupt, but you’re smiling now, small and sleepy and real. “Stop spiraling. I’m sure the comet you’ve imagined on my skin is very pretty.”
Spencer’s hand slides up to your shoulder, and he leans in to press a gentle kiss to the spot he just traced. It’s slow, reverent, almost apologetic for waking you up. Then another kiss, lower, in the middle of your spine.
You let out a quiet sigh, your body sparking at the feel of his lips against your bare skin. “Mmm,” you hum blissfully. “Careful. You’re going to make me soft.”
“I like you soft,” Spencer says simply. “But I like you sharp, too. Any version you want to give me.”
He shifts closer, sliding his arm under you so he can pull you back against him. Your body fits into his effortlessly. Your hand finds his and holds on.
Spencer presses his mouth to your shoulder again, then murmurs, almost inaudibly, “I’m yours, you know.”
You go still for a beat. Letting the words sink in, letting them settle.
Then you hum, low, and reach back to cup the side of his face without looking, fingers finding his cheekbone. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m yours too.”
Spencer closes his eyes, comforted and grateful and overwhelmed all at once.
He pulls the sheet up over you with one hand and kisses the place where your shoulder meets your neck. You shift closer, letting yourself be held.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
He just traces the comet again, keeping you right where you belong.
ᝰ.ᐟ
this fic was written for my 2k celebration event, greenaway!reader marathon, and is part of the larger greenaway!reader universe! you can read more here ♥️
PSA: likes do VERY little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
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