hi :) i'm spencereidluver. i write fanfics for the one and only spencer walter reid. my fics are all spencer reid x reader and bau!reader, and are chronological in one big masterlist!
i do not write for non canonical ships for the simple fact i like to write fics that could easily fit right in with the show itself.
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summary: The weird thing about finally getting permission to do something you had been sneaking was realizing how much less energy it took now. For almost two months every interaction with Spencer had required planning, and now suddenly you could do just about anything you wanted to.
word count: 1.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The weird thing about finally getting permission to do something you had been sneaking was realizing how much less energy it took now. For almost two months every interaction with Spencer had required planning, and now suddenly you could do just about anything you wanted to.
Which should have made things easier.
Instead it made things weird. Because now there was nothing stopping you from seeing Spencer whenever you wanted. And it made you confront just how often you wanted to see him.
You were sitting at your desk on a Tuesday afternoon when he crossed your mind. Before you could overthink it, you grabbed your phone.
Want lunch tomorrow?
You stared at the screen, then immediately threw your phone onto your bed. Because apparently sending a text message to your friend who you were allowed to be friends with now made you nervous.
Less than a minute later your phone buzzes. You lunge for it.
Yes.
One word, that was it. No scheduling conflicts, or complicated explanation, or planning around him leaving work without your uncle noticing, and you planning on how to get back before he noticed.
Just yes.
_____
The next day you walk into the restaurant and immediately spot Spencer. Of course you did. You were beginning to suspect that punctuality was some kind of medical condition with him.
“You’re early,” you say. You feel like you’re always saying that with him.
“I’ve only been here three minutes,” he says. “Also, you’re early. We agreed on 12:15, it’s 12:06.”
“That’s different,” you say.
“No it’s not.”
You slide into the booth across from him. “No, see, when I do it it’s charming.”
“No, I don’t think that’s how it works.”
The following week became more of the same. Lunches, coffee, phone calls, texts, like it had been. Except this time nothing was hidden.
On Saturday afternoon you and Spencer were sitting side by side in a coffee shop, each with a different book open in front of you. Neither of you had spoken for almost 30 minutes, you guys were just so encapsulated in your books. And it wasn’t awkward at all. It was comfortable.
“You know,” Spencer finally says after he gets through yet another chapter of his book. “This is easier.”
You look at him. “What is?”
He seems like he’s surprised he’d spoken out loud.
“Not hiding,” he says, giving a half smile.
“Yeah,” you give a smile back.
He smiles a full smile, then puts his attention back to his book. You try to do the same, but you can’t stop thinking about what he said.
A few days later Spencer hands you a book at lunch. Not literally handed, more like presented to you.
“What’s this for?” you ask, there was no conversation about him bringing you a book today.
“It’s my favorite book,” he says.
You stare. “You’re favorite favorite?”
“Yeah.”
You look down at the book, the cover suddenly seeming significantly more intimidating.
“You’re letting me borrow it?”
He frowns slightly.
“Unless you don’t want to.”
“No! No I do want to, I just…” you look at the book. It looks brand new. But you know Spencer, and you know he’s probably had this book for over 10 years.
“I trust you,” he smiles.
“But… what if something happens?”
“Oh, I’d just never speak to you again of course,” he jokes.
You smile. “I’ll bring it back next week.”
_____
Three days later the book disappeared. Completely. It was gone. You searched your entire room. Nothing. You searched your backpack. Nothing. You searched your desk, and your uncle’s room and his office and the kitchen and the living room and the dining room. Nothing. It was gone.
You searched for hours.
HOURS.
Your uncle found you about three hours in. You were sitting in the middle of your bedroom floor with nearly half of your room under total reconstruction.
“What happened in here?” he asked you, completely unaware of the three hours of intense manual labor you had done moving your entire bed, dresser, and desk out of your room and back in.
“I lost Spencer’s book.” you say, voice distressed.
He looked around, then back at you. “The kid has like a thousand of them, he’ll be fine.”
“It was his favorite book.”
“So find it.”
“I’M TRYING!”
He slowly backed out of your room. Probably the correct decision.
The next morning your phone rang.
“Good morning,” Spencer says from the other end.
“HiSpencerGoodMorning,” you rush your words.
“You sound stressed.”
“I am stressed.”
“What’s wrong?” He sounds concerned.
“Because I lost your favorite book.”
“Oh,” he says casually. Too casually.
“OH?” you repeat.
“Yeah, oh.”
“SPENCER!”
“What?” he giggles. “I have another copy.”
“I STILL LOST YOUR BOOK!”
“I actually have three copies. Four if you count the annotated edition.”
“SPENCER REID.” You groan.
“What?”
He sounded genuinely confused, almost like he couldn’t understand why you were panicking.
“I lost something important to you.” you say, your throat starts to tighten.
“You didn’t do it on purpose.”
“That’s not–,” your voice cracks. You’re trying to hold back tears. You’re not really sure why they’re there but you wish they would go away before Spencer notices.
“Y/N…”
You stop talking. His voice is soft. He knows.
“It’s okay,” he says so sweetly. You hated how quickly that made you feel better. ‘Where was the last place you remember having it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have to know something.”
“I don’!” you groan, flopping backwards onto your bed. “I was reading it in my room and then I think I might’ve taken it downstairs and then maybe I put it in my backpack but maybe I didn’t and now it’s gone.”
“That wasn’t very helpful,” Spencer hums.
“I’m having a crisis.”
“You are not.”
“I moved my dresser.”
He pauses. “You what?”
“And my bed and my desk.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
He pauses again. “Why?”
“Because your book is missing.”
The silence this time is longer. When he finally speaks again. his voice is soft.
“You moved furniture because you lost my book?”
You immediately feel stupid.
“I wanted to make sure I didn’t just misplace it.”
“Y/N…”
“What?”
“You know I would’ve believed you if you’d just told me it was lost.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
You pause. You don’t really know how to explain it. The point wasn’t really the book, more so that he had handed it to you like it mattered, and emphasized that it was his favorite.
“You trusted me with it,” you finally say quietly.
“I still do.”
Your throat tightens. You stare at the ceiling.
“You’re not mad?” you ask.
“I’m not mad.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“Not even disappointed?”
“No.”
“Not even–”
“Y/N,” he interrupts. “I promise.”
You let out a slow breath. “Okay.”
The conversation drifts to other things after that. Normal things. Comfortable things. And by the end of the call you feel almost okay.
Almost.
_____
You find the book the next evening.
You probably searched for it for a total of eight hours. It’s sitting underneath a blanket in the living room. A blanket you swore you’d picked up three separate times.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you said out loud when you found it.
Your uncle looks up from his chair. “What?”
You hold up the book.
“Oh, good thing.”
_____
The next day you meet Spencer for lunch.
The second you sit down in the booth you slide the book across the table.
“There,” you say. “Take it before it goes missing and I bulldoze my uncle’s house.”
“You found it,” Spencer smiles at you.
“It was under a blanket.”
Spencer’s smile twitches. He’s holding back a laugh.
“You think this is funny!” You’re a little offended.
“Mildly.”
“Spencer!”
He laughs again as he puts the book into his satchel.
And just like that the crisis is over. Except it isn’t. Because as you watch him carefully tuck the book away you realize that the worst part wasn’t losing the book, it was thinking that you’d let him down.
And for some reason, some completely ridiculous reason, that had mattered much more to you.
_____
Read Part 13 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i’m sorry for such a short part, i’m not gonna lie this chapter is kind of just filler… the next part has a lot to unpack so be ready for that :) also be ready to meet Logan (the brother :3)
_____
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summary: David Rossi has to face the fact that his little girl isn’t really a little girl anymore. And part of him knows that she’s not really his anymore either.
word count: 2.2k
warnings: fe!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
Rossi’s POV
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
For most of my life, Christmas had ended quietly.
That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I’d never been one of those people who needed a house full of noise 24 hours a day. Most years there were dinners, gifts, phone calls from family, maybe an ex-wife or two, depending on the decade. And then eventually everyone goes home.
And it was back to just me. And I was fine with that. I was good at being alone. You don’t spend thirty years chasing serial killers without learning how to enjoy your own company along the way.
The Christmas tree was still standing in the living room. The colorful lights were still plugged in. I used to not even have a Christmas tree. I used to not really care that much. But five years ago something changed. That something was my niece.
Five years ago there hadn’t been music coming from upstairs. There weren't paint supplies permanently scattered across half the house. There were no mugs disappearing, or cereal boxes emptying themselves overnight, and there was no one yelling from another room because they couldn’t find something that was exactly where it had always been.
Five years ago there hadn’t been somebody waiting for me when I got home.
Then my niece showed up carrying three duffel bags and an attitude big enough even for me. And somewhere along the way she became more than a guest in my house.
She became home.
I spent the last five years watching her grow up. And growing up has a nasty habit of ending with people leaving.
“You look grumpy.”
I look up.
There she was, standing in the kitchen archway wearing socks that didn’t match.
“You always look grumpy.”
“I do not,” I say.
She crossed the kitchen and sat down next to me at the island. I watched her steal one of my cookies without asking. She just took it like she owned the place, and honestly, she kind of does.
“What?” she asked.
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
I take a sip of my coffee. It had gone cold.
“You know,” she said, “normal people usually tell somebody when something’s bothering them.”
“Nothing is bothering me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you stare at walls and pretend you’re not thinking.”
Unfortunately, she was right. Sometime in the last five years she had gotten old enough to read me. And I didn’t like it.
“You’ve been weird all morning,” she tells me.
I sigh. I look at her. I really look at her. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. Nothing about her was a little girl. I always felt weird thinking of her as my little girl, simply because she wasn’t. She was my niece. But when you raise someone for five of the most formative years of their life, they sort of become your little girl.
“You’re growing up,” I tell her.
“Yeah, that’s kind of how time works.”
“Sadly.”
She looks at me weird.
“You make no sense. I’m going to shower.”
She takes another cookie on her way.
She was right. I don’t make sense.
Because between Christmas dinner and watching Spencer Reid, a man I had worked with for over a year now and who I knew was one of the kindest people I know, even if he can be brutally honest, hug my niece goodbye I had realized something.
It wasn’t him that I was worried about.
It was time.
_____
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Thursday morning started with us being sent off on a case as soon as we all got into the office. I spent most of the day convincing myself I was being ridiculous. Which wasn’t too difficult, I’ve spent enough years around profilers to recognize when I’m inventing problems that don’t exist.
This case was difficult. And the weather was awful. Morgan complained about both, which caused Emily to complain about him. Hotch sort of ignored everyone. Reid read over the case file again and again. Nothing unusual or concerning. Nothing that suggested I should be worried about him.
Which is probably why it took me until lunch to notice anything.
We were sitting around a conference table at the Police Station eating sandwiches that had definitely been made the day before. Emily mentioned a book she had been thinking about reading.
Reid looked up from his file at her. “I read that last week, Y/N had a copy.”
Then he went right back to reading. No hesitation, no awkwardness, no realization that he had said anything strange. It was just a statement. The kind of statement people make when they’re discussing the weather.
I noticed it, but chose to immediately ignore it. At the time it didn’t seem important.
Friday, December 28, 2007
The thing about spending multiple days in a row twenty times a year with the same people is that eventually you start noticing patterns.
Morgan always steals food, Emily can catch a lie from a mile away, Hotch’s mood is always the same no matter what, and apparently Spencer Reid is more fond of my niece than I realized.
We were in a car on the way back to the station from a crime scene. Spencer was in the back looking out the window, presumably thinking about some new information that we got. Morgan was complaining about some movie remake.
Spencer’s attention snapped to Morgan in the driver’s seat. “Y/N had the same argument.”
He said it so casually, then reverted back to staring out the window.
Morgan looked over at me with a raised eyebrow. I could only shake my head.
I started paying attention after that.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
I had stopped pretending I wasn’t counting. Eight times. Maybe nine. A book, a movie, coffee, a restaurant, an article, a painting, a philosopher, nothing important. But that’s what bothered me. Because Spencer knew such little things about my niece. Some things that I didn’t even know. Her favorite philosopher? How many people know that about someone?
If every conversation somehow became about her it would’ve been much more obvious. But this wasn’t obvious. It was ordinary. The kind of ordinary that sneaks up on you when somebody becomes part of your life. The kind that after a while made me start brewing two servings of coffee in the morning, and buying cereal that she liked.
Routine. That was all it was. Routine.
And I realize that I wasn’t watching Spencer anymore. I was watching what happens when somebody becomes important to someone else.
The case wrapped Saturday night. Most of the team slept on the flight home.
I couldn’t. Reid sat across from me reading. Or pretending to. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. I watched him turn a page. Then another. Then another. The cover of the book looked a little too familiar. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was my niece's book. But I did know better. Yet I still knew it was my niece's book.
“You talk about her a lot,” I say.
The page stopped moving. He slowly looked up at me. “What?”
“My niece.”
He seems caught off guard. Not defensive or guilty, just surprised.
“I don’t–” he stopped. He looks like he’s thinking. “Do I?”
I almost laughed. Because that wasn’t the response of somebody trying to hide something. It was the response of somebody hearing a fact about themselves for the first time.
“I definitely have heard her name like twenty times the amount I normally do on a case…”
“That seems unlikely.”
“And yet…”
He is silent. He looks down at his book, then out the window. Then back at me. I could pretty much see the calculations happening.
“Huh,” he says, in an ‘I guess I do’ way.
Then he looked back at his book. Five minutes later he was still staring at the same page. And for the rest of the flight I caught him thinking about it. Not about her, but about the observation. And the possibility that I had been right.
And as I looked out the window, I realized I wasn’t thinking about Spencer Reid anymore. I was thinking about a girl who showed up at my house with three duffle bags. And a young man who couldn’t go four hours without talking about her. And I start to think that this is something I am going to have to deal with for a long time.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
The next evening I find myself standing outside her bedroom door wondering how exactly parents manage to have serious conversations without feeling ridiculous. Then again, most parents probably start before their kid is eighteen.
I knock twice at her door. “Come in.”
She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed with a sketchbook balanced on her knees.
“Can we talk?” I ask her. She immediately looks suspicious, which is understandable.
“Oh no,” she says, closing her sketchbook.
“It’s not an oh no,” I say.
She doesn’t believe me. Which once again, is understandable. I sit in her desk chair and turn to face her. I sigh.
“How do you genuinely feel about Spencer?”
Her expression changes from worried to what I could only describe as annoyance.
“We’re really doing this again?”
“Just answer.”
She shrugs. “He’s my friend.”
I wait. She waits. Neither of us say anything for a long moment.
“What?” she finally says.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I study her face. She’s telling the truth. That’s the problem. She genuinely believes it.
Meanwhile I’ve spent the last week watching Spencer Reid accidentally bring her up every fifteen minutes. And in the five years I’ve lived with her I’ve never seen her light up when talking to someone. I don’t share any of these thoughts with her, mostly because comparing them to an old married couple would probably cause me to have a heart attack.
“So, you’re friends?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Why do you keep asking?”
Because Spencer talks about you the way people talk about home.
“You’re growing up.”
She looks at me confused. “What does that have to do with me and Spencer being friends?”
Unfortunately, she understands what I’m getting at as soon as she says that.
“You’re not worried about me and Spencer being friends at all.”
I look through her.
“You’re worried that I’m going to leave.”
I take a moment to respond. She called my bluff.
“No,” I lie.
“Uncle Dave…”
I look away from her. She waits. She’s always been good at waiting people out. She learned that from me, unfortunately.
“Yes.” I finally say.
She stares at me for what feels like hours. It’s no more than a minute.
“It was never about Spencer, was it?”
“Not really,” I admit.
She looks at me understandingly. I hate that she feels sorry for me.
“Why?” she asks. She’s calm about it, not realizing she just asked me the question I’ve been purposely avoiding in my own mind for months, even before Spencer came into her life.
“The house is already too quiet when you’re gone.”
Her face softens somehow further.
“One day you’re going to move out, you’re going to have your own place, your room is going to be empty, I won’t have anyone to cook for, or to steal my coffee mugs,” that last part makes her smile slightly. I don’t though. Because I mean it. I’ve thought it for a long time, and now suddenly I’m saying all of it.
The ordinary things. The stupid things. The things parents miss.
“You’ll have your own life,” I say quieter. “and once you find someone…”
I don’t finish. I don’t need to. I know she understands. She just sits there for a long moment.
“Dave, if I ever get married someday,”
I hate that sentence.
“I’m still coming over every Sunday. I won’t disappear.”
I smile.
“You’re stuck with me.”
Something inside my chest loosens. Because that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Not that she’d stay forever, or that she’d never move out or fall in love, but that she’d come back. That she wouldn’t forget me.
I get up to leave the room. When I’m almost out the door I turn again to look at her.
“By the way, you can stop sneaking around.”
She freezes, her eyes wide. So I was right about that. She looks horrified.
“You’re adults… Friends?” I put a very deliberate emphasis on that word.
She stares at me
“You’re allowed to spend time with him.” She looks relived. “As friends.”
“Friends,” she repeats.
“Don’t disappear.”
“I won’t.”
“Answer your phone.”
“I do that already.”
I look at her. Really look at her. She’s smiling wide. The little girl with three duffle bags is gone, and she has been for quite a while, I just never had to accept it until now. She’s a young woman now. An adult. And whether I like it or not, it’s time I started treating her like one.
“Okay” I say quietly, turning to leave the room.
She smiles behind me, and for the first time in a long time, I think maybe things aren’t so bad.
_____
Read Part 12 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: lowkey, i thought i was going to hate writing from rossi’s pov but i actually really locked in on it. also pls don’t be mad at me but the next part is kind of a filler chapter…i promise i’ll make it up to you with part 13 though :)
_____
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summary: Your uncle is hosting a Christmas party for the team. And to your surprise, you're invited.
word count: 2.8k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise. also this part includes a celebration of christmas (clearly), however it can be either secular or non secular, there’s no mention of a religious connotation with it.
You learn very quickly that secrets become significantly less exciting when they turn into routines. At first, sneaking around with Spencer felt dramatic. Phone calls before sunrise, coffee before he had to go to work, lunches strategically planned, and sometimes, when he was gone on a case and couldn’t call, you’d get a random text from him as a proof of life.
But eventually it stopped feeling dramatic. It just felt normal, which was probably worse, because it solidified that Spencer Reid was part of your everyday life for good.
You expected his calls, his random facts, his opinions on whatever book you wanted to read next, you expected him. And the more normal he became, the easier it was to forget that you technically weren’t supposed to be doing any of it.
Not that you forgot often though. Your uncle had a way of making sure that didn’t happen.
You were currently sitting at the kitchen island trying to read a book while your uncle sat next to you doing paperwork. The television was on in the living room, but it was so quiet you could really only hear when something peaked the speakers. Christmas music played quietly through the house.
Because if there was one thing about David Rossi that you wouldn’t know unless you lived in a house with him for almost 5 years, it was that he loved Christmas music.
Outside, snow was threatening to fall, but it hadn’t quite committed. Inside, everything was peaceful.
Which should’ve been your first warning sign, nothing good ever happened when David Rossi looked peaceful.
You highlight a quote in your book. Rossi turns a page of his file. YOu highlight something else. Rossi looks up. You immediately look down.
“So,” your uncle says, startling you. You knew that tone. It was the same tone people used before saying things that would permanently alter your day.
“What?” you say, slowly lowering your highlighter.
“Don’t sound so nervous.”
“I wasn’t nervous until you told me not to be.” You narrow your eyes at him. He was definitely up to something. The question was whether it was a good something or a bad something.
But historically speaking, your odds with him weren’t great.
“What?” you repeated.
Your uncle set his paperwork down. Which immediately increased your anxiety by approximately 400%. David Rossi never stopped working unless something was important.
“I’m doing another Christmas dinner with the team this year,” he says carefully.
“...Okay?”
“Last year I know you went to Logan’s, and I know you’re aware he’s in Alaska this year and won’t be back until January.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“The team will be here Sunday.”
“Okay? Do you want me to leave?”
“I’m getting there.”
You hoped he was going to tell you that you could stay. You liked the team. You especially liked–
No.
You weren’t going to think about that in front of your uncle. Not if you wanted to survive.
Rossi looked at you for a long moment. Too long. Long enough that you started getting suspicious. Then he sighed. And you realized this conversation isn’t really going to be about the Christmas Party.
You sit up straighter. Your uncle immediately looks uncomfortable. Which is fascinating. He could interview a serial killer without blinking. But apparently discussing his feelings was where he drew the line.
“You can talk to him,” he finally says.
The words hit you so fast that for a second you thought you;d imagined them.
“What?”
“You can come to the Christmas party and you can talk to Reid.”
Your heart practically launched into orbit. You can tell that he notices.
“I’m not going to spend the entire evening monitoring your conversations.”
You stare at him. You genuinely couldn’t believe it.
“Really?” you ask, because it’s all you can manage to say.
Rossi starts to regret saying anything. You could tell. The excitement on your face hit him like a truck.
“Just,” he looks a little bit defeated. “don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“This is a big deal,” you say.
“It’s not.”
“You literally banned me from speaking to him.”
He gives you a look. You give him the same look right back. Because he did in fact ban you from speaking to him. And this was in fact a big deal.
“Fine,” he finally says, and opens his paperwork back up.
You go back to your book, but feel like you should say something else, you just don’t know what.
“Uncle Dave,” you say to get his attention back. He looks at you. “Thank you.”
He smiles very small. You could tell he wasn’t used to conversations like this. Which could be quite a large contender in why he’s been divorced so many times, but you’re sure he knows that.
“Just…” he searches your face, you’re not sure for what. “Be smart.”
You knew what he meant. Stay where people can see you, don’t disappear. Don’t make him regret this. And honestly, you could do that. Because after weeks of hiding, the idea of being allowed to sit beside Spencer without sneaking around felt like the greatest Christmas present you could ever receive.
Even if your uncle had no idea how unnecessary his permission was.
_____
The funny thing about being allowed to talk to Spencer Reid is that apparently neither of you knows how to act about it. Not because you’re being weird. But because for weeks every conversation for weeks had required planning. Now suddenly you can just walk up to him.
Everyone had only arrived 45 minutes ago before someone says something about it. And of course, that person is Penelope Garcia.
You’re sitting at the table, somehow in the exact same spot as last time. Everyone has reverted to their original places from the first time you met them. You’re once again across from Penelope and Spencer is to your right. An empty seat is to your left where your uncle will sit when food is ready. Everyone is right where you were the night you came in wearing flannel pajama pants and a paint-stained Doctor Who hoodie.
“You two have not separated once,” Penelope observes.
You and Spencer glance at each other, then both of you look at her.
“We have too,” you say.
Penelope points to the kitchen. “You followed him in there.”
“I wanted a drink,” Spencer says.
“He wanted a drink,” you say. It was probably redundant for you to say that. Whoops.
Spencer seems deeply invested in his cup of cider.
“You’ve been taking turns leading each other around like you’re children on a field trip,” she says.
“We are not children,” Spencer argues.
Penelope turns toward him. “You collect books and carry around a satchel with socks inside.”
He has socks in his satchel?
“They’re my emergency socks!” he defends.
“Why do you have emergency socks?” you ask him.
“In case my socks get wet…”
You know what, he’s prepared.
Throughout dinner you talk to everyone. But somehow every conversation eventually circles back toward him.
You talk to Penelope about books. Then somehow you’re talking to Spencer.
Emily asks you about school. Then somehow you’re talking to Spencer.
You talk to JJ about Christmas decorations. Then somehow you’re talking to Spencer.
It’s getting a little bit ridiculous.
After dinner people scatter throughout the house. The whole night you make sure you stay where your uncle can see you. If he’s giving you an each, you’re not stupid enough to take a mile. So you stay visible. You stay downstairs. For a long time you stay at the table.
JJ and Hotch talk about soccer. You learn that JJ played soccer in college, which makes a lot of sense.
Rossi is in the kitchen doing some clean up.
Garcia disappears and reappears three separate times carrying different desserts.
And somehow Spencer remains beside you through all of it.
Until Morgan finally ruins everything.
He appears out of basically nowhere.
“Reid,” he says. Spencer looks up. Morgan jerks his head toward the living room. “C’mon.”
Spencer looks suspicious. “Why?” he asks.
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is when I’m bigger than you.”
Emily appears from behind Morgan laughing. Spencer looks at you, almost as if he’s asking permission.
“Go,” you tell him.
“I’ll be back,” he says. The words leave his mouth so naturally that neither of you realize how strange they sound.
But Emily notices.
The second Spencer disappears into the living room she sits down in the chair he just left. And smiles.
Uh oh.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey?” you reply, not in a rude way, just in a curious way.
She takes a sip of wine. You immediately know she’s up to something. The problem is you don’t know what.
“So,” she says.
“So,” you repeat in the same tone.
She smiles wider. “What’s going on with Reid?”
You nearly choke on nothing.
“What!?” you ask.
“What?”
“Nothing is going on!”
Emily narrows her eyes at you. She looks entirely unconvinced.
“We’re friends.” you say.
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
You suddenly feel like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Then why are you asking?”
Emily shrugs. “Just wondering.”
She’s lying. Not completely, but definitely a little.
“How often do you guys talk?” She asks
The question seems harmless enough.
“Most days,” you answer.
She raises an eyebrow. “Like… once a week most days?”
“No.”
She nods slowly, “How often then?”
You think about it. Then immediately regret thinking about it.
“Everyday…” you say, a little bit embarrassed.
She takes another sip of wine. “Every day?” she repeats.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“That’s normal for you?”
You start to say yes, but stop yourself. Because now that she says it… maybe it isn’t. Emily watches as the realization spreads across your face. She smiles, which feels a little bit cruel.
“How long are these conversations?” She asks, watching as you squirm.
Unfortunately your silence is enough of an answer for her.
“Oh wow,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
“They’re not weird,” you try to clear up.
“I didn’t say they were.”
You sink into the chair. Because the worst part is that she hasn’t accused you of anything. Not at all. Not once. She’s just asking questions. And every answer is digging you deeper into a hole.
Luckily Spencer and Morgan come back before she can ask anything deeper. Emily moves so Spencer can have his seat back, but they join you at the table as well.
You have never been happier to see other human beings in your life.
Spencer looks between you and Emily, who is watching you like a hawk.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you answer immediately.
Emily laughs into her wine.
“What?” he asks again.
“Absolutely nothing,” Emily says. The profiler look she gives you says the exact opposite.
Spencer looks suspicious. You refuse to make eye contact with either of them.
Pretty soon everyone has made their way back to the table and there have been three or four decks of cards combined to make what might be the largest game of poker that David Rossi’s dinner table has ever seen.
And Spencer keeps winning.
Over and over again.
The first few hands you pass off as luck. But by the sixth consecutive win, you don’t really believe that anymore.
“This feels illegal,” Morgan complains, after going completely broke.
Spencer doesn’t even so much as look up from his cards.
“It’s not,” he smiles.
______
By ten o’clock people start leaving.
You hate that. Not because you want everyone to stay forever, you just wish everyone could stay for longer. Your uncle's coworkers are fun. The night ending is saddening.
Garcia steals a container of cheesecake from the kitchen on her way out. You stand near the entry way as she walks over, pulling you into a big, Penelope Garcia style hug.
“Merry Christmas, Sweetie,” she says.
“Merry Christmas, Penelope.
“Text me sometime,” she says as she pulls away. “I miss you.”
“Will do,” you laugh as she’s out the door.
JJ gives you a quick hug on her way out too.
“Thanks for letting us crash your house,” she jokes.
“Anytime,” you smile. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” she says back.
Emily comes up close behind. You already know she’s about to be annoying. The look on her face says it all.
She hugs you briefly before stepping back. “Remember what I said.”
“No,” you smile.
She grins back. “Try not to overthink everything.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Work on it,” she yells on her way out the door.
Morgan and Hotch head out at the same time.
Morgan pulls you into a bro-like hug. His arms feel as muscular as they look. You realize you’ve never hugged someone as big as him.
“Merry Christmas, Kiddo,” he says.
“Merry Christmas, Dude,” you say back.
Hotch follows with a handshake instead of a hug, which feels far more appropriate from him.
“Have a good Christmas, Y/N,” he says, his voice as serious as ever, but he flashes a small smile.
“You too, Hotch.”
Spencer is right behind Hotch ready to say goodbye.
You look at him standing there in his coat, with his satchel across his body. He’s not wearing his glasses today. He mentioned he often doesn’t wear them in the winter because the temperature makes the frames cold against his face and he doesn’t like it. You think that’s cute.
You know you shouldn’t think like that though. And you’re already overthinking things again, to Emily’s dismay.
Spencer looks at you. You look at him. For a second neither of you says anything. He starts lifting his hand for a handshake. Obviously. That’s normal. Reasonable. Appropriate. You lift your hand to accept his handshake.
Then he hesitates. His hand pauses halfway up. Because suddenly a handshake feels strange. It feels too formal. Too distant. Like it's not enough after all the phone calls and the coffee and the lunches. It’s not enough for friends.
The realization seems to surprise him as much as you. Before he can think too hard about it, and honestly, if he thought about it he probably would’ve just stuck with the handshake, he steps forward.
And hugs you.
Spencer Reid is hugging you.
It’s awkward at first, almost hesitant. Like he’s making it up as he goes. Which honestly, he probably is. He’s so close, and so warm, and so… real. You can feel the sleeves of his sweater beneath your hands. It’s soft, but slightly worn. Like he’s had it for a while. His arms take a moment to settle around you, like he’s worried about doing it wrong.
He finds a comfortable spot and holds you a little tighter.
Oh.
Spencer is warm. Ridiculously warm. You don’t know why that surprises you, but it does. Maybe because most of your interactions happen over the phone. You’ve spent so long thinking about his voice and his laugh and the way his brain works that you never really acknowledged the fact that he’s an actual living breathing person. And a living breathing person that gives very good hugs at that.
Your heart is pounding so hard that you’re positive he can hear it. You’re positive because you can hear his.
You catch a faint scent of coffee lingering on him. And something vanilla-y. And beneath that is laundry detergent.
Spencer leans his head in slightly closer. He makes his voice low enough that only you can hear it.
“I hope I get to see you again without hiding it.”
The words immediately make your throat tight. Because it all makes sense now. Hiding it has been the worst part. Not the sneaking around, or the lying, it’s the hiding. And pretending your friendship is something it shouldn’t be. And pretending it matters less than it does, but simultaneously pretending it matters more than it should.
You push your face into his chest. “Me too.” you whisper.
He squeezes you a little bit tighter before pulling back and looking down at you. His face is slightly red, but yours is definitely worse.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says sincerely.
“Goodnight, Spencer,” you smile.
You watch him leave. You watch him as he steps down off the porch. And watch him cross the driveway until he disappears into the dark. And then you keep staring. Only for another second. Or maybe two. Not long at all. But long enough for your uncle to notice.
When you finally look away, your uncle is standing near the entry table watching you. He’s not angry, nor suspicious looking. He’s just watching. Which makes you nervous.
Because for the first time since the original dinner party, he doesn’t look like he’s seeing a problem. He looks like he’s seeing a friendship. A real one. And that’s complicated.
Because David Rossi likes Spencer.
And he loves you.
And that’s what makes everything hard for him.
_____
Read Part 11 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i think that i cannot stop writing this series it’s so so bad, it was supposed to just be a one shot lmaooo
also guys the next chapter is going to be sort of experimental. it's going to be entirely from Rossi's point of view. i know that might not be everyone's cup of tea, however it's sort of central to the story and i want to do my best to keep the chapters from sounding repetitive.
also i’ve been getting a lot of messages in my inbox from people complimenting the way that i write early seasons spencer and i would first like to say thank you, and that that is one of the greatest compliments i could receive as a spencer writer.
second, i can’t help but think i write spencer well because honestly, i am sort of similar to him. obviously he’s sort of a caricature, but i for real get compared to him at least three times a year. shout out autism. also my boyfriend has been compared to spencer a few times, so honestly i think that i write spencer well because i’ve been surrounded by people with his qualities my whole life lol
_____
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Not a chapter pf anything but im adding my tag list and tags bc i want it to reach ppl sorry for spamming ur feed pls don't hate me
For anyone that reads my onging spencer fic with the rossi's niece trope (masterlist here if ur curious) i am requesting your help with something.
i am asking this in ADVANCE so do not expect this to happen in the next part, i don't want to post this and then spoil it for you!
but i'd like to know your guys' opinions on the reader and spencer kissing. ie: would and should they kiss before dating? should i do an accidental kiss and make things awkward? should they kiss and then immediately confess feelings? should they confess feelings then kiss?
please help. feel free to comment your ideas or you can send them to my inbox here (anon is on for that so if you want to put in your opinion but remain anonymous you can:)
summary: You and Spencer settle into a new normal: 5:30am phone calls, coffee before work, and spending far more time together than either of you planned. Then the BAU gets called away for a week, and you're forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that you miss him. A lot. Meanwhile, Spencer discovers that borrowing a book from you is easy. Convincing his coworkers it was "just lunch" is significantly harder.
word count: 3.2k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The morning calls become routine far faster than you, and likely Spencer, intended. The first one happens the day after the park. You wake up at 5:22. Not because you have to. Not because you set an alarm. You just do.
For several seconds you stare at your ceiling try to remember why you’re awake. Then you phone rings. At 5:30am. You smile before you answer it.
“Good morning,” you say quietly.
“How did you know it was me?” His voice is thick and deeper than normal. He clearly just woke up.
“Because nobody else would call me at 5:30 in the morning.”
“That’s fair.”
And somehow that became a thing. Every morning.
Some days Spencer would call at exactly 5:30. Sometimes 5:28. Once at 5:45 because he got stuck helping Morgan fill out paperwork before leaving work the night before.
You pretended to be annoyed. And he never was late to a call since.
You knew your uncle slept like a rock. And was never ever awake before 7:00 if he didn’t have to be, so long as you were quiet in your room, and maybe avoiding calling Spencer by name, you were okay.
And it was even more ideal for you to go downstairs. Which is why you started making coffee while he called. You start organizing your morning around Spencer Reid.
Every morning you talk about your classes, and he’ll tell you about cases. Well, the parts he can legally tell you. He tells you weird facts. You tell him the drama you hear in class. He tells you Morgan accidentally stapled two reports together. You tell him that your professor forgot to wear shoes to class one morning. Which makes him laugh.
You start looking forward to making him laugh. Which could get dangerous quickly if you’re not careful.
After a few days, the phone calls turn into coffee. The first time is spontaneous. Or at least that’s what you tell yourselves.
The call starts only a little earlier than normal. 5:22. That’s okay though, you usually wake up at 5:15 and stand watch anyways.
By 5:38 you’re sitting at the kitchen island in pajama pants with coffee that is definitely expired. Spencer is driving already. He’s somewhere between his apartment and Quantico.
“You sound tired,” he says.
“I do not.”
“You’ve yawned four times.”
“You counted?”
“I always count. Remember?”
You remember.
You start talking about coffee. And how badly yours tastes. Because it’s black. But Spencer thinks black coffee is superior.
“It tastes fine,” he argues.”
“It tastes like old man!”
“You’re only saying that because you live with one!”
“You did not just call David Rossi old.”
“What are you gonna do? Tell on me?”
No. You weren’t. Because if you did you’d surely never see the light of day again. You think about how grateful you are for the mornings when you talk to Spencer. And you realize that you miss him. A lot. The actual him. Him as a physical being, not just a voice over the phone.
And maybe it’s the disgusting black coffee and the wish for something more flavorful, but you’re feeling bold.
You look at the time. 5:42.
“Where are you?” you ask Spencer.
“Driving.”
“To work?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gotten coffee yet?”
“No.”
“That’s tragic.”
“It isn’t tragic.”
“Oh, it’s tragic.”
Spencer sighs. You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“Fine,” he says, “it’s mildly inconvenient.”
“I have to turn in my textbooks for the end of the semester today.”
“Finals are next week, aren’t they?”
“Yep, but the books are due early because…well I don’t know. I guess they want us to rely on our notes or something.”
“That makes sense. If you need any help studying you know who to call.”
“There’s a coffee shop five minutes from campus.
Spencer pauses.
“Okay?” he says, confused.
“Okay.” you repeat, almost wishing you didn’t hint at what you were hinting at.
But Spencer picks up on it. Somehow.
“Technically,” he starts, “if I took Route 123 instead of interstate 95, it would only add about seven minutes to my commute.”
“Technically,” you say, “I told my uncle I was leaving here at 7:00 to drop my books off at 8:00. He wouldn’t know if I left a little early…”
“I could probably spare fifteen minutes.”
“Or an hour… what are you doing leaving for work at 5:30 anyways?”
“Well I was going to get a headstart on end of year paperwork, but I guess someone had other plans for me.”
_____
The second coffee meetup is not so accidental. Actually, it wasn’t an accident at all. You agree to meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays before he goes to work. The first time, the spontaneous time, you met at 6:45. Spencer did the math and had to leave the coffee shop by 7:20 in order to get to work by 8:00.
But the second time you guys meet at 6:00. Over an hour to talk before he had to leave.
And the third time? Well, you guys beat the opening barista’s to the coffee shop and had to hang out in the parking lot for 30 minutes until they opened at 5:00.
Then the BAU gets called away on a case. And what became your new normal was gone. The first morning isn’t bad. You still wake up at 5:15. You still make coffee. You still reach for your phone. But then you remember he’s somewhere in Missouri. Or Colorado. Or Wyoming. Honestly, you’re not really sure where he is. And suddenly 5:00am feels much earlier than it did last week.
The second morning is worse. The third is honestly a little embarrassing. By the fourth morning you’ve finally realized what is happening. Spencer Reid has somehow become part of your routine.
You hate it because routines can be dangerous. Because routines become habits. And habits become things you miss. And apparently you miss Spencer. A lot. Not romantically.
Obviously.
You just miss talking to him. You miss hearing whatever new random fact he had learned. You miss him correcting your grammar. You just miss him. The realization makes you a little uncomfortable. So naturally you spend the rest of your week alone thinking about it. Which honestly only makes it worse.
By the time the week is over you’re annoyed with yourself. And slightly with him. And with the entire state of Missouri. Or Colorado. Or Wyoming. Wherever he is.
Your phone rings on Thursday at 8:00pm.
SPENCER REID
You answer before the first ring finishes.
“Hi,” you say, trying your best to not sound excited.
“Hi.”
You immediately relax, and every negative feeling you had towards yourself, and him, and whatever state he was in passes in an instant.
“You’re home!”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you acknowledge how quickly you answered. Because if you did, Spencer would have to admit he noticed. And if he admitted he noticed, then you would have to admit you were waiting. And neither of those conversations sound particularly appealing.
“When did you get back?” you ask, both out of curiosity and to try to gauge when your uncle would return.
“Like… five minutes ago.”
“Seriously? Have you even changed yet?”
“I’m changING now.”
He was changing while on the phone with you? He couldn’t just wait five more minutes? You don’t know for sure how you feel about that, but you know you don’t feel upset by it.
And the fact that you’re okay with it sort of upsets you.
You change the subject so you don’t have to think about it. Because honestly, you don’t know what would happen to you, both physically and in your brain, if you continued to think about it.
You mention the new book you got last week that’s sitting on your nightstand. The one you’d been wanting to read for months. You tell Spencer you finished it.
“You read it in a week?”
“Three days actually. You’re not the only one who enjoys books, Dr. Reid.”
Spencer would never ever ever admit to anyone what you calling him that nickname did to him. Or how many times he replayed it in his head.
“Was it good?” he asks you, voice a little bit hoarse.
“It was amazing.”
“I’ve been thinking about reading it too.”
“You want to borrow it?”
“You’d let me borrow it?”
“It’s a book.”
“Some people get weird about books, and based on your personal check out log in your planner, I think you might be one of those people.”
“I trust you.”
The words leave your mouth before you think about them. The line goes quiet. Not awkward, just quiet.
“Thank you,” Spencer finally says softly.
“So when do you want it?” you ask him.
“Can you maybe meet me for lunch in Quantico tomorrow?”
“You want to do lunch?”
“Well, I plan on sleeping in until 7:00 tomorrow, so unless you’d rather wait until Monday I’d like to do lunch.”
You smile. “We can do lunch.”
_____
The next day somehow comes slower than the entire week Spencer was gone. Which makes you mad. You’d survived seven days without him. You’d survived the awful realization that he’s now part of your routine, and there’s really nothing you can do about it, and you’d survived missing him.
You could surely survive lunch.
The book sits in your passenger seat the entire 45 minute drive to Quantico. You keep glancing at it. Not because you think it’s going to jump out of the car, but because you’re worried that Spencer will somehow be disappointed by it.
Which is ridiculous, you know. He literally told you he wanted to read it. And yet your brain insists on making you unnecessarily nervous.
You immediately spot Spencer’s car upon pulling into the parking lot. Of course he’s already here. You sit in your car for a second. Then another. Then another. Then you grab the book before you can talk yourself out of going inside.
The restaurant is busy enough to make you feel anonymous, which is nice. You spot Spencer sitting in a booth near the back. Reading. Because of course he is. The book in front of him is so thick it could probably stop a bullet.
You stare at him. His satchel sits beside him. His glasses are sliding slightly down his nose. He has a few strands of hair falling in front of his face. You notice his hands moving across the page.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Spencer looks up. The second he notices you he closes the book. Not because he’s finished, but because you’re here. And you hate that it gives you butterflies. But it does.
“Hi,” you say, walking toward him.
“Hi.” His smile appears instantly. The same one that you’ve become embarrassingly familiar with.
“You beat me here.”
Spencer tilts his head. “I’ve only been here nine minutes.”
“Is that not beating me here?”
“Not by enough.”
His smile gets bigger. You slide into the booth across from him. The book immediately gets his attention.
“Is that it?” he asks.
You hold it out to him. “The one and only,” you say dramatically.
He accepts it with the same amount of care someone would give a newborn baby. You watch him turn it over, check the cover, read the back, check the publication page, the copyright information, the publisher, everything. You wait. Patiently wait. For approximately fifteen seconds.
“Are you profiling the book?” you ask.
Spencer glances up. “No?”
“Why are you doing that?”
“I’m looking at it.”
“Like you’re profiling it.”
He smiles wide. “I don’t think you know what profiling means.”
Your waiter arrives and takes your orders. Your food arrives. You and Spencer talk while you eat. Somewhere in the middle of talking about a terrible group project experience, you realize something.
Neither of you seem nervous anymore. At all. In fact, you feel comfortable. And you feel as if Spencer feels similar as well, because he starts to open up more.
Once you're finished eating the waiter brings the check to the table. Spencer takes it.
“I’ve got it,” he says, pulling out his wallet.
You smile, maybe blush. You can’t really tell. But your face feels a little warm.
“Are you sure?” you ask.
He nods, handing the waiter the check and his card. The waiter walks away to process the payment.
“I would’ve paid but I don’t have Uncle Dave’s card today,” you say, mostly joking.
“Yeah, well even if you did I wouldn’t have let you pay.” he says.
You must look confused. Because Spencer stutters, trying to defend his previous statement.
“I-it just f-feels weird for me to let him p-pay when he doesn’t even k-know were hanging o-out.”
You smile. The waiter comes back with Spencer’s card and a receipt. Neither of you move at first, each waiting on the other to leave first.
Finally, Spencer gathers his things. You get up out of the booth too and walk out of the restaurant together. You stop beside your car. Spencer adjusts the strap of his satchel. the book you let him borrow sticks out a little bit from the top.
“I’ll make sure the book comes back in one piece,” he says.
“I know.” you answer without hesitation. Because it’s true. You trust him with it. You trust him with a lot of things. Probably more than you should.
Spencer looks oddly pleased by your response.
“I should really go,” he says, reluctantly.
“I know,” you say. Neither of you seem particularly happy to go.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning,” he says as he begins walking to his car.
The statement comes naturally. Not a question, not even a plan. Just a fact.
“I’ll answer,” you smile.
_____
SPENCER’S POV
Friday
1:00 PM
I get back to Quantico in time. I’m sitting at my desk inside the BAU at 1:00pm. Which means I am not late. That is an important distinction that apparently nobody else in the bullpen cares about.
The second I walk in the glass doors I can feel two sets of eyes on me. I know who it is; the only two people on the team with a staring problem. Not that I think people shouldn’t look at me, that’s insane to think. But they’re not subtle about it at all.
I set my satchel down on my desk. They keep staring. I open a file. They’re staring. I start working on my paperwork, hoping they’ll stop. It’s been two minutes and they both still have their eyes on me.
“What?” I finally ask.
Morgan leans back in his chair. “Where were you at, pretty boy?”
“I went out to lunch.”
The other eyes laugh. “You never go out to lunch,” Emily says.
I look between the two of them. “I did today.”
“Without us?” Morgan asks.
“Yes.”
“That’s suspicious,” Emily teases.
“It is not suspicious.”
“It is when it’s you,” Morgan says.
If Derek Morgan wasn’t my friend I would take that as him being mean. Even though he is my friend I still think it’s a little bit mean. But believe it or not, I’m self aware. And I know what he means by it. And I know he’s right.
I pull the book Y/N gave me out of my satchel and set it carefully on my desk.
Emily looks at it. Then at me. Then at Derek, who then does the reverse. Neither of them elaborate. Which is really annoying me.
“What?” I ask again, trying to stay patient.
“Nothing,” Emily says.
“Why do you guys keep watching me?”
“Where exactly did you go?” Morgan asks me.
“A restaurant.” I open the book, trying to ignore them.
“Who’d you go with?” Morgan asks. Emily smiles.
“I went by myself.”
That technically isn’t a lie. I did drive alone, and I got there first.
Emily raises her eyebrows. “Really?” Her voice is suspicious.
“Yes.”
“You stayed there by yourself?” She asks.
I hesitate for a second. A very unfortunate second.
“Ooooh,” Morgan teases.
“I was thinking!” I try to defend.
“About who you had lunch with twenty minutes ago?”
I decide paperwork is more appealing than this conversation. I ignore his question and open my file again. Unfortunately, neither Emily or Morgan seem interested in allowing that.
“So,” Emily says casually, “was it a date?”
“No.” I answer quickly. Maybe too quickly.
Morgan starts smiling. I hate when Morgan starts smiling. It never ends well for me. But before he can say anything, salvation arrives in the form of Penelope Garcia.
“Hello my beautiful crime fighting children," she says as she walks in the aisle between mine and Morgan’s desks. Her eyes find the book on my desk pretty easily. “Is Pride and Prejudice?” she asks when she sees it.
“Yeah, it’s a first edition copy, they’re extremely rare, only 1500 copies were printed.”
“Yeah, cool, it’s a rare book, but what are you, Dr. Reid, resident genius reading Pride and Prejudice for?”
I smile and answer before thinking.
“I’ve surprisingly never read it. Y/N let me borrow her copy.”
Oops.
Silence. Complete silence. Morgan slowly stands, and I’m not sure if I’ve just blocked out all sounds, or if that was complete silence as well. He walks the few steps to my desk and leans over it, holding himself up with his arms.
“So that’s why Pretty Boy was missing for so long,” he says, ruffling my hair.
“It was just lunch,” I argue.
“It’s always just lunch,” Emily says.
“Was it a romantic lunch?” Garcia asks.
I really don’t like everyone in my business like this.
“No.” I say.
Morgan and Emily exchange a look. I don’t like that look.
Morgan lowers his voice low. “Does Rossi know you’re still hanging out with her?”
I stare down the book. The cover suddenly feels very interesting.
“Reid…” Emily says, her voice sounds more accusatory than I’d like for it to.
I really don’t like everyone in my business like this. And I don’t like the way that they’re looking at me like I’m doing something wrong. And I don’t like that they won’t just drop it.
And I really do not like everybody I work with being in my personal business with the only person I talk to outside of work that isn’t my schizophrenic mother.
“No. He doesn’t.” I say. The words come out sharper than I mean for them to. Everyone's eyes widen slightly and they look a bit taken aback. “And I’d really appreciate it if we could stop talking about this.”
Nobody says anything. And now they’re all staring again. Everyone in the bullpen, even those who weren’t involved. I hate being stared at. I look down at the paperwork.
Morgan looks guilty returning to his desk. Emily looks guilty pulling out a file. Even Penelope looks a little bit guilty as she walks back to her office. I feel a little bad, but maybe now they’ll finally leave me alone.
Which is what I would like. Because I have a book to read.
_____
Read Part 10 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i left my hair dye on my head for over an hour to finish writing this part. if anything is weird about this then its because the dye fumes have penetrated my skull.
also guys be prepared for a rossi return next chapter eheheheh
_____
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hi guys i’m impulsively dying my hair tonight is this a safe space to post casually? do you want to see or do u guys just follow for my ask g writing skills and autistic tendencies (actually autistic btw i can say that)
summary: You and Spencer finally hang out just the two of you. On purpose. You meet at a park after a test, and you remember to bring your planner.
word count: 3.6k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
Your test ends at 10:17. Not 10:15. Not 10:20. 10:17.
You know because your proctor says time is up. You check the clock. Then your phone. Then the clock again.
Because apparently you’re incapable of acting normal anymore.
You hand in your exam, gather your things, and practically speed walk toward the parking lot. The entire time your brain is running in two completely opposite directions.
On one hand, you’re relieved the test is over and you can enjoy your weekend. On the other hand…
Spencer.
You’d seen him yesterday. At the coffee shop. You’d talked to him yesterday. For four hours. On the phone after he got off of work. But today feels different. Maybe because Garcia won’t be there. Maybe because this wasn’t some accidental dinner invitation or spur of the moment bookstore trip.
But because this is the first time the two of you have actually made friends. Just the two of you. On purpose.
You unlock your car and toss your backpack into the passenger seat. The zipper falls open slightly, exposing the corner of your planner. You smile. The planner.
You actually remembered.
After weeks of Spencer asking questions about it and insisting on seeing it, you finally found a chance to bring it. And even if today is the most awkward experience of both of your guys’ lives combined, he’d at least be excited about that.
Which is a sentence you never expected to think about another human being.
You flop into the driver's seat and pull your phone out. The call only lasts two minutes. Just long enough to confirm the location. And for Spencer to somehow already know the estimated drive times from both of your locations.
You start the car.
The park is roughly halfway between Fairfax, where you go to college, and Quantico, where Spencer is taking an early, and a late, lunch. Neither of you have ever been to this park before, which feels appropriate.
Outside has started its transition from fall to winter. The leaves are still orange, but beneath each tree is a pile of dying brown ones. The sky is still bright without it being hot. It’s the kind of day people write poetry about and get made fun of for.
Today though? Today you kind of get it.
You stop at a red light and glance at the passenger seat. You eye your planner, then your phone sitting beside it, then at the clock.
You still have about 15 minutes before you’re supposed to meet him. Which means there’s a high chance that Spencer Reid is already there.
You pull into the parking lot of the park fourteen minutes later. Spencer Reid is already there. Of course he is.
He steps out of his car as soon as he sees you round the corner. He stands near the entrance of one of the walking trails, hands occupied by two coffee cups and a paper bag tucked underneath his arm.
For a second you just sit in your car. Because suddenly, seeing him standing there, specifically waiting for you, it makes you far more nervous than you had been the times before.
You do your best to ignore it and climb out of the car. Spencer notices you immediately. His face brightens and he lifts one hand in a small wave, trying not to spill either coffee.
You wave back, approaching him.
“You brought coffee,” you observe.
“I did.” he smiles.
You stop in front of him. One cup is a pumpkin spice latte, because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid enjoys the most aggressively autumn beverage imaginable.
And the other cup…
“You got the same thing yesterday and seemed to enjoy it,” he says, holding out the cup.
A vanilla latte.
Your heart leaps out of your chest. Because not only did he remember, but he cared.
You accept the coffee. It’s still warm. Which means he couldn’t have bought it very long ago.
You look up at him, giving a suspicious grin. “You left early, didn’t you.”
“Only a little,” he smiles.
“Spencer…”
“Only like ten minutes.”
“Why?” you laugh.
“I estimated the average traffic flow between Quantico and Fairfax.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to know how long it would take.”
“We already decided that on the phone.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to know how long it would take if I stopped and got us coffee.”
You laugh loudly, causing a few people to turn. His ears turn slightly pink. Not because he’s embarrassed, but because he’s pleased with himself for making you laugh. Which is a dangerous realization.
You take a sip of your coffee. It’s perfect. Exactly how you ordered it yesterday.
The two of you start down the walking trails. The park is nicer than either of you expected. The path winds through clusters of orange and yellow trees. Fallen leaves crunch beneath your shoes. Both of you are wearing black converse, which is cute.
COOL.
It’s cool that the both of you are wearing the same shoes.
Somewhere off in the distance you can hear kids yelling on a playground. And for a while, you just walk. And talk.
The conversation flows the same way it always does with Spencer.
“So what exactly do profilers do all day?” you ask.
Spencer looks at you. “That depends.”
“On?”
“If we have a case.”
“Please tell me it’s mostly catching serial killers.”
“It’s mostly paperwork.”
You groan. “That’s the least interesting thing you’ve ever told me.”
He smiles. “I know.”
“But what’s it like when you’re not doing paperwork?”
You see something in his eyes switch. Like you awakened something. Then he’s off.
Talking about behavioral analysis, and interview techniques, and body language, and crime scene reconstruction. And you listen the entire time. Partially because it’s fascinating, but mostly because the way Spencer explains things is mesmerizing.
Spencer shifts the conversation towards college and degrees. And says something so casually that ruins your entire sense of academic achievement.
“When I was working on my third PhD–”
You nearly trip over a tree root.
“You’re WHAT?”
“My third PhD?”
You stop walking. Spencer takes three more steps before realizing you’ve stopped. He turns around.
“What?” he says casually.
“THREE?”
“Yes?”
“You have THREE PhDs?”
He looks confused. “Is that unusual?”
You stare at him. “You cannot be serious. In what?”
“Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering.”
“Oh so all the hardest ones, got it.”
“I have bachelor’s in psychology and sociology, and have been thinking about looking into getting one in philosophy.”
You continue staring. Because there are moments in life when a person should be humbled. This is one of them.
“I spent six hours studying for my exam today.”
“That’s normal.”
“You have three PhDs.”
Spencer shrugs. You point a finger at him, accusingly.
“Stop doing that!” you command.
“What?”
“Acting like that’s a normal thing.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary weird.”
“It’s definitely not normal.”
“Statistically,”
“No.”
He laughs, the sound makes you smile.
“I actually considered journalism for a little while.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I liked the research aspect. You know, investigating things, finding information, writing research papers.”
“So why didn’t you?”
He looks down at the trail. “I didn’t think I’d be very good at it.”
You stare at him. Spencer Reid? Not good at something?
“Why’s that?” you ask.
“Journalism is known as one of the most competitive fields, and honestly, I don’t think I’m competitive enough.”
“Spencer, you have three PhDs, I think that’s regarded as pretty competitive.”
He shrugs again like that somehow answers the question. It doesn’t.
“Speaking of journalism, how’d your test go?”
You shrug. “I think I did okay.”
“Just okay?” he asks.
“I mean, it’s not exactly the kind of class where you walk out knowing if you got a 98 or a 72.”
Spencer nods. “Fair.”
“There were a few questions I wasn’t sure about.”
“What were they?”
You glance at him. “Are you asking because you’re curious or because you want to tell me the answers?”
“A little bit of both.”
You laugh. “But honestly, it wasn’t that bad.”
“No?”
“The guy who sits next to me seemed like he was struggling way more than I was so maybe that’s a good sign for me.”
Spencer looks over at you with one eyebrow raised. You only know because you can see it over his glasses. Actually, come to think of it, that was the first time you’d ever seen one of his eyebrows.
“What guy?” Spencer asks.
You don’t think anything of the question.
“Ian,” you say, naturally. Calmly.
“Who’s Ian?”
“Just some guy in my class.”
“What class?”
“Media Ethics, the one I have tests for.”
Spencer nods slowly. “How old is he?”
“What?”
He looks straight ahead. That’s suspicious. “I’m just curious.”
“He’s nineteen.”
Spencer nods again. “Nineteen” he repeats.
“That’s normal college age, Mr. 3 PhDs.”
He gives a small smile. “I know.”
The trail curves around a small pond with fallen leaves scattered across the edge of the water. You can see a few ducks floating near the opposite bank.
For a minute you think you dodged whatever interrogation was about to happen.
For a minute.
Spencer kicks a rock across the path. “What’s his major?” he asks.
“Why do you care?” You laugh, fully believing that he’s joking.
“I don’t.” He responds quickly. Defensively. Which makes you start to think he’s not joking after all.
“You literally just asked.”
Spencer opens his mouth to speak. But he closes it before any words come out.
Weird.
“I was making conversation.” He finally says.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Journalism.”
“Oh.”
“What are his hobbies?”
You give him a weird look. “I don’t know? What kind of question is that?”
Spencer shrugs. “Most people have hobbies.”
“You don’t even know him!”
“Exactly.”
“What?”
You stare at him. Something weird is happening, you’re just not sure what exactly it is.
“I think he plays soccer.”
“You think?”
“We sit next to each other during exams, Spencer. We aren’t roommates.”
Your voice comes out a little more annoyed than you mean for it to.
Spencer’s jaw tenses a little bit. You feel a little bad, but he’s being weird. You walk in complete silence for what is definitely over a minute.
“Do you study together?” Spencer blurts.
What?
“Why are you asking so many questions?” you ask him.
His eyebrows lift over his glasses. Both of them this time.
“I’m not.” he defends.
“You are.”
“Am not!”
“You asked his name, age, major, and hobbies, and you asked if we study together.”
“Well when you say it like that it sounds like a lot.”
“Because it IS a lot.”
He looks surprised by the revelation. Like he hadn’t realized that he’d been conducting a background investigation on a guy he’s never met. And a guy you barely know either.
You stare at him. He stares back.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, before shifting the conversation elsewhere.
You tell him something your professor told you about left handed people, he tells a story about Morgan getting his tie stuck in a filing cabinet drawer 2 years ago and tells you he hasn’t worn a tie to work since. Normal things. Friend things.
Until Spencer gets weird again.
“Is he single?”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He’s looking straight ahead, completely casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that only happens when you’re trying to be casual.
You squint your eyes at him. He notices.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say.
Nothing at all.
Except suddenly every previous question is starting to make sense to you. His name, his age, his hobbies…asking if you study with him to find out if you spend time together outside of class…and now THIS?
You have to consciously tell yourself not to smile. Because if you smile he’ll know you know.
Know what?
You don’t know.
Something.
“Why do you want to know if he’s single?” you say.
Spencer shrugs. Again. He does that a lot. Or at least a lot during this conversation.
“I was curious,” he says.
“There it is again!”
“What?”
“Curious?”
“I am curious.”
You stare at him for another second. And decide not to torture him. Mostly because the tips of his ears are red. And that’s adorab–
Interesting.
That’s interesting.
You don’t know the actual answer to the question. But you decide lying is better than making him suffer.
“He has a girlfriend.” you finally say.
Spencer’s entire body untenses after hearing that, which is funny.
“That’s nice,” he says.
You hum in response.
Spencer takes a sip of his coffee.
Neither of you say anything. Spencer looks at you.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks.
You didn’t even know you were smiling.
“What?” you say, shocked.
“You’re smiling,” he points out.
You immediately stop smiling.
“I was not!” you say.
“You were.”
“No!” you argue.
He laughs. “You definitely were.”
“I definitely wasn’t.”
Spencer shakes his head.
And despite how much you’re denying it, you were smiling.
Because even if it's just a little bit, Spencer Reid is jealous. And for some reason that you’re not yet ready to unpack, that thought makes your heart beat just a little bit faster.
By the time the conversation finally moves on from Ian and Spencer is back to normal you’ve somehow made it back to the parking lot. The walk back felt way shorter than the walk there, which was unfair.
You spot your car and immediately feel disappointed. Not enough to ruin your day, but just enough to wish it wasn’t ending yet.
Spencer glances at his watch. You pretend not to notice. Because if you acknowledge that he has to go back to work, then this becomes goodbye. And you’re not ready for that. Not yet anyways.
Spencer walks you to your car. You’re slightly ahead of him, but before you can grab the handle Spencer steps around you and pulls the driver’s side door open.
You thank him. You lean in the car and sit your coffee cup in the cupholder. Spencer takes a step back. The awkward goodbye begins forming.
Then you remember.
“Do you need to leave now?” you ask him.
“The latest I can leave is 15 minutes from now, why?”
“Perfect,” you grin.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“It’s something you’ve been asking about for like a month.”
He stares at you for a moment, thinking. His whole face lights up when he realizes.
“The planner?”
You smile and nod your head really fast.
“You remembered!?”
“You mentioned it six times last night.”
You lean back over the seat and pull the planner out of your backpack. The second Spencer sees it his eyes immediately drop to the color-coded tabs sticking out from the top and the sides.
“Oh, wow.” he says.
“You haven’t even seen it yet!” you laugh.
“There are tabs.”
“There are.”
“Thats amazing.”
“It’s literally just a planner,” you say, shaking your head at him.
“It’s amazing,” he repeats, staring.
You laugh again. “Do you want to see it or not?”
“I obviously do.”
You slide into the driver’s seat of your car without thinking. You freeze. Because Spencer is still standing there. Waiting.
You look at him. He looks at you. Your brain immediately forgets how to function. Because the only logical place for him to sit is the passenger seat. Which shouldn’t feel weird. At all. Friends sit in each other’s cars literally every day.
Friends.
Friend.
Friend. Friend. Friend.
The word feels increasingly unconvincing.
“Do you wanna get in?” you ask, deciding not to let your mind stop you from doing something normal.
“Oh, yeah.” Spencer walks around the car and climbs into the passenger seat.
Your car immediately feels smaller. Much smaller. Which is ridiculous. Because it’s the same size it’s been all year. But, this is by far the closest you’ve been to Spencer.
You’d think you would’ve been closer on the trail. Maybe you were, but now that you were in the closed off space of your car sitting this close you could smell him. And he smelled really good. Like, really good.
No.
You have to force yourself to focus on the planner.
You place it across your lap. Spencer leans closer. Close enough you can feel the faintest amount of his breath on your shoulder.
Not weirdly.
Not romantically.
Definitely not romantically.
“First,” you say, opening to the monthly spread, “This is my master calendar.”
His eyes immediately start scanning the page. “It’s color coded.”
“Obviously,” you say.
“Obviously, he repeats, smiling.
You point at the page.
“Blue is classes.”
He nods.
“Green is my personal stuff, like appointments.”
Another nod.
“Red is deadlines.”
“Smart.”
“Yellow is family stuff.”
“Makes sense.”
You flip a few pages. “And these are my assignment trackers.”
Spencer takes the planner from your hands. Not rudely, just because he’s invested. You watch him study the page.”
“You track completion percentages?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“So I know how much work I have left.”
“Do you estimate the percentages manually?”
“...yes?”
“I would incorporate weighted grading values.”
“That’s insane, I don’t need to go that far.”
“You’re already tracking percentages of your assignments, you’re too far gone already.”
You smile and keep flipping pages.You show him reading logs and budget sheets, future planning pages and goal trackers. Lists of books you want to buy. Lists of books you already own. Lists of books you’ve loaned out.
“You have a list of books you’ve let people borrow?”
“People forget, it’s just easier.”
“That’s a really good idea.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I am impressed.”
He’s honest. No teasing, no sarcasm, just honesty.
“Really?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says earnestly.
You look down at the planner, then back up at him.
“Most people think it’s weird.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I guess it could be seen as being over prepared.”
“Well, I think it’s amazing."
The way he says it makes your chest feel warm. Because Spencer doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to just hand out compliments to be nice. He’s very honest and straight. If he says something he means it. And that’s why it matters so much.
You clear your throat and flip to another page.
You continue showing him appointment trackers, little notes you write yourself. Sticky notes, bookmarks, everything.
And the entire time Spencer asks questions. Not because he’s making fun of it. Not because he’s humoring you. But because he genuinely wants to know.
You realize no one has ever cared this much about your planner before. And it’s possible no one, other than your family, has cared this much about you before.
You flip to the weekly layouts section without thinking.
Because there was one highlighter color that you hadn’t told him about.
“Wait,” he says. He noticed it. “What’s purple?”
“Nothing!”
You immediately close the planner so hard the sound echoes through the car.
Spencer starts laughing.
“No,” you say.
“What is it?” Spencer says, still laughing.
“Nothing.”
“Y/N…”
“No.”
“You have a secret category.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
You point at him, “Profiler!”
He laughs harder. “It’s not profiling if I saw it!”
You groan.
This is a nightmare. The more interested he gets, the worse this becomes.
“What is it?” he asks again.
“Nothing.”
“It’s clearly something.”
“Spencer.”
“You color coded an entire category.”
“Spencer.”
“And now you’re hiding it.”
“Spencer.”
His smile widens. He’s enjoying this.
Eventually you sigh. Because he is never going to let this go.
“Fine,” you say, and open the planner back up.
He immediately leans forward again. You hate how excited he looks. You hate it because it’s so adorable.
And because you’re about to embarrass yourself.
He scans the page. And then again.
“Oh,” is all he says.
You’re pretty sure the feeling you feel is your soul leaving your body. Because he figured it out. Of course he did. He’s Spencer Reid.
Purple appears beside phone calls. And coffee. And bookstore. And park. The occasional reminder to call Spencer. Any and All events involving Spencer.
“Oh,” he says again.
And somehow the second one is worse.
Your entire face burns.
“It made organization easier.”
The excuse sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth. Spencer glances down at the page again. You’re scared for his reaction. But he doesn’t react. He just smiles and looks back at you. Not teasing, not smug, just… happy.
“I like it,” he says smiling.
His teeth are really white.
You blink. “What?”
“I like it.”
“You don’t think it's weird?”
“Why would I think it’s weird?”
Because people don’t just give other people their own category in their planner without them being incredibly important to them.
That’s why.
But saying that out loud feels impossible. So instead you stare at the steering wheel.
Spencer looks back at the planner.
“Purple is my favorite color,” he says. So calmly. His voice so so soft.
You look away. Because you know if you look at him right now you’re going to cry. From a mix of almost every emotion possible all at once.
Spencer checks his watch again and sighs.
“I should really get back.”
You nod, still unable to speak. You knew it was coming. You just wish it wasn’t.
“I had a lot of fun today,” Spencer says, for some reason catching you off guard.
“Me too,” you finally speak.
“I’ll call you after work tonight,” he says, starting to get out of your car.
“Okay,” you say, smiling. “And I’ll do my best to dodge my uncle.
He laughs. “I think that’s probably a good idea. He starts to walk away.
“Hey, Spencer,” you call.
“Yeah?” he says turning around.
“We should hang out again sometime.”
He smiles. “Just make sure you highlight it in purple.”
_____
Read Part 9 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i lied when i said i couldn’t start writing this part until i got off work today…i woke up at 7am to write for an hour before i had to leave….
_____
Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!
summary: after ten days of solitude, you get a call. and a plan. and then you go behind your uncles back again. not because you don't love him, but because you think he was out of line.
word count: 3.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap in mind (i'm imagining 26 year old (s3) spencer and 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
A week and a half is a surprisingly long time to actively try not to think about somebody.
Ten days. It’s been ten days since your uncle slammed your bedroom door. Eleven days since you’ve last talked to Spencer Reid. Not that you’re counting, but you are absolutely counting.
The first few days were awful. You avoided your uncle entirely. You ate dinner early, or late, whichever guaranteed you wouldn’t have to sit across from him. You couldn’t look at him without seeing the disappointment on his face and how distant he sounded when he said: “I expected better from you.”
Things had gotten a bit better since then. You could manage to sit across from him at dinner now. You could ask him to pass the salt and talk about classes. You could almost pretend everything was normal.
Almost.
There was still anger between the two of you. Not screaming angry, or throwing things angry, more like resent. Because he had taken away your friend.
Not a boyfriend, or a crush, or whatever ridiculous scenario your uncle had formed inside his head. Spencer was your friend.
You sigh and roll onto your side. Your planner is sitting on your nightstand. You hadn’t opened it in ten days. That was very unlike you. The purple highlighter you got specifically for Spencer had barely been used.
Your phone sits on top of your planner. Silent. You spent the first few days expecting it to ring, or even get a text. Then eventually you stopped checking every ten minutes. Sometimes.
A lot.
Because Spencer never called. Except for the night that your uncle yelled at you, you haven’t received one call from Spencer Reid.
Your mind went to a lot of places, but you told yourself he just got nervous, and left it at that, because you didn’t want to think about the other options.
You roll over again, attempting to get comfortably to finally fall asleep.
You’re a moderate amount close to falling asleep when your phone rings. You don’t even think twice before you scramble to answer it.
It’s not who you want it to be, but it’s close.
“Hello,” you whisper into the phone.
“Oh I’ve missed your voice, sweet girl.”
You smile, “Hi, Penelope.”
“Oh I’m so glad you’re alive. How have you been?”
The question is gentle. Far gentler than her usual energy. Which makes the answer hard to choke out. You stare at you’re ceiling.
“Not the best.”
Penelope is silent for a second, before saying “yeah.”
Her response catches you off guard.
“Yeah?”
“I kind of figured.”
You swallow. The room feels much quieter. You make sure you have control of your voice. “I haven’t really talked to anybody.”
“You haven’t talked to Spencer?”
The name hurts worse than you expected it to. You haven’t heard it in days. It stings.
“No, he hasn’t called.”
Penelope sighs. It sounds heavy.
“Okay,” she says quietly, “I should probably tell you what happened.”
You prop your head up to attention. “Something happened?”
Silence. She hesitates.
And suddenly, your stomach is twisting.
Because Penelope Garcia does not hesitate.
“After Rossi found out…”
Your chest tightens. “Oh no.”
“Yeah…”
“What did he do?”
“Last Friday he called Spencer into his office and yelled at him:
You close your eyes in disbelief. “Oh my god.”
Your entire face burns. The humiliation takes over any other feelings you could possibly be experiencing right now.
“Oh my god,” you say again. Because you don’t know what else to say.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Penelope says.
“What did Dave say?”
“A lot.”
“Was it bad?”
“It wasn’t sunshine and rainbows.”
You groan and bury your face in your pillow. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole. You want to disappear. You want to go back in time and throw away that stupid sticky note so your uncle never found it.
“He thought Spencer was–”
“I know what he thought,” you interrupted. and then groan louder.
Garcia laughs a little. Not because it’s funny, but because your reaction is.
“That’s so embarrassing, oh my god. I can’t believe he did that.”
“Neither could Spencer.” She laughs for real this time, thinking about the look on poor Spencer’s face. “He was so confused. He kept saying you were his friend.”
That struck a nerve. Because that’s exactly what you’d said. Over and over and over. “Friend.” The same defense. The same explanation. The same truth. Yet, neither of you had been believed.
Suddenly you feel sick. You feel awful for everything, mostly for Spencer.
“I hate this,” you say to Penelope.
“I know, sweetie.”
You flop backwards onto your bed. “I am never ever showing my face again.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I learned from you.”
That makes her laugh. “Fair enough.”
You stare at the ceiling.
“Is he okay?” you ask quietly.
“He’s okay.”
You nod. Then realize she can’t see that. “That’s good.”
“But he misses talking to you.”
Your stomach tingles. You continue staring at the ceiling. Trying very hard not to smile, or cry, or both.
“I miss him too,” you say.
Penelope’s tone changes. “We are so fixing this,” she says, closer to her normal cheerfulness.
“We are so not,” you say, laughing slightly at her eagerness.
“Oh yes we are.”
“Penelope…”
“Sweetie, you haven’t talked to your best friend in eleven days, and it’s obvious both of you are unhappy.”
You groan. Penelope takes your silence as permission to continue.
“Option one: I drive to your house, we kidnap you, and we all run away to Canada.”
“That’s not a real option.”
“It could be.”
“No.”
“Fine.” You hear papers rustling on her end of the phone. You have absolutely no idea why. “Option two…”
“Do you have a list?”
“I always have a list.”
“Option two,” she repeats. “I explain to Rossi that I am actually the mastermind behind everything.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because then he’ll get mad at you.”
“He’s already sort of mad at me.”
“It’ll be worse.”
Penelope goes quiet. Because she knows you’re right.
You roll onto your back again. “I don’t want him upset with you too.” That admission came out softer than you intended, but you meant it.
“Aww”
“Don’t.”
“Sweetie…”
“What?”
“What if you just talked to Spencer?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am completely serious.”
You groan again. Because the frustrating thing is that you want it to be that simple. But it’s not. It’s really not.
“My uncle will find out.”
“He doesn’t have to.”
Neither of you says anything for a few seconds.
Then Penelope’s voice changes. The way it always changes when she has an idea.
“Thursday Hotch and Rossi are going to a conference in Chicago.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“They’ll be gone until Saturday night.”
You know what she’s suggesting and you hate that you’re into it.
“Where?”
The second you say that you know you’ve lost.
Penelope gasps. “I KNEW IT!”
“I know, I know.”
“There’s a really good coffee shop in Quantico. Spencer and I have lunch from 11:30 to 12:30, but with both Hotch and Rossi gone we could probably get away with leaving at 11:00.”
You rub your face. This is a terrible idea. Which is probably why it sounds so appealing.
“You really think Spencer would want to?”
“Sweetie, he has been miserable. He misses you.”
Butterflies. Lots. Not because Spencer was miserable, but because he cares. You don’t know what to do with that information. So you stare at your wall. You think about eleven days. Eleven days of unanswered conversations. Eleven days of your room feeling empty, despite him only having occupied it once. You think about the purple highlighter sitting unused on your nightstand. Then you think about Spencer. And how badly you want to apologize.
“I’ll see you Thursday.” you smile into your phone.
“I’ll text you the address. Get some sleep, honey.”
“Goodnight, Penelope. And thank you.”
_____
Thursday arrives far too slowly. You spent most of Wednesday thinking about it. And most of Thursday morning thinking about it. Then the entire 45 minute drive to Quantico thinking about it. And by the time you pull into the coffee shop parking lot, you’ve sort of convinced yourself that this was a terrible idea.
Not because you don’t want to see Spencer. Actually, the opposite is the problem.
Your stomach twists as you park. You immediately spot Penelope’s car. Of course you do. Bright orange Cadillac convertibles are hard to miss. Almost impossible. And standing beside it…
Your heart immediately forgets how to function.
He looks the exact same, which feels unreal. The same messy hair, the same satchel, the same glasses, a different sweatervest, a brown one with a plaid button up underneath, but it’s the same in essence. He also wore a suit jacket over his sweater, which was doing a little more to you than you would admit to anyone, even yourself.
Penelope spots you first. She practically launches herself across the parking lot toward you.
“Oh there she is!” She says, pulling you into a hug.
“Hi, Penelope,” you laugh as you wrap your arms around her.
She pushes you back, hands still on your arms and looks you up and down.
“Oh my god, look at you! You look gorgeous!” She says.
You laugh, shaking your head. Penelope narrows he eyes.
“Who are you trying to impress?”
You know exactly who she means.
“Yeah, you,” you say, smiling.
Penelope laughs loud enough to draw the attention of several people. Over her shoulder you notice Spencer watching the entire interaction. He notices you looking and immediately gives you the world’s most Spencer Reid smile. The awkward white guy smile. He lifts a hand and gives the smallest wave.
“Hi,” his voice is slightly sheepish. But somehow that one tiny word felt like the first breath you’ve taken in days.
You smile at him, “Hi.”
Inside the coffee shop, the smell of espresso and cinnamon is stronger than any scent you’ve ever smelled before. The line isn’t long, which is good. Because you’re pretty sure Penelope would combust if she had to wait.
She orders first. “half caf extra shot venti two pump non fat hold the whip caramel macchiato.”
The barista stares at her. “Anything else?”
“Ooo, a chocolate croissant,” Penelope says excitedly.
You order a vanilla latte and banana bread. Something simple and safe.
“Come on, we need seats,” Penelope says as she pulls at your arm.
“What about Spencer?”
“He can survive ordering, he’ll find us.”
She drags you away to a booth in front of a window. She slides into one side, leaving the other completely open. She narrows her eyes. You squint back and slide in beside her.
“You ruin everything,” she jokes.
You smile. “I know.”
Spencer joins you, carrying a table number. He sits in the booth across from you, directly in the middle. For the first several minutes the conversation is awkward. Not bad awkward, just…awkward.
Spencer didn’t say much, and honestly, that hurt a little. You can’t be mad though. Honestly, the fact that he’s still here at all means a lot, most people run when David Rossi yells at them. So you let the silence exist, and accept the fact that him being here needs to be enough.
Your number gets called, and before it can even register Spencer stands.
“I got it,” he says, going to the counter.
Penelope watches you watching him leave.
“He really did miss you, I don’t know why he’s being weird,” she says.
“No I believe you, he’s probably just scared, which is valid.” you respond.
“I’ll get him to open up, don’t worry.”
“You really don’t need to do that, it’s okay.”
“Oh, I’m doing it, baby.”
Before you can convince her not to, Spencer is back. He places the tray down carefully and hands Penelope her ‘coffee.’ He sits yours in front of you and grabs his, leaving the food on tray in the middle of the table.
He sits back down, unaware of Penelope who is hawking his cup.
“Did you get a pumpkin spice latte?” She asks him.
Spencer looks down at his cup. “Yes,” he says, completely ignorant to the fact that she is somewhat judging him.
You can’t say you weren’t surprised as well.Spencer Reid? A pumpkin spice latte? The same man who drinks coffee like it's a medically necessary substance? You can’t say it’s not interesting.
“Is that a normal thing you get?” Penelope asks.
“Is there something wrong with that?” He looks confused. He is confused.
“No,” Penelope says, holding back a laugh. “It just doesn’t seem Dr. Reid.”
You nod in agreement with her. “It’s very basic.”
Spencer looks at you horrified. “Basic!?”
“That’s not a bad thing,” you say.
“Well, statistically speaking pumpkin flavored beverages have existed in America since at least the 19th century and pumpkin spice flavoring became commercially popular decades before modern coffee chains started using it.”
You and Penelope stare.
“How do you know that?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“You just know pumpkin statistics?” you ask him.
“I know lots of statistics.”
Penelope turns toward you. “Ask him anything you can possibly think of.”
Spencer looks almost offended. “I don’t know everything.”
“Ask him anything, Y/N.”
You think for a second.
“How many bones does a cat have?”
Spencer doesn’t even stop to think. “230.”
“How do you know that?” you ask.
“I read it once.”
“That one was easy,” Penelope says. “Ask something harder.”
“Okay, genius,” you say, preparing a harder question.
The second you finish speaking Spencer’s ears turn red. Is he blushing? Probably not. People don’t blush because somebody calls them a genius. Especially not Spencer Reid, he probably gets called that at least twice a day.
Except his ears are definitely red. And he’s suddenly very interested in stirring his coffee.
“Go ahead,” Spencer says, face still down and hiding. His voice sounds normal, but his face looks red.
You bite back a smile. “How many licks does it actually take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?”
Spencer smiles. Because he knows. You know he knows from his smile.
“Oh come on,” you say. “That’s impossible to know.”
“There’s no official answer,” he starts. “Purdue University conducted an engineering study and estimated approximately three hundred sixty-four. The University of Michigan estimated five hundred eleven. Human testing usually falls somewhere between one hundred forty and two hundred fifty."
You stare at him. Penelope stares at him. He takes a sip of his pumpkin spice latte.
"What?" he asks.
You continue staring. Because not only did he know the answer. He knew multiple answers. Complete with sources.
"That wasn't knowing the answer," you say.
"Yes it was," he argues.
"No, that was citing research."
"Which answered the question."
"Spencer."
"What?"
"Why do you know that?"
He shrugs. You stare harder.
"See? This is what I'm talking about," Penelope says. “He literally knows everything.”
"I don't know everything."
"You know Tootsie Pops."
"That's one thing."
"Spencer."
"What?"
"You know Tootsie Pop statistics. No one knows, or even cares about that."
"Fair."
You realize that the awkwardness has completely disappeared. Spencer seems far more relaxed. He talks more, he laughs more, he starts telling stories, he’s comfortable sharing facts. Before long you forget there was ever anything to feel awkward about to begin with.
The conversation feels normal. Easy. Comfortable. Like the phone calls, and the bookstore, and your bedroom floor. Exactly the thing you’ve been missing. And Penelope notices. And that’s dangerous.
“Y/N’s been telling me she wants to explore D.C. more,” she sneaks in between topics.
You look at her. “I never said that!”
“You hinted at it,” she says smiling.
“Where are you wanting to go?” Spencer asks.
And somehow twenty minutes disappear. Then another twenty. Then another. Because somehow Penelope keeps finding new topics specifically designed to make the two of you talk. And annoyingly it works. e
Every single time.
Penelope finally glances at the clock. “Oh no,” she says, her voice lower than normal.
“You guys were FBI employees 45 minutes ago too,” you say.
They laugh. You guys throw your trash away and head out the door.
When you’re outside Penelope pulls you into a hug. “Oh, I’ve missed you!” She says while squeezing tight.
You laugh into her shoulder. “I’ve missed you too.”
She squeezes tighter somehow. “Please don’t disappear again.
“I’ll try.” you smile.
She lets you go and heads toward her car. You walk the opposite direction towards yours. Spencer lingers with you, unintentionally. At least you think it’s unintentional.
The afternoon air is cool. Neither of you says much. Not because it's awkward. Just because it isn't necessary. When you reach your car, Spencer steps ahead of you. Without thinking. He reaches for the handle and pulls the door open.
"Thank you," you say, probably blushing.
"You're welcome," he says, definitely blushing.
You climb into the driver's seat. Spencer starts stepping away. Then something twists in your chest. Because now that he's here, actually here, you don't want him to leave with this still hanging between you.
"Spencer," you call out to him.
He stops immediately, turning back. "Yeah?"
You grip the steering wheel, suddenly you’re nervous.
"I'm sorry for my uncle." you finally say.
His expression softens instantly. "Oh,” he says, giving a weak smile. "It's okay."
"No, it's not."
"It is."
You shake your head. "It's embarrassing."
"I don't think embarrassing is the word I'd use."
You cover your face.
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
"I know," he says.
"I'm serious."
"So am I. It's really okay, Y/N."
You hesitate. "Promise?"
His smile returns. Small. Warm. The kind that always makes your stomach do something stupid.
"I promise."
You look at him for another second. Making sure. Trying to decide if he's just being nice. Trying to decide if things are actually normal again.
"So we're good?" you ask.
"Yeah, we’re good."
"We're still friends?"
His answer comes immediately. No hesitation whatsoever.
"Still friends."
An idea occurs to you. A dangerous one. A probably terrible one.
"Dave won't be back until Sunday morning."
Spencer blinks. "Okay."
"I have a test tomorrow."
"I know you do."
"If I survive it..."
"You will."
"...do you want to do something afterward?"
The question hangs between you. For half a second you worry maybe you shouldn't have asked. Then Spencer nods.
"Sure."
Your smile grows. "Really?"
"Yeah."
You stare at him. He stares back. Then his expression shifts slightly. Like he just remembered something.
"Just..." His smile turns awkward. Adorably awkward. "Call me?"
The request is so Spencer Reid that you almost laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's him. The same guy who called you three times in one night and then apparently spent over a week refusing to call again.
"I'll call you."
"Okay."
"Okay."
For a second neither of you move. Then Penelope leans out her car.
"ARE YOU GUYS DONE YET?"
Both of you jump.
"GET IN THE CAR, BOY WONDER."
Spencer sighs. Then he looks back at you one last time.
"I'll talk to you in the morning?" He asks for assurance.
"My uncle’s not home,” you say. “Call me tonight.”
He smiles. It’s actually more of a grin. And he nods. Then finally walks away.
You watch him climb into Penelope's car and them pull out of the parking lot. Until they're completely gone. Only then do you start your own car. And smile
Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re going to talk to Spencer Reid tonight.
_____
Read Part 8 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: i actually cannot stop writing this serious oh my gosh. i’m really glad you guys seem to be enjoying it. my goal is to have part 8 out around this time (midnight) tomorrow, but no promises as i wont be able to start it until after i get off work tomorrow. it will 100% be out wednesday though guys i promise.
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hi guys i’m impulsively dying my hair tonight is this a safe space to post casually? do you want to see or do u guys just follow for my ask g writing skills and autistic tendencies (actually autistic btw i can say that)
summary: You’re uncle Rossi has figured out that you’ve been sneaking around with Spencer Reid for the past few weeks. And he is not happy.
word count: 3.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap in mind (i'm imagining 26 year old (s3) spencer and 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise, angst between reader and rossi, also angst between rossi in spencer in the second segment where it switches to his pov
The second you walk through the front door you know something is wrong. You can’t explain it; nothing looks or sounds different. Yet somehow everything feels different.
You close the door behind you and sit your bag on the kitchen island. Then you notice it.
The light upstairs. Specifically your bedroom light. Your stomach drops. Because your bedroom door is open. And you know for a fact you shut it this morning. And David Rossi does not go into your room. Ever. Not when you’re home, and especially not when you’re gone.
For a second you just stare. Then you slowly head upstairs. The hallway feels longer than normal. The paintings on the wall seem to stretch far more than they actually do.
Your room is empty when you reach it. Nothing appears disturbed, nothing is missing, but something feels wrong.
You hear movement down the hall. Your uncle’s bedroom door opens and suddenly there he is. Standing in the doorway. Watching you.
“We need to talk,” he says. Your stomach sinks. The words are calm. Too calm. And that's far worse than angry.
He follows you into your room. You lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. He remains standing.
Your bedroom door stays open, but he’s standing right in front of it. Blocking the hallway, the escape route. Not intentionally, probably. It feels impossible to look anywhere except at him.
He sighs. He sounds exhausted. And disappointed. And angry. All at once. For a moment he just looks at you. You suddenly understand how three different women divorced David Rossi.
“You lied to me,” he says.
Your heart stops.
Spencer.
It had to be about Spencer. Except, how?
You force your expression into confusion.
“What are you talking about?” You ask, trying your best to seem clueless.
Your uncle clenches his jaw. He slowly reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a yellow sticky note.
Your blood turns to ice. You don’t even need to read it. You already know exactly what it says.
‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’
Followed by eight numbers. Spencer’s phone number.
Your uncle looks down at it in his hand. Then back at you.
“You lied to me,” he says again, this time quieter. Much quieter.
The disappointment hurts more than the anger. Much worse.
“I can explain…” you say.
“Can you?” His voice raises for the first time. “You told me there was nothing going on.”
“There isn’t!”
“Then why are you sneaking around and hiding it from me?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because honestly, you don’t have an answer. At least not one he’ll accept.
He laughs. Humorlessly. It’s terrifying.
“You lied about the phone number…”
“Uncle Dave…”
“You lied about Garcia’s car.”
You stand up. “Because you would’ve overreacted!”
“I’M overreacting?” His voice echoes through the house.You immediately regret saying that.
“You’re eighteen.”
You laugh a fed up laugh. “That’s what this is about?”
“It’s relevant.”
“It’s not.”
“How is it not?”
“We’re friends!”
“You are not spending three hours on the phone every night with a friend.”
Your stomach drops. How much does he know?
“A week,” he says, his voice shaking now. Not from anger, but from hurt. “A week of phone calls.”
You just stare at him. That tells him everything.
“A week,” he repeats.
You haven’t tried denying it. You hadn’t realized he knew. Your uncle looks away and runs a hand across his face. For a second he looks tired, almost older.
“He is twenty-six years old, Y/N.”
You flinch, because somehow hearing it from him makes it feel different. Hearing it from him makes it sound…wrong.
“I know.” you say, embarrassed.
Rossi just stares at you. And somehow the silence is worse than the yelling.
“You know?” he finally says, his voice low.
You can’t speak, but you nod in response.
His eyes widen, he looks more angry now. “YOU KNOW?” he shouts.
“Yes!”
“And you’re still doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Hanging around a twenty-six year old federal agent.”
Ouch.
“He’s my friend!”
“He’s twenty-six!”
“And?”
Rossi lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“And?” he repeats. “That’s your response?”
“Yes!”
“You are eighteen years old.”
“So?”
“You graduated high school five months ago.”
“I’m in college!”
“That doesn’t just make it okay for you to hang out with people in their mid twenties.”
You stand up from the bed. “You’re acting like he’s some creepy guy!”
“I never said he was.”
“You sure make it sound like that.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then stop acting like Spencer did something wrong.”
Rossi rubs his temple.
“This isn’t about Spencer,” he says.
“Then why is he the only thing you’ve been yelling about for ten minutes?
“Because he’s the thing you’ve been lying to me about!”
“I’ve been lying to you because if I were to mention Spencer you’d lose your mind!”
Your uncle’s jaw clinches. He knows you’re right, but he knows his point must stand.
“You are eighteen,” he says, for what feels like the hundredth time.
“I’m an adult.”
“Barely.”
His response hits harder than it probably should. You stare at him as he keeps going.
“He’s older than your brother.”
“Not even by a year.”
"That's not the point."
"It kind of is."
"No, it isn't." You cross your arms. "They would've been in the same grade."
"Exactly."
You pause. That wasn't the response you expected. "What?"
"They would've been in the same grade."
"So?"
"So would you ever think about being friends, or whatever,with somebody in your brother's graduating class?"
You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.
"That's different."
"How?"
Because it is. It absolutely is. Except you can't explain why.
"It's just different."
"No, it isn't."
"It is."
"Y/N." Rossi's voice drops lower. Dangerously lower. "The fact that you're struggling to answer that should tell you something."
You look away.Because you hate that he's right. You'd never looked at it that way before. Spencer wasn't "twenty-six" in your head. He was Spencer. The guy who sat on your bedroom floor for almost four hours talking about science fiction. The guy who got excited about planners. The guy who remembered random things you said weeks ago. The guy who called you just to talk. You'd never mentally put him in the same category as your brother and his friends.
Because somehow that felt ridiculous.
And yet technically he was.
Rossi sees the hesitation. "Exactly."
"No."
"Yes."
"No, because you're making it weird."
"I'm not making it weird."
"You're comparing Spencer to Sean and Darrell and all of Logan’s stupid friends.”
“And?"
You groan loudly. "My point is that Spencer isn't like them."
"I KNOW HE ISN'T LIKE THEM."
The sudden volume makes you jump. Rossi drags a hand down his face. Because that's the thing. This isn't about Spencer being a bad person. And that's what makes this so much harder.
"I know exactly who Spencer is," he says. "I've worked with him for over a year." His voice softens slightly. "That's part of the problem."
You stare at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means I know how old he is." His eyes meet yours. "I know what he’s seen and what he’s been through.” The softness in his voice vanishes. “Which means I know that he’s been in the FBI since you were in middle school.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate it because you’ve thought about it too. The age, the experience, the gap between where you and him are in your lives. You;d thought about it when Penelope mentioned his age at his birthday dinner, and while lying awake in your bed. You’d thought about it every single time your feelings were getting harder to ignore. Which was a lot.
“You don;t understand,” you say, pleading with your eyes at him for something you’re not certain of.
“Then explain it to me.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Because how are you supposed to explain that being with Spencer never made you feel young, or immature, or inexperienced? And that he makes you feel like your opinions matter, and that he talks to you like you’re smart. And worthy, And that he actually cares about what you have to say. How do you explain that talking to Spencer feels easier than talking to anyone else>
You can’t.
“He’s not what you’re making him sound like,” you say instead.
Rossi’s expression softens, which makes the whole conversation hurt more.
“I know he’s not,” he says. “I know exactly who Spencer is.” The softness disappears. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re eighteen.”
“I know,” you say. You hate that he keeps saying things that are true. And you hate even more that none of them change how you feel.
“Nothing is happening!” you finally yell.
He just stares at you in silence.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing!”
Then why are you crying?”
You hadn’t even realized you were. You wipe your eyes. Your uncle sighs, and sort of looks less angry, which makes him just look sad. And that hurts worse.
“I trusted you,” he says, after staring at you for a long moment.
Ouch.
“I know, I’m sorry.”
You’re both quiet for a long time.
“I don’t want you seeing him anymore.”
“What?”
“No phone calls, no dinner, no seeing him.”
“What?”
“If I find out that you’re talking to him again…”
“Uncle Dave!”
“As long as I’m paying for you to keep living in this house and for you to go to college and giving you anything you want you will follow my rules.”
You stare at him. He stares right back. Neither of you move. Finally, he turns to leave.
“Uncle Dave,” you call out to him.
He stops, but doesn’t look back.
“I expected better from you,” he says, and slams the door hard enough to rattle the room.
A book falls off your shelf. The same book Spencer had spent fifteen minutes carefully examining the night you met. It hits the floor with a thud.
And suddenly the room feels emptier than it ever had.
You stare at the closed door and the book on the floor. And think about the sticky note still in your uncle’s hand on the other side of the door.
Then the tears finally come.
And there’s nothing you can do to stop them.
_____
SPENCER’S POV
Friday
8:00 AM
I called Y/N three times last night. She didn’t answer a single time. She’s never missed a single one of my calls, let alone three. Maybe she was busy, she could’ve been studying. She does have a proctored test today.
I want to ask Rossi if she’s okay when he comes into work today, but he rushes past my desk without so much as looking at me. Which is weird. Without a doubt he always says hi to me. Every single morning.
And maybe she wouldn’t like me asking Dave if she’s okay. And if she was just busy last night, I don’t want her to be upset at me for overstepping for no reason.
My phone buzzes. I look down immediately. Nothing. No messages, no missed calls, nothing.
I called her three times last night.
8:07.
9:34.
10:52.
Not consecutively. People miss phone calls, phones die, people study, people fall asleep. All perfectly reasonable explanations for somebody to miss a phone call.
The problem is that after the third unanswered call your brain begins generating increasingly unreasonable explanations.
I don’t particularly enjoy that process.
I put my phone away and start working on paperwork.
I’m about half way through my first file when Fabid Rossi appears in front of my desk.
“Reid,” he says to get my attention.
I look up.
“We need to talk.”
That usually isn’t a sentence people enjoy hearing.
I get up and he leads me to his office. Any conversation that had been happening in the bullpen had ceased. I feel awkward as we walk. I can feel everybody’s eyes on me.
Rossi steps inside his office, I enter after him. He closes the door. That’s not concerning in the slightest.
He motions for me to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk. I do. He remains standing. That’s more concerning.
For several seconds he doesn’t say anything. He just studies me. I feel like I’m being interrogated. I don’t like it.
“My niece,” he finally says, after what felt like hours.
I blink. Oh. Immediately several possibilities occur to me. Maybe she’s upset. Maybe something happened. Maybe she failed her exam.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, genuinely concerned about her.
I see his jaw tighten. “You could probably ask yourself that question.”
Did I do something wrong?
“How often have you been talking to her?” He asks.
That wasn’t one of the possibilities I thought of. “What?”
“How often?”
I think about it. “Almost every night.”
His expression worsens, which is confusing.
“Phone calls,” I add, maybe he wanted context.
“I know,” he says.
Okay, so he already knows that. That eliminates several potential misunderstandings.
Unfortunately it doesn’t eliminate the actual misunderstanding.
“She’s great,” I say, smiling.
The second the sentence leaves my mouth I know something is wrong. I don’t know what's going on, or if I said or did something I shouldn’t have, but I’ve seen David Rossi interview serial killers with friendlier expressions than how he’s glaring at me now.
“Great?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” I keep smiling, despite the fact that something looks wrong. Because she is great. She’s funny, and smart, and she asks interesting questions. She actually lets me talk about stuff, which is rare for me. “I like talking to her.”
That appears to be the incorrect response.
“Seriously?” His voice is clearly sarcastic. I’m confused.
I stare at him.
“What?” I ask.
“Reid…” something in his voice makes my stomach drop. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
I have no idea how to answer that question, or what he wants me to say.
“Talking to her?’
His eyes close briefly. “She’s eighteen.”
Oh. The realization of what he’s thinking hits me all at once. I completely understand what he’s implying. Rossi and I are having two completely different conversations.
“No. That’s not what– No.” I stutter a lot.
“Then what is it?”
I run a hand through my hair because somehow this conversation has become deeply confusing.
“She’s my friend.”
Rossi stares at me. I stare back, I’m so confused.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t believe me, which is frustrating. “I’ve never–”
I stop. Because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
I’ve never what? I’ve never asked her out. I’ve never flirted with her. I’ve never intended…
My thoughts stop abruptly. Because suddenly I realize I don’t actually know what qualifies as flirting.
“She’s my friend,” I say again.
The silence that follows is awful. It’s painful, and awkward, and filled with gazes and glances that I don’t like being the receiver of.
Then Rossi explodes. For once I don’t remember every word. Mostly because he’s talking very loudly. And I’m scared.
He mentions something about phone calls, and boundaries, and responsibility. Something about age. Most of it blends together. Not because I’m not listening, but because I’m trying to understand how we got here. He starts talking about power imbalances, and life experiences, and maturity. And I genuinely do not think the conversation could get any more awkward.
And then it does.
“Do you have any idea what you’d do if she gets pregnant?”
I blink. Pregnant? For a second I wonder if I missed part of the conversation.
“Pregnant?” I interrupt.
Rossi doesn’t stop. He keeps talking. I completely lose track of the conversation. Because what?
“I’m not trying to have sex with your niece, man!”
The sentence leaves my mouth before I can stop it. I immediately realize two things.
That was significantly louder than I intended it to be.
The bullpen definitely heard that, which is pretty mortifying.
Rossi stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us say anything for a long time.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
“Then what is the point?”
“Reid.”
I lean forward, because now I’m frustrated too.
“No, seriously. You’re talking to me like I’m trying to date her.”
“You’re spending hours every night talking to her.”
“Because she’s my friend.”
“Friends don’t hide things.”
“I wasn’t hiding anything. I never asked her to hide anything. Honestly, I thought you knew.”
Rossi lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Really? You thought I knew?”
“I was under the impression everyone knew.”
That apparently is also the wrong answer. Rossi lowers himself into his chair for the first time since I entered his office. Which should make me feel better. It doesn’t. Now he just looks tired. And angry. And worried.
I realize this conversation was never really about me. It’s about her. He’s scared. That doesn’t make it right, but it explains a lot. Unfortunately, it doesn’t solve anything. Every explanation I give somehow makes the situation worse. There’s not much more either of us can say.
Finally he sighs. A long exhausted sigh that makes him sound like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Just stay away from her.”
Part of me wants to argue. It’s unfair to have to take orders from someone who is just making assumptions about my intentions. But I just sit there looking at him. He looks confused, I’m sure I look the same. Because I am deeply confused.
A week ago I was talking and laughing with his niece, now I’m apparently being treated like a criminal.
Eventually I stand, the conversation is over.
I open his office door. The bullpen immediately becomes more fascinated with paperwork than they have in their entire lives. Nobody looks at me, which means everyone was looking at me.
I walk back to my desk and sit. Just sit. I don’t open a file or turn on my computer. I just sit. Trying to process what just happened. The problem is, I still don’t understand exactly what I did wrong.
Garcia appears at my desk. She looks at me.
“Yes?” I ask quietly.
Her face falls when she sees my face.
“Oh, Honey,” she says.
I sigh.
“That bad?” she asks.
“That bad.”
Before I can stop her she’s marching toward Rossi’s office determined and very guilty looking. She closes the door behind her. She comes out a little while later, and judging by her expression, she was unsuccessful in whatever she was trying to accomplish.
Morgan rolls his chair over beside me shortly after he gets back from lunch. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t.
“Question,” he says.
I look at him, everyone heard my conversation with Rossi so there’s no point in running.
“Are you dating Rossi’s niece?”
“No.” I say immediately.
“That was a fast answer.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Okay,” Morgan nods. “Do you want to?”
I stare at him. Then I blink. “No.”
Morgan studies my face for several seconds. He’s profiling me. “You look confused.”
“I am confused.”
He leaves, which is remarkably unhelpful.
The rest of the day passes slowly. I keep feeling like I’m being watched. And it’s awkward.
By the time I get home I’m exhausted. Mentally. I sit my satchel beside the couch. I check my phone. Nothing still.
I tell myself I’m worried because Rossi is angry. Which is true.
I tell myself I’m worried because she’s never ignored my calls.
Also true.
I tell myself there are perfectly rational explanations for both things.
That’s true too.
Then I check my phone again. Which is not rational.
Knowing a behavior is irrational doesn’t automatically stop you from doing it. People assume it does. They’re wrong.
I start to really consider what Rossi said today. About Y/N. About why he was so angry. And I wonder why it bothers me as much as it does.
The only thing I know is that I miss talking to her.
And that’s the thought that keeps me awake the longest.
_____
Read Part 7 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i’ve literally been working on this since 1:00 pm today (its 10:30 now) i have a serious problem i think
_____
Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!
summary: You gave Spencer your phone number two weeks ago. Neither of you have gotten the guts to call the other. Yet.
word count: 1.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap in mind (i'm imagining 26 year old (s3) spencer and 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
For the first time in almost two weeks you’re actually focused. Your textbook is open, notes spread across your desk, flashcards you’ve made stacked beside your laptop; for the first time since the dinner party, you’re actually focused, Not staring at sticky notes, not replaying conversations, not wondering what Spencer Reid is doing.
You’re focused on your homework. Which is good, because your exam is tomorrow at 8:00am. And it is a disgusting percentage of your grade.
You just finished reviewing a chapter and you’re allowing yourself a small moment of satisfaction. You’ve been here since 6:00pm, it’s 8:00 now, and for the last two hours, you’ve made genuinely impressive progress.
You start to reach for the next set of notes when your phone starts ringing. You almost reach to silence it. You’re doing so well staying focused, and there is only 12 hours between now and the second most important, behind only the final, test in your class.
But if it were one of your friends wanting something they’d text you. Who calls? Your uncle would. Your brother might if it was important. But other than that only telemarketers call. Normal people text.
You knew your uncle was on his way back from a case. Maybe something happened and he has to stay, or go somewhere else.
But what if he got hurt?
Or what if he needs something?
You decide to answer, just in case.
You flip your phone over and immediately you forget all about anything else.
SPENCER REID
The phone continues ringing. You realize you’ve been staring at it for far too long. You quickly answer before it goes to voicemail.
“Hello?” you say
He’s silent for a second.
“Hi,” he says from the other end of the line.
The awkwardness is immediate. Like both of you had been perfectly prepared to make the call, but completely unprepared to actually start talking.
Spencer finally clears his throat after another long stretch of silence. “So…” he says.
“So…” you respond.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” he asks.
You glance down at your notes. He actually was.
“I was studying,” you say.
He pauses again. His voice is small when he speaks next. “oh… that’s pretty important.”
“It is,” you say.
“Should I let you go?”
You don’t answer immediately. You know the answer should be yes.
“No.”
The answer slips out before you can stop it.
“It’s okay,” you quickly say to not seem desperate.
“No it's not,” he says, “you have an exam tomorrow.”
He remembered your exam that you briefly mentioned last week? Or did he remember it from the dinner party when you told him you have proctored exams every other Friday?
“I do,” you say, choosing not to ask why. “I’ve got a pretty good grasp on it.”
“What class is it?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his tone.
“Media Ethics,” you say.
“Are you studying journalism?”
“Partially,” you say. “I’m talking to you instead of studying, but yes, my major is journalism.”
He giggles at your joke. “Media Ethics is actually pretty interesting,” he says. “They teach you a little bit about it at the academy.”
“Why do I feel like you know more about my class than I do?”
“Statistically speaking, that’s unlikely.”
“Statistics say that, but it’s not impossible, is it?”
“No.” You can tell he’s smiling when he answers.
You smile too.
“We’re talking about the ethics of investigative journalism right now.”
“That’s fascinating.”
“How so?”
“Most modern journalism ethics were shaped by mistakes: think, the Pentagon Papers, Watergate, Yellow journalism in the late nineteenth century, public trust studies after major media scandals…”
“You sound like a textbook,”
“Sorry,”
“No, keep going.”
You mean it too. You aren’t studying out of your textbook, but Spencer was sort of like a source material, and he was giving you information that you know will be on your test.
And you’re more likely to remember it when he tells it to you.
Because you’re more likely to retain information from someone speaking…not because you’re more likely to retain information Spencer tells you.
Of course not.
He spends over thirty minutes talking. He tells you about the history of investigative reporting and how it shaped major press and publications now. Then about government transparency, and newspaper article rivalries.
Then he gets you to discuss whether or not journalists should protect anonymous sources.
Which turns into a debate.
Which turns into laughing.
Which turns into stuff that definitely won’t be on your test.
But you’re not upset about that.
You talk about books, because of course it does. He asks what you’ve been reading, you ask what he’s been reading. Which is somehow three different novels simultaneously. And you get a full synopsis of all three of them.
Then movies and television get brought up. Which of course circles back to Doctor Who. Because why wouldn’t it.
And at some point, the planner conversation resurfaces.
“I’m still curious about it,” he says.
“My planner?” you laugh.
“Yes.”
“You’re actually still thinking about that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It seems efficient. And I like efficiency.”
That’s an interesting thing to say.
“That’s your reason?” you ask, giggling.
“It’s a good reason,” he defends himself.
You shake your head, smiling. And you realize that you’re not nervous anymore. You’ve stopped worrying about every word that comes out of your mouth. You’ve stopped analyzing your responses and wondering if you sounded stupid.
The conversation has started to feel exactly like the dinner party, and your bedroom floor, and the bookstore. It felt like you’ve known him much longer than the two weeks you’ve actually had.
And maybe that's how the next few hours disappear so quickly.
You learn that Spencer hates making phone calls to new people, which explains why it took him so long to call. And he apparently paces during phone calls. You can hear it through the phone.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
“You’ve walked across your apartment like seventeen times,” you say.
“I have not!”
“Fine, sixteen.”
“I’ve only walked through the living room six times.”
You smile. “Spencer…”
“Maybe eight.”
You laugh.
You learn that he drinks way too much coffee. And that he’s been told he puts too much sugar in it. And that he is a chronic book repeater. And that he remembers conversations almost perfectly. You learn he laughs more than one would expect him to. Or maybe that you’re just funny. But you also learn that he is much funnier than he gets credit for.
You finally glance at the clock.
“It’s ELEVEN THIRTY?” you announce out of nowhere.
Spencer doesn’t answer.
“We agreed to call for a few minutes.”
“I thought we did…”
He laughs, it gives you butterflies.
Of course it does.
“Sorry,” he says.
“No you’re not,” you smile. He really isn’t.
“I should probably let you get back to studying.”
“Yeah, probably.”
There's a long pause. Neither of you are ready to end the conversation, but you both know you have to. You have a test that's worth 25% of your grade at 8:00, and he has work at the same time.
“Y/N,” he says, before the pause gets too uncomfortably long.
“Yeah?”
“Can we call again soon?”
You smile. The question is so genuine, and so sweet coming from him.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“As long as you’re not on a case.”
“Right. And as long as you’re not busy.”
“I’ll make time.”
The words leave your mouth too fast again. You probably should’ve responded differently.
“Just please make time to study too.”
“I will, I’ll use my planner.”
“Smart girl,” he says.
Oh my FUCK.
That gave you butterflies that you’re embarrassed by. But you want him to say it again.
You don’t respond. You’re at a loss for words. You keep replaying his last two words over and over in your mind.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goonight Spencer.”
The line disconnects. You stare at your phone, then immediately drop face-first onto your desk. Because Spencer Reid has become a problem.
A serious problem.
And you were definitely getting a new color highlighter to color code your calls with him in your planner.
And not even your brother or your closest friends have that.
_____
Read Part 6 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: would you guys be mad at me if i said that this entire part was sort of kinda based off of a real experience i had with my boyfriend before he was my boyfriend?
_____
Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!
summary: you, penelope, and spencer reid go out for his birthday.
word count: 5.4k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise, mutual pining, some angst between reader and rossi
You’ve now spent 20 minutes standing in front of your mirror deciding what to wear. Which is ridiculous. Because you’re not going on a date. You’re going out to dinner with your friends for one of their birthdays.
Your friends. Most people don’t stand in front of their closet trying on three different outfits for their friends. Most people don’t redo their hair four times. And yet, here you are. Doing just that. For your friends.
Downstairs, your uncle is just getting settled in after getting back from work. He glances up at you in the middle of taking his coat off.
“You going somewhere?” He asks you, draping his jacket over the back of a barstool.
“Dinner,” you say, approaching the counter and slinging your purse over your shoulder.
“With who?” his question comes casually.
You smile at him. “Some friends.”
That’s not technically a lie, but the guilt still hits you immediately. That's it. No interrogation. No suspicion. No profiler stare. Nothing.
Because you've lived with David Rossi for almost four years and you've never given him a reason not to trust you.
Which somehow makes the lie feel worse.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He gives you his credit card.
“Uncle Dave,” you groan, “I have money.”
“And I have more,” he shoves the card at you. “If you’re going out with friends, dinner’s on me.”
You smile, taking the card. Because he always does this, and he will never take no for an answer.
“Try to be home by midnight if you can,” he says as you start walking towards the door.
“I’ll do my best,” you say, and walk outside. You immediately glance back through the front window. Your uncle has already disappeared deeper into the house, likely his office or bedroom, which luckily for you are both located on the back of the house. Because if David Rossi saw the orange Cadillac parked at the end of his drive way your evening would be over before it started.
You walk to the end of the driveway quickly. As soon as you're within speaking distance, Garcia leans across the center console. “Birthday mission pickup!” she announces dramatically.
You laugh, but say, “Please let me in the car before my uncle sees you.”
She eyes you. “Sneaking around, are you now?” She’s half joking.
“I mean not really but a little,” you say, getting into the car. “I told him I was going out with friends, not you guys.”
“Secret’s don’t make friends, Y/N,” she says as you buckle up.
“I know, I just don’t know how he’d feel about me hanging out with his coworkers.” That was a small lie. You think back to your conversation the morning after the dinner. Even if he never outright said it, you understood exactly what he meant.
Spencer Reid was the concern. Not Penelope Garcia, not Derek Morgan, Spencer.
Garcia seems to pick up on something in your expression, but thankfully she lets it go.
For about 15 seconds.
She looks over at you. “You look gorgeous by the way.” she says.
“Thank you,” you smile at her.
“It’s a good thing too, normally I’d be impatient waiting on someone to decide what to wear for twenty minutes.”
Your head whips toward her. “How do you know it was twenty minutes?” you say defensively.
“Because that’s how long it took for you to come outside after I texted you I was here.”
You stare at her with her ginormous grin on her face.
“I’m just saying…” she laughs. “You’re wearing very nice earrings.”
“They were the first ones I grabbed,” you try defending your meticulous choice of ear jewelry.
“They’re fancy earrings.”
“They’re normal earrings.”
“Uh huh, sure. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, it’s a birthday dinner.”
“Who said I was embarrassed?”
“Your rosy red cheeks did.”
“Oh my god.” you hide your face in your hands.
The city starts becoming more crowded as you get closer to D.C.. The sun is slowly starting to set and the storefronts are illuminating the sky.
Garcia looks over at you at a red light.
“Do we need to stop somewhere?” she asks. You clearly must look confused, because she continues with “for a birthday gift.”
You smile. “I already got him one.”
Penelope looks intrigued. “Really?” she asks.
“Yeah, it’s in my bag.”
“What is it?”
“None of your business,” you smile.
She fake pouts. “Why not?”
“Because it will ruin the surprise.”
“But it’s not my birthday.”
“Uncle Dave has told me you’re notorious for spoiling surprises, you don’t have that much of my trust yet.”
“Ugh, fine, can you at least give me a hint?”
“No.”
“Not even a tiny hint?”
You think about it. Finally you sigh.
“It’s something from my room.”
“That’s not even fair, there’s so much stuff in there, and at least 80% of it is stuff Spencer likes. Please Y/N, I know I’m not the best at keeping secrets but I can keep it through dinner.”
You look at how antsy she is and you can’t help but give in.
“Do you pinky promise you won’t tell him?” you ask, holding out your pinky.
She interlocks hers. “I pinky promise.”
“It’s Doctor Who related,” you tell her.
“Lots of Doctor Who options on those shelves…” she says, wondering what it is.
“It’s an old behind-the-scenes publication.”
She nods, “Okay, that’s pretty good.”
“And…”
She looks at you, eyes wide at the thought of the ‘and.’
“And it has an autographed photo inside.”
Garcia’s eyes widen even further somehow. “Whose autograph is it?”
You hesitate, wondering if you should keep it a secret, but decide that you may as well tell her.
“Tom Baker.”
The car goes completely silent. Like, actually. Penelope was so shocked she turned the radio off. She turns her head towards you.
“The Fourth Doctor!?” she exclaims.
“Yeah,” you respond.
“The Fourth Doctor!?” she says again, in the exact same tone
Yes, he said it was his favorite,” you say, much calmer than her.
“The Fourth Doctor!?” She's a broken record at this point.
You start laughing. “How many times are you going to say that?”
“A lot. Y/N Rossi, that is not a normal birthday gift.”
“It was just sitting on my shelf.”
“That doesn’t make it better. Spencer is going to freak out when he opens that.”
“Come on,” you say.
“I’m serious, most people hear he likes Doctor Who and buy him a mug or one of those phone booth pencil top erasers.”
You laugh.
“He’s going to lose his mind.” she says. “And I’m going to lose mine trying to keep my mouth shut after we pick him up.”
“You promised!”
Your stomach does a little flip. Not because it’s been confirmed that Spencer will like the gift. Well, partially because of that. But mostly because of the way Garcia talks like she’s completely certain. There’s not a doubt in her mind he’ll love it.
You’re looking out the car at the buildings that you pass by. Brownstone apartment buildings replace the storefronts. The metro traffic thins. And suddenly you’re feeling nauseous.
Garcia notices immediately.
“We’re at the nervous stage, aren’t we,” she says, smiling at you.
“I’m not nervous.” You lie.
“Sure you’re not,” she teases.
“I’m really not.”
“Your hands are doing the thing.”
You immediately look down. Your fingers are fidgeting with the keychains on your purse. You didn’t even notice yourself doing it.
You feel the car coming to a stop. Oh god you’re here.
You’re outside a four story brownstone building, like the ones in downtown NYC. But instead you were in D.C..
Your heart immediately speeds up, which feels ridiculous. You’ve seen Spencer before. Exactly once. Maybe that explains why you were nervous.
Garcia puts the car in park. “Alright,” she says, looking toward you. “Just so we’re clear, If he somehow escapes and goes back inside, we drag him back out, even if he’s kicking and screaming.”
You laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says, jokingly.
The front door of the apartment opens before you can respond.
And suddenly there he is. Spencer Reid. With the same floppy hair. And the same glasses. And the same satchel slung over one shoulder. And similar clothing colors.
Your brain forgets how to function. Because somehow he looks exactly the same and completely different at the same time.
Maybe because you’re seeing him somewhere other than your dinner table or your bedroom floor. Or maybe because you’ve spent the last week thinking about him.
But his smile looked exactly the same.
“Birthday boyyy,” Penelope shouts at him as he walks down the sidewalk.
Spencer visibly winces. “Please don’t call me that,” he says.
“Absolutely not!” she says, pointing at him, “it’s your birthday.”
“I know,” he says, starting to reach for the door to the back seat.
“And therefore you are the birthday boy,” she says.
Spencer just sighs. His eyes find yours as he’s getting in the car.
“Hi,” he smiles.
Such a simple word. Yet somehow something you’ve spent an entire week wondering what it would sound like.
“Hi,” you say back.
His smile gets a little bigger.
“It’s good to see you again,” he says.
Your stomach immediately flips.
“Good to see you again.”
Not ‘nice to see you,” or ‘hello,’ but “GOOD to see you again”
Good.
“Yeah,” you say, trying your absolute best to stay casual. “You too.”
Garcia immediately starts driving as soon as Spencer buckles up. She glances at him in the rear view mirror.
“Before we get to the restaurant I have a question,” she says, locking eyes with him in the mirror.
“Oh no,” Spencer says.
“Did you have plans tonight?” She asks him.
Spencer stares at her. “You know I didn’t.
“I just wanted you to admit it,” Garcia teases.
He groans.
You laugh.
Spencer glances toward you. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. And suddenly, the awkwardness you’d spent an entire week preparing for never shows up. Because within two minutes the three of you are talking. About books, movies, an article Spencer had read that morning, and a documentary Garcia watched last night.
And before long it feels familiar. Like no time passed at all. Like six days of overthinking never happened. Like sitting on your bedroom floor talking for three and a half (definitely not four) hours had somehow become the baseline.
Which is somewhat of a dangerous realization to have. Especially when Spencer laughs at something you say, or when you catch yourself smiling because of it.
And especially when you realize you haven’t even thought about being nervous in several minutes. And now Garcia has parked her car in front of the restaurant, and it’s time to go in.
The restaurant smelled incredible the second you stepped inside. Warm spices, fresh naan, something sweet you couldn’t identify, it was a delight.
The place wasn’t crowded, but there were enough people scattered around that it felt comfortably busy.
Penelope immediately marches up to the host stand like she’d been here a million times.
“Table for three,” she told the host, who had the three of you follow them and sat you in a booth.
You and Spencer ended up across from each other. Which was fine. Completely fine.
You definitely didn’t spend the first thirty seconds to a minute trying not to stare at him. The menu helped disguise you. A little.
“Have you ever had Indian food before?” Spencer asks you.
You shook your head. “Not really.”
His eyes light up.
And there it was. That look. The one from your bedroom floor. The one that happened whenever he got excited about something.
He immediately sat up straighter. “Wow, okay,” he says.
You laughed. “Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because statistically 51% of people who have a negative first experience at a restaurant never go there again.”
Penelope looked up from her menu. “He’s been worrying about this since I called and told him we were going out,” she said.
“I have not! You have no proof!” He tried to defend himself.
“You absolutely have been,” she says.
Spencer ignored her and locks eyes with you. “You should get the butter chicken,” he says.
“You didn’t even look at the menu,” you say.
“That’s statistically the safest recommendation.”
You blinked at him. “What did you do, calculate restaurant probabilities?”
“No, I estimated,” he smiled.
You laughed. And he smiled even bigger into his menu. And for some reason, that smile felt like a victory.
_____
Dinner stretched on longer than any of you intended. The food was amazing. Spencer was right about the butter chicken. Unfortunately. Because he seemed entirely too pleased about being right. He hit you with three ‘I told you so’s” before you even finished your first bite.
The waiter comes by and drops off the check.
Penelope snatches it before you or Spencer could even look at it.
“Mine,” she says, holding it in her hands.
“No,” Spencer protests.
“Yes,” Penelope sits the check in front of her.
“It’s my birthday dinner.”
“Exactly. Which means you’re prohibited from paying.”
You laugh as the two of them continue arguing. You slip your hand over and take the check from in front of Penelope and put David Rossi’s credit card onto the check presenter.
Penelope notices immediately.
“You sneaky little thing,” she grins.
You smile, “Dave has enough money to spare, he gave it to me, he’ll be looking for it in his statement.”
After you get your uncle’s card back, the three of you leave the restaurant. It’s cooler outside now, the sunlight having disappeared behind the buildings. Downtown D.C. glows with streetlights and storefront windows.
For a moment nobody moves. The night feels oddly unfinished, it’s obvious no one is quite ready to leave.
Penelope glances between the two of you, then towards the street. Then back at you guys.
“There’s a super awesome bookstore across the street. I know boy genius loves that one, we should stop by,” she says, breaking the silence.
You and Spencer both agree.
Inside the bookstore the smell of paper and coffee is prominent, even though it’s after 9:00pm. And unfortunately for your wallet, it’s one of those independent bookstores. The dangerous kind with floor-to-ceiling shelves and little handwritten recommendation cards tucked beneath every title.
“This place is amazing” you say, looking up at a giant paper swan chandelier that looks entirely handmade.
Spencer nods immediately. “It is.”
You should not enjoy how quickly he agrees with you.
Penelope claps her hands together. “Excellent,” she says, “have fun!”
Then she walks away.
You and Spencer both blink. He scrunches his eyebrows, confused by her.
“Well,” you say.
“Well,” Spencer agrees.
Then you both start walking at the same time. Toward the science fiction section, of course.
The next twenty minutes go by at the speed of light.
One second you’re discussing books, then you’re debating whether or not movie adaptations should be judged with or separate from the source material.
Then somehow it turns into talking about college. Which becomes talking about classes. Which becomes talking about note taking. Which becomes…
“Wait,” Spencer stops you mid sentence. “You use a planner?”
You stare at him. “A lot of people use planners.”
“Not like you're describing.”
You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”
“You color code, and use symbols and have separate sections.”
You nod between each item. Spencer looks fascinated.
“How many pages?” He asks.
“What?”
“Your planner.”
“Um… I don’t know.”
“An approximation?”
You think for a second. “Maybe one hundred?”
Spencer looks impressed. “A hundred pages?”
“It’s not that weird,” you say.
“I didn’t say it was weird.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I wasn’t”
“You absolutely were.”
A small smile is trying to fight through his face. “No I wasn’t”
“Spencer…”
“No.”
You laugh at how easy he is to mess with. That makes him lose the battle with his lips and smile.
“What?” you ask him.
“It’s just…” he adjusts his glasses. “Organization systems are actually pretty interesting.” You stare at him. “Statistically speaking, people who use structured planning systems tend to be more productive and experience lower stress levels.”
“There it is,” you say, smiling.
“What?” he asks, clearly confused.
“The statistic.”
“I was providing information.”
He looks completely unashamed.
_____
You wander into another section. Not because you’re done talking, but because you keep getting distracted.
Penelope briefly reappears for approximately thirty seconds. Just long enough to tell Spencer she found his name in a romance novel, and for him to look mortified because of it.
Then she disappears again, leaving the two of you alone again.
Not that that was important.
You’re standing at the checkout with two books. Spencer is holding four books. You have no idea when he picked them up. Or where. Or why. But somehow, he seems to always be carrying books.
“I still think the planner thing is interesting,” he says.
You giggle. “Why?”
“I don’t know, it just is.”
You shake your head. “I promise it’s not that exciting.”
“I disagree.”
“You’re literally an FBI profiler.”
“And?”
“That’s like, one of the most objectively interesting jobs ever. And you’re fascinated by my planner that tells me when I need to go take my tests and when my Uncle is going to be on conference calls so I know not to be loud.”
He considers that. “That’s fair.”
“Besides, don’t you have more important things to think about,” you smile.
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Serial killers, criminal psychology, FBI things.”
Spencer laughs. “What exactly are ‘FBI Things’?”
Before you can answer, Penelope appears out of seemingly nowhere. She sets a book on the counter and then looks at Spencer.
“You know,” she says, “Most people spend their twenty-sixth birthday doing something more exciting than discussing planners.”
You blink.
Twenty-sixth?
The thought hits you so suddenly you don’t even register what Spencer says in response.
For some reason you’d never assigned an actual age to him. You knew he was older, obviously. He worked for the FBI, and had for a while. He had a doctorate. But twenty-six felt different than the vague idea of older.
Twenty-six. That’s eight years.
You hate the fact that your brain immediately does the math.
He was over half way through his twenties. And you weren’t even twenty.
Twenty-six isn’t old. But knowing that Spencer is twenty-six and not just older than you makes him feel more like an actual adult and a little less like the guy who spent three and half (not four) hours sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor arguing about science fiction.
Twenty-six
The number settles in the back of your mind. Because you’re definitely going to think about that later.
“Y/N?”
You snap back from your mind to Spencer saying your name. Penelope had disappeared back into another section of the store.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” you ask.
“I just said I promise my job isn’t that exciting.” he said.
“I think you’re forgetting that you work with my uncle, and I hear some of the stuff you guys do.” you say.
“That’s fair I guess. I just think that it’s cool that you dedicate so much time into it. I admire it.”
He admires you? Well, your planner.
You smile at him.
Before you can speak Spencer does something that makes your stomach do the thing again. He hesitates. Like he’s thinking about whether he should say something.
He clears his throat. “Could I see it sometime?”
“My planner?”
“Yeah, if you’re comfortable of course.”
The question sounds exceptionally genuine. Not teasing, not joking, like he’s curious and actually wants to.
“You want a tour of my planner?” You need to hear it said again.
“A little.”
“A little?”
“A moderate amount,” his smile widened, “ I think it would be interesting.”
You should probably say no. Or at least ask why. Or maybe ask what kind of person requests a planner tour.
“Sure,” you say, ignoring all other thoughts you have.
Spencer looks pleased.
_____
It’s just past 10:00pm when the three of you finally leave the bookstore. The city feels quieter now. A feeling of comfort swarming through the air.
Which is probably why your stomach drops when you remember the gift sitting in your purse.
And suddenly you’re not sure if it’s stupid. Or weird. Or too much. Or somehow, not enough.
You just need to give it to him.
You stop beside the passenger door when the three of you get to the car.
“Wait,” you say, before he can walk around to the other side.
Spencer looks at you. “What?” His voice is calm and soft.
You hesitate for a split second, then reach into your purse. “It’s your birthday.”
His face starts to warm up. It would definitely be red if he was more illuminated by the harsh yellow streetlights than he actually was.
You pull out the wrapped package a little awkwardly. Because apparently handing someone you barely know a present you know will mean a lot to them is far more terrifying than picking the gift out.
You hold out the package you him. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says.
“Happy birthday,” you say, still holding the package.
For a second he just stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the package.
Carefully, he takes it. He’s so careful, likes he’s afraid of hurting it. His runs his fingers over the packaging. You see his fingers stutter over the tape just a bit before returning to their original track. You see his fingers–
His fingers…
Oh my god.
“Open it!” Penelope shows up on the passenger side of the car just before your mind wanders way further than it should. You’ve never been more grateful for anything in your life.
Spencer smiles, then starts peeling back the wrapping paper.
His eyebrows immediately shoot up when he sees what’s inside. You smile. He turns it over in his hands. Examining the cover, looking at the publication date, he looks surprised.
“I’ve actually never seen this edition before,” he says.
“Really?” you ask, smile wide.
“Yeah,” his voice is excited as he opens the cover. He flips through a few pages, then his entire body freezes. You know what page he’s looking at. You stuck the signed photograph of Tom Baker about halfway through the book. The Fourth Doctor. Spencer’s favorite.
For several seconds he doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Then looks up at you. Then back at the photo. Then back at you. “You…” his voice is the smallest bit shaky. His brain seems to have stopped functioning.
“What is it, what is it?” Penelope asks excitedly, despite knowing exactly what it is.
Spencer holds up the photograph.
It looks much smaller in his hand than it did in mine.
“Oh my god!” Penelope exclaims as she sees it, true excitement in her voice.
“I know,” Spencer says, much more calm. Much more like him.
Not that you would know what was ‘like him,’ you’ve only met him twice.
“You remembered Tom Baker was my favorite?” He asks.
His voice is so soft.
“That was like the first thing you told me,” you say.
Your face grows warm. Spencer just keeps looking between you and the gift like he can’t believe it.
“This might be the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.”
He gently places the photo back in the book and looks over to you.
“Thank you,” he says.
The words are simple. But the way he says them doesn’t feel simple. They feel like he means more than thank you for the gift. Like he’s saying thank you for listening to me. And thank you for caring enough to remember.
“You’re welcome,” you say softly. Neither of you look away from each other.
“Okay!” Penelope says, clapping her hands together. “We are not filming a Hallmark movie in this parking lot, get in the car.”
______
Spencer holds his gift in his lap like it’s made of glass. This may be the happiest you’ve seen him all night. Not because he’s talking more, if anything he’s talking less.
Every few minutes he opens the publication again and flips through another page. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Like he’s worried it would somehow disappear if he looked away for too long.
Penelope looks at him through the rearview mirror. “Oh, he’s gone,” she says, mostly to you, but also teasing him.
Spencer looks up. “What?” he asks, confused.
“You’re gone. Lost. Mentally somewhere inside of the wonders of the Doctor Who-niverse.
“I am not,” he defends.
“You’ve looked at that autograph like six times,” she says.
You pretend to be offended. “I actually don’t think that I do,”
“Nobody does,” Penelope laughs.
Spencer sighs, then returns to looking through the book.
A few minutes later, Penelope pulls up in front of Spencer’s apartment. Spencer closes the book carefully, making sure the autograph is still inside. He looks at you once more.
“Thank you,” he says again.
You smile. “You’ve already said that.”
“I know.”
You laugh softly. He adjusts his satchel on his shoulder. “It was really good seeing you again.”
Your stomach flips. There it is again. “Good” not ‘nice,’ not ‘fun.’ It was good.
“It was good seeing you too,” you smile at him.
He finally gets out of the car. You watch as he walks toward the building entrance. Halfway through he glances back and gives a tiny wave. Then he disappears inside.
The second the front door closes behind him Penelope has fully turned her body to you.
“Oh no,” you say quietly.
“Oh yes,” she says.
“Penelope…”
“What’s going on with you two?”
You groan. “There’s no ‘you two’.”
“There is definitely a ‘you two’.”
“There is not.”
She starts driving again, realizing the time and that you promised your Uncle you’d be home by 11:00.
You’ll make it, as long as she keeps driving.
“You bought him an autograph!”
“It was on my shelf.”
“That doesn’t change its meaning!”
“It kind of does…”
“You spent the entire evening looking at him!”
“I did not!”
“You did!”
“We were having a conversation!”
She looks at you. City lights blur past you, the cool breeze hitting you in the face. She’s definitely going 10 over the speed limit.
You sink lower into your seat.
“Nothing happened,” you finally say.
She narrows her eyes, “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” you say. “We talked.”
“About?”
“Books.”
She waits. “And? There’s no way the only thing you guys talked about was books.”
“We talked about planners.”
She stared. “Planners?”
“Yeah,” you smile, “He asked.”
“Of course he did.”
“He wants to see mine.” You look down at your hands to hide the red that has filled your cheeks.
Penelope turns to you so quickly her car swerves. “He WHAT?”
“It’s not like that,” you say. Mostly telling yourself that.
“What other way is there to ask someone to show you their planner?”
“He just thinks organization systems are interesting.”
_____
You’re about five minutes from your house when Penelope starts drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.
“I still don’t believe nothing happened,” she says,
“It really didn’t,” you answer.
Technically.
Mostly.
You leave out the part where every time he smiled at you your stomach would fill with butterflies.
And the part where you spent your entire week thinking about him.
And definitely the part where hearing him say it was ‘good’ to see you again made your heart swell.
Those details felt unnecessary.
“I have questions,” she says.
“You always have questions.”
“I have more questions.”
“You’re not getting answers.”
“We’ll see.”
You laugh as she parks near the end of your driveway.
The house is dark except for a few lights downstairs. Your stomach immediately twists. Not because you’ve done anything wrong. But also because you kind of have.
“Thank you for tonight,” you tell her as you start to put your bag over your shoulder.
She smiles. “Thank you for helping me force Spencer to celebrate his birthday. I’ve known him for three years now and this is the first year I’ve gotten him out of his apartment for his birthday.
You ignore how that makes you feel for now.
You reach over the console and hug her. She hugs you right back. Then points toward your house.
“Go,” she says. “Before I ask more questions.
You laugh before climbing out of the car.
As you walk up the driveway you can still hear her yelling.
“I’m not done investigating!”
You smile, shaking your head. Because you know she’s telling the truth.
By the time you reach the front door you’ve convinced yourself everything is fine. You had dinner, you hung out with friends, you were home before you were asked to be…but you still felt guilty.
You unlock the door and step inside.
The television is off and the house is quiet. And your uncle is sitting in his armchair.
Waiting.
Your stomach drops. You can feel it in your knees.
“Hi?” you say cautiously.
“Hey, kid.”
You check the clock. 11:03pm.
“You know it’s after your bedtime, right?”
He chuckles. “I’m 52 years old.”
“And usually in bed by 10:00”
“I was reading.”
He’s lying. Not well. Which means he wants you to know he’s lying.
You sit your purse on the counter carefully.
“Everything okay?” you ask.
“Sure.”
That answer comes far too fast.
“Did you have fun?” He asks.
You nod, “Yeah.”
“What’d you guys do?”
“Dinner. Bookstore.”
"Sounds nice."
"It was."
He nods. A little too thoughtfully. You already know where this is going. You're just waiting for him to get there.
There’s a heavy pause.
"Interesting car."
There it is. You nearly laugh. Almost.
"What?"
"The one that dropped you off."
You force yourself not to react.
"Oh."
"The orange Cadillac."
You stare at him. Because of course he noticed the car. Normal people notice orange Cadillacs. Profilers definitely notice orange Cadillacs. And David Rossi is a car guy, of course he noticed an orange Cadillac.
"It was my friend's car."
Rossi hums. "Really."
Not a question. A statement. A suspicious statement.
You scramble. Not because you're a bad liar. Because you're not used to lying to David Rossi. Ever.
"They’re grandpa is a car collector." The answer comes out immediately. Because it happens to be true. One of your friends from high school absolutely has a grandfather obsessed with restoring classic cars.
Rossi studies you. You try not to squirm.
"Oh."
That's it. Just oh. You immediately know he believes you. Because the story actually makes sense. Nobody accidentally ends up with an orange Cadillac convertible.
"How many books did you buy?"
You blink. The subject change catches you completely off guard.
"Two."
"Only two?"
"It was a miracle."
"I raised you better than that."
You laugh. "You're the reason I have a book-buying problem."
"Fair."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. The tension eases immediately. At least for a second.
Then Rossi studies you again. Not suspiciously. Not exactly. Just… looking. The way he does when he's thinking.
"You seem happy."
Your heart immediately stumbles. Because that's a dangerous observation.
You shrug. "I had fun."
"Good."
The answer is genuine. And that's what makes the guilt hit. Because he means it. He trusts you. Completely. Without question. Without hesitation. The same way he has for years. And you're standing here lying to his face. Not because you're doing anything wrong. But because you know exactly what would happen if you told him the truth. That your dinner companions were Penelope Garcia and Spencer Reid. That you'd spent the evening celebrating Spencer's birthday. That you'd spent most of the night smiling at things Spencer said.
No. Best not to think about that.
Rossi finally stands.
"You should get some sleep," he says.
You nod. “Yeah, you too.”
He picks up his book. Starts toward the hallway. Then pauses.
"Glad you had fun with your friends."
The word lands harder than it should.
Friends.
You swallow.
"Thanks, Uncle Dave."
He smiles. Then disappears down the hallway. Leaving you alone in the living room.
The second he's gone, you let out a breath. Because somehow that was one of the most stressful conversations you've ever had. And the worst part? He believed every word. Because you've never lied to David Rossi before.
As far as he knows.
_____
Read Part 5 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i think i love this mini series so much because i just keep involving stuff that i’m a fan of in real life. i normally write self inserts because that’s what does best, and i’m fine with that, because that’s all i read also, i totally get it. but i’m having fun with this because when it comes to playing with relatives and stuff, you can get away with a more structured reader character. maybe i’m kinda using this to nerd out about Asimov and planners, so what? Sue me
_____
Another Note: i've been really slacking on updating my taglist since i returned last time from my exceedingly long hiatus. it should be updated comepletely now, if you would like to join either just leave a comment or fill out this form!
I really appreciate anyone who has continued to support me even after my prolong absences. I get really excited when the same people interact with my posts over and over. I remember your guys' usernames, and just know that you guys are one of the main reasons I keep posting my writing.
_____
Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!
summary: It's been a week since Uncle Rossi's dinner party, and somehow Dr. Spencer Reid has become the most distracting person you've ever met. You can't focus on class, you can't stop thinking about him, and the sticky note with his phone number is quickly becoming your greatest enemy. Just when you've convinced yourself to stop being weird about a man you've met exactly once, you get a call. But it’s not from him…
word count: 1.8k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
You wake up before your alarm on Monday. For a second, you’re brain is completely empty. Calm and relaxed. Static.
Then it isn’t.
Because Spencer Reid exists.
You groan immediately and roll over, shoving your face into your pillow.
“This is ridiculous.” You think to yourself.
You met him one time. ONCE. It was one dinner party. One conversation. A ‘Three and A Half, Definitely Not Four Hour Long’ conversation that solidified inside your mind that this was something worth obsessing over.
You stare at your ceiling.
Do you like him?
The question rolls through your head over and over again. It sounds so simple. Except every time you try to answer it, a follow-up question appears.
Like him how?
Like him? or… Like LIKE him?
Because there was a major difference. And you weren’t sure which question your brain was asking you. And it wasn’t clearing things up.
You liked Garcia.
You liked Emily.
You liked Morgan and JJ and Hotch.
You liked talking to all of them. You’d spent hours talking to Garcia, she was amazing.
So why was Spencer so different?
You groan again, rolling out of bed to shower.
_____
“I don’t even know anything about him.” you think as you run your brush through your hair.
Well, that’s not entirely true. You know a lot about him
You know he can identify Doctor Who merchandise from fifteen feet away.
And that he owns at least three different editions of DUNE.
You know he likes Issac Asimov.
And Arthur C. Clarke.
You know he can somehow make the history of science fiction publishing sound interesting.
And that he laughs quietly and smiles before he realizes he’s smiling.
And you know he talks faster when he’s passionate about something.
And that the pushes his glasses up when he’s excited.
You know all of that.
And yet somehow, you know nothing.
And you have to admit to yourself, Uncle Dave had a good point.
You don’t even know how old he is.
He looks young. But he’s old enough to be a Supervisory Special Agent in the FBI, and you know he was there since before your uncle returned. So you’re confused.
And you don’t even know if he’s single.
Not that it mattered of course.
Of course it didn’t matter.
_____
You’ve replayed the same fifteen minutes of your lecture video four times. You couldn’t tell someone what the professor said if your life depended on it.
Your brain keeps wandering.
Back to the dinner…back to your room…back to Spencer sitting cross-legged on your floor for three and a half, not four, hours…back to the way Spencer’s face lit up when you understood one of his references without needing any further explainations…back to the way he–SPENCER would look at you surprised that you’d want to keep listening to him talk.
You close your laptop. Because clearly nothing productive is happening today.
____
Dinner with your uncle went great. He’d made a quick meal after work, just a normal spaghetti dish, nothing too special about it, but David Rossi made it, so it was still delicious.
That was something that you’ve always loved about living with your uncle. His cooking, no matter how much prep time he put into it, was always delicious.
You sit at your desk, laptop still closed. You’re debating whether or not to try to start watching the lecture video again. Falling behind in class sounds like a bad idea.
The sticky note stares at you from the top left quadrant of your desk. Exactly where you;d left it. Spencer Reid’s handwriting stares back at you.
‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’
Followed by eight numbers.
You brush your fingers over it. You could call. Right now. If you wanted to. Nobody would stop you.
The worst thing that could happen is he wouldn’t answer.
Or maybe he’d think it was weird. Or maybe he’d answer immediately.
Somehow the ladder feels significantly worse.
You stare at the number.
No.
If he wants to call, he can call. He has your number too.
That thought should make you feel better. Instead it makes you feel infinitely worse.
_____
You’re trying to fall asleep now. You’ve checked your phone seventeen times today.
Not because you’re expecting anything, obviously. That would be ridiculous.
He has your number. And you have his. And if he wanted to call he would.
“But what if he’s waiting on me?”
No.
You barely know him.
People don’t just call strangers.
Except you aren’t exactly strangers.
Except you kind of are.
But not really…
_____
A week goes by.
You spend every morning convincing yourself you’re going to stop thinking about Spencer Reid.
And you spend every night realizing you’ve failed.
Monday becomes Tuesday. Tuesday Becomes Wednesday. Then Thursday. And now it’s Friday morning. And it’s been 6 days since the dinner party. And your situation hasn’t improved at all.
You don’t call him. He doesn’t call you. The sticky note remains exactly where it has been.
Mocking you.
You tell yourself to be normal about this.
Then you immediately catch yourself wondering what he does when he isn’t working.
You wonder if he still wears his glasses at home.
You wonder how old he actually is.
And if he talks to everyone the way he talked to you.
You wonder if he remembers your conversations.
Or if he even thinks about you at all.
And that thought annoys you more than the others. Because there is absolutely no reason you should care.
You consider throwing the sticky note away. Not because you want to. But because you’re tired of looking at it.
You don’t throw it away. Obviously. But you think about it. And you don’t know if that is progress or pathetic.
Or both.
You wander down to the kitchen and start making coffee. Your uncle has long since left for work, and you’re alone for the day.
You’re staring at the dripping pot blankly when your phone rings in your pocket.
Your heart immediately leaps into your throat. Which is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Because it could be anybody.
Your uncle. Your brother. A classmate. A telemarketer. Literally anybody.
Yet somehow your brain has already decided who it wants it to be.
You pull your phone out.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Your stomach drops. Because of course it isn’t him.
You stare at the screen. The call rings once. Twice. Three times. You almost ignore it. Four times. Five times.
The last ring starts. You sigh and answer.
“Hello?” you say, disappointment painfully obvious in your voice.
The response is immediate. “Oh thank God, Hello gorgeous.”
You blink, confused. The voice is vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for you to put a name to.
“Who is this?” You ask, voice more normal than disappointed now.
There’s a dramatic gasp on the other end of the phone. “Excuse me!?” The caller says, cartoonishly defensive.
“Should I know who this is?” You ask, beginning to wonder if this is just a prank call.
“Should you know–” They start to repeat what you say then cut themself off. “Honey I spent three and a half hours in your bedroom surrounded by tiny alien action figures and approximately seventeen thousand dollars of nerd memorabilia.”
Your eyes widen. “Garcia?” You say, excitedly.
It wasn’t Spencer, but it was the closest thing you knew to him.
“PENELOPE Garcia, yes,” she says dramatically. “The one and only. Queen of computers and glitter. And wearer of fabulous shoes.”
You laugh. “Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“That’s alright sweetness, I’m more recognizable visually anyways.”
You can hear typing in the background.
“How did you get my number?” you ask, not upset, just genuine curiosity.
“Crime.” Penelope says immediately.
“Aren’t you supposed to solve that at the FBI?”
She laughs. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding… Mostly.”
“Penelope?” you question.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine, your uncle has emergency contact information and I did some snooping.”
“That’s horrifying.” you say.
“I prefer impressive but take it as you will.” She laughs again.
You smile before you can think any further into how insane this is. It’s weird, you barely know her. But talking to Penelope feels like being swept into a tornado.
“So,” she says, slightly serious.
The word immediately puts you on edge. Because it sounds suspicious.
“...So?” you repeat.
“So,” she says again.
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I know that tone.”
She makes a noise like a playful annoyed groan.
“So, Y/N,” she says.
“So, Penelope,” you say.
“How often have you thought about Spencer Reid today?”
You choke on your coffee.
“WHAT?”
“You heard me.”
“Did you go digging into my uncle’s file for my number just to ask me about Spencer?”
“No, I went digging into your uncle’s file for your number because I was thinking about my favorite Rossi and then after saying hi I started thinking about Boy Genius.”
You groan. She laughs.
“Come on,” she laughs.
“No.”
“How’s the Asimov debate going?”
You stare at your mug and sigh. “Poorly.”
“Why?”
“Because there hasn’t been an Asimov debate.”
She goes silent. The typing stops. You immediately know what’s coming.
“What,” you say, nervous about her taking so long to answer.
“You haven’t called him?” She says, a little too loud.
“No.”
“Not once? Have you texted him?”
“No.”
“Email? Fax? Carrier Pigeon?”
“None of that.”
“Has he called you?”
You hesitate, slightly embarrassed.
“No,” you say, voice quieter than before.
“I can’t believe him,” she says. “I should go scold him right this second.”
“Don’t!”
“You need to call him.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a reason.”
Her voice softens a bit. It’s not quiet, but she’s never quiet.
“Y/N,” she says, “he talked about you for three days after dinner.”
Your stomach flips.
“...what?”
“Three entire days, Honey.” your heart is doing something annoying. “He kept bringing up the thing you’d talk about. Even though I was part of the conversation too.”
“Penelope,” you start.
“I think it’d be good for him.”
You pause.
“What would?” you ask her.
“A friend,” she says, all traces of her teasing tone are completely gone. “He doesn’t really have anybody outside of the team.”
That surprises you a little. You thought Spencer was funny. And smart. And kind. And… well… you stop that thought before it comes to fruition.
“I’ll think about it,” you say.
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no.”
“One more thing” Penelope says before the conversation can fully die.
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Spencer’s birthday.”
You blink. “What?”
“It’s his birthday.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t mention it being so soon.”
Penelope laughs. “Honey, his idea of a birthday celebration is staying home reading and pretending it isn’t his birthday.”
“Nobody is doing anything?” you ask, a little sad.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
You think for a second. Then another.
“No,” you say.
“No?” Penelope repeats.
“No.”
“I think I like that no.”
“He deserves a birthday.”
“And birthday’s require celebrating.”
“And if he won’t celebrate on his own…”
“We force him!”
“Woah, I don’t know about FORCE,” you laugh.
Penelope pauses. Then you can almost hear her smile.
“Are you free tonight?” she asks, mischeviously.
_____
Read Part 4 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: so I fear I am absolutely in love with writing this and I may or may not have about 15 parts in the beginning stages of an outline in my google docs rn... I literally cannot be normal about anything. But I hope you guys continue to like this (because I love it) and I hope you guys are ready for the ultimate slow burn of your life.
_____
Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!
summary: You met Spencer Reid less than 24 hours ago, but it feels like everyone is aware of your feelings for each other except for you and him. Oh, and you’ve convinced your Uncle Rossi of it being nothing as well.
word count: 1.1k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise, kinda friendzoning, rossi getting upset at reader (but because he’s an overprotective father figure)
You wake up around 9:30am. The early October light bleeds through the window, a warm tint from the reflection of the trees turning their fall colors. You shuffle downstairs, wearing a pair of fuzzy socks and an oversized t-shirt,
The smell of coffee fills your nose as soon as you hit the landing of the stairs. Your uncle is already awake, sitting at the kitchen island with a newspaper, a coffee mug, and an unlit cigar in his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, voice muffled from the useless cigar.
“Morning,” you repeat, heading straight for the coffee maker. You find a little less than one mug full left in the pot, so you take it. You make yourself a bowl of yogurt, taking notice to the fact that your uncle hasn’t said another word, which is unlike him in the mornings. He usually tends to read the joke section of the daily newspaper aloud to you, and you usually fake laugh at the dry humor that only old people could possibly find funny.
He takes an unnecessarily loud sip of his coffee, clearly trying to draw your attention.
You look at him with one eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?” you ask.
He removes the cigar from his mouth. “How old is Spencer?”
You blink. “What?”
“Spencer,” he waves his cigar, “how old is he?”
You stare at him. “What kind of question is that?
“A simple one,” he says sternly.
“I don’t know.” You weren’t lying.
“You don’t know?” he repeats.
“No. I do not know how old Spencer is.” You sigh and take a bite of your yogurt.
“You spent four hours talking to him last night.”
“It was NOT four hours.”
It may have been four hours, you actually weren’t sure.
“It was absolutely four hours, Y/N.”
“It was maybe two.”
It was definitely longer than two, you knew that. But you also knew what your uncle was accusing you of. And you didn’t like it.
“Three and a half.” He says, argumentatively.
You roll your eyes. “Why are we talking about this?” You knew why.
Your uncle shrugs, though it looks forced. “Just making conversation.”
“No you’re not,” you say. Now it’s your turn to accuse him of something. “You’re interrogating me.”
“I am not,” he defends.
“You are too, what do you really want to ask me, Dave?” You say, more brash than you mean to be.
He stares at you for a moment, likely trying to gather his words. He sighs. “You seemed to enjoy talking to him.”
You groan. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That,” you point your spoon at him. “You don’t care that I spent the same amount of time talking with Penelope.”
He pauses, searching for his words. “Garcia wasn’t in your room until midnight.”
“Neither was Spencer,” you say.
That wasn’t quite a lie. Garcia left your room at 11:03pm to go talk to Morgan and Emily on the patio. Spencer was in your room until 11:57pm sitting cross legged on your bedroom floor with you debating whether Isaac Asimov or Arthur C. Clarke had the bigger impact on modern Sci-fi.
Your uncle gives you a look.
You point your spoon at him again. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what,” he asks.
“Don’t do the profiler face.”
“I’m not doing the profiler face.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Well, tell me then, Y/N,” he says, treating this way more like an interrogation that you feel he should. “Why am I doing the profiler face?”
You stare at him. “Because you think I have a crush on Spencer.”
The words hang in the air. He doesn’t deny it. Which tells you everything you need to know.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“What?” he asks.
“Are you serious?”
“You spent a lot of time with him.”
“So?”
“So yo–”
You throw your hands up, anger building from being accused of something that he has no idea about. “There is no ‘so’!” you exclaim.
“There usually is…”
You groan. “I met him yesterday.”
“You talked for three and a half hours.”
“I also talked to Garcia for three and half hours, you still don’t seem to have a problem with that.”
He ignores your statement. “What exactly did you talk about for three and a half hours?”
You stare at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m asking.”
“You’re collecting evidence.”
His mouth twitches; not quite the reaction you’d expect of an innocent man. But you know your uncle. And you know he won’t let you leave the island until you speak.
“We talked about Doctor Who.”
He nods, “I know.”
“Science fiction books.”
Another nod, another “I know.”
“You weren’t even there.”
“I was sometimes. And this house isn’t exactly soundproof.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “We talked about old movies, books, TV shows,” you set your spoon down. “And do you know what we didn’t talk about?”
You can tell by his face he knows where this is going, but you’re going to make him sit there and take it.
“What’s that,” he says.
You smile. “Dating.” he blinks. “Relationships, anything romantic in the slightest.” You lean back in your chair. “He was just nice.”
“Nice?” Rossi echoes.
“Yes. Nice.”
“He stayed until midnight.”
“Because we were in the middle of a conversation.”
He eyes you.
“About Isaac Asimov.”
He blinks. “Isaac Asimov?”
“Yes.”
“You stayed up until midnight talking about Isaac Asimov?”
“And Arthur C. Clarke.”
“You sound exactly like Reid.”
You smile. “I don’t know about that, I just think we’d be good friends.”
For a moment your uncle just stares at you. He studies you, saying nothing. Looking for a hint of anything to show. But it doesn’t. Slowly, the suspicion leaves his face. “Friends?” he says, assuring you meant it.
“Friends.” you answer immediately. And that seems to be exactly what he needed to hear.
He nods at you, and picks his newspaper back up, burying his face in it.
“That’s it?” you say, mostly making sure it was okay to leave the island now.
“That’s it,” he smiles, turning off his attention from you for good.
You eye him suspiciously because that felt way too easy. But as far as your uncle is concerned, the crisis has passed. You and Spencer are friends. Nerdy friends. Like Spencer and Garcia. And it’s a harmless friendship with no ulterior motives on either end.
And its fortunate he believes that. Because you need to prepare yourself for the day he finds the sticky note with Spencer Reid’s phone number on your desk, exactly where he left it the night before.
But that’s a problem for another day.
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Read Part 3 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: guys i fear i fell in love with the original prompt and now i’m stuck on writing rossi!reader. i wish i could be normal and just write a one shot but i get so attached :( anyways this might be a lil substory for a while i really like it, i always forget how much i love writing family dynamics and i always feel like i can’t really do much of that in the a-z bc i try to keep that as self-insertive as possible. i hope at least some of yall fw rossi!reader bc its here to stay for a bit i think.
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