MUTUALISM: GENESIS
Pair: Spencer Reid x Maeve Donovan, future Spencer Reid x UnSub!Reader
Chapter Summary: Ever give nothing but your all — which is extremely valuable, by the way— but still get infantilized to death even though you’re in your forties? Meet Dr. Spencer Reid, a cookie-cutter man with a less cookie-cutter job, and a profoundly cookie-cutter life. Not for long, though! Watch out world, here comes the top analyst for the next big killer!
Warnings: Stereotypes of ASPD, Intrusive Thoughts (quick but pretty descriptive,) hostile work environments. !!THIS IS A SPENCER-CENTERED CHAPER, READER IS ONLY MENTIONED BRIEFLY, BUT THIS IS ONLY TO SET THE TONE FOR FUTURE CHAPTERS!!
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At 5:30 AM everyday, for the last 20 years of his life, Spencer Reid woke up for what never seemed to be enough sleep. Sweaty, of course, due to the fact he could never seem to switch out of his work clothes. The sun had yet to rise, darkness peeking through his blinds and greeting him a soft ‘good morning.’ His hair, unkept, clung to his face like he had been dragging himself along the Sahara for hours on end. A horrible way to start the day, yet something he had to get used too.
Getting up and letting out his first — and likely not the last— groan of the day, he recounts many more things he just has to deal with. Traffic, for one. Cognitive ability declines as you age— 2016-2017 data shows that there’s a 43% decrease in miles driven by people older than 70– but that doesn’t explain how no one can seem to read signs.
“Hah.” He laughed, in a pathetically quiet manner, as if scared someone would hear him.
Spitting his toothpaste into his sink, he continued his mental tirade: of course, he’d always be blamed for actually following road rules. Honestly, he’s seen more middle fingers than red lights. It’s why he hated driving. He hated everything that stripped people of their common sense, really. The road did just that.
Steam and hot water reminded him of how, 90% of the time, he hated the heat. Fine in the shower, as it relaxed his muscles, but everywhere else? Utterly useless. He was too upset to properly think. To piece things together like he usually would. 10% decrease in efficiency, his dad would remind him—
He paused, looking into the mirror as he dried his hair.
His dad.
Goodness, his teeth were gritting again, weren’t they? His therapist said he should distract himself from going down that path. It never ended well. Headaches all around, angry at everything, angry at himself— he struggles to loop his tie— nothing gets done.
“Okay, okay,” he breathed, like a mantra. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Deep breath in.”
Deep breath in, deep breath out. From stepping out of his house, getting into his car, and getting onto the road, he had to take deep breaths in and deep breaths out. Steadily, his temper slipped away, seeming trivial now that he wasn’t on the verge of seething. Traffic wasn’t bad today. It isn’t hot outside. And, this he was completely certain of, he did not have to deal with his father today. Today hasn’t even started. Today can be good. That’s what he tells himself as he steps into his work building, it’s what he tells himself as he steps into the elevator and watches it climb floors anxiously. It’s what he tells himself as he steps inside.
“Hey, kid!” His boss called, slapping his hand onto his shoulder carelessly. “Say, why don’t you run and grab me some coffee, yeah?”
Great. Today was already terrible.
Nevermind the fact that Jeremy Hedger definitely wasn’t the type to wash his hands, Spencer constantly found himself on coffee duty. He could have the most precise and jaw-dropping analysis on the most cruel of criminals, and still get handed a coffee order instead of a phone number to befriend one of these— politely— jerks.
Spencer swallowed. “I, uh, actually have something to—“
“Great!” Hedger laughed. “By the way, the machines a little wonky. Be a good sport and give it a shove before you get me my cup? Wouldn’t want to deduct money from your check, right?”
“I really have to—“
“—Black coffee, two sugars, no milk. Can you handle that?” Hedger proposed, making his tone almost mockingly adventurous as if performing a mundane task outside of analysis was the Reid-equivalent to being Indiana Jones himself.
Spencers fingers dug into his palm, pressing with a harshness that threatened to cut. Of course. Why wasn’t he used to this by now?
“Yeah. Yeah— I can.” He mumbled, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone. Before Hedger could make up some corny one liner with a thinly-veiled threat behind it, Spencer had taken off toward the breakroom.
Upon observing the pot, the psychologist realized very quickly how understated the ‘little wonky’ comment was. Not only was the coffee pot not set up yet, but there were practically no instructions on how to put it together. He had literally nothing except a time limit to get his boss a cup of coffee, lest he be passively scolded like a toddler.
“Are you kidding me?” He mumbled, his hand roughly sliding down his face before resting on his hips. “Not even good at building stuff. How— how am I supposed to—“
“—Excuse me?” A voice called gently from behind him. Soft. Kind. New?
Turning around, Spencer meets the eyes of a slightly shorter young woman. Brown hair that slightly passed her shoulders and a friendly yet wise look in her eye. She held herself with a warmth that drew him in, which was probably why he couldn’t form a solid word.
“Do you need help?” She continued, adjusting her cardigan as she gestured to the pot behind him. “I’m no expert, but I’ve repaired one or two of those whilst living with my mom.”
Swallowing, he found it within himself to nod. “Thank you. So, so much. I—uhm, don’t really know why they think I’m an expert in this? I’m a psychologist, not a— Y’know..”
Rambling. He was rambling. Okay. Wow. He’s embarrassing himself in front of possibly the only person here who talks to him like a person. And his hands, moving vaguely toward the issue before them without any sense of structure or coherency.
Thankfully, she picks up whatever he was putting down, walking over and beginning to examine the parts dutifully. Her eyes squint when she’s thinking, he noticed, as if peering into the parts very essence. It’s adorable, he thinks.
He then mentally slaps himself for acting so out of line. Watching her gracefully situate the biggest headache he’s had this week, he can’t help but sputter.
“So, you’re new here? What’s your name? Hah, you kind of seem like a, uhm,” Spencer, he thinks, you’re an idiot.
Without turning around, she hummed in concentration. “Maeve. Maeve Donovan.”
Maeve.
The name rolled around in his mouth like candy, sweet and easy to love. Something he could get used to. By the time he had realized he had been ruminating, she promptly turned to him with both the finished coffee pot and… his boss’s cup of coffee.
His mouth goes dry, so she spoke for him. “I overheard him talking at you earlier. Figured I should lessen the load? Sorry— I’m new, but I’ve already memorized the monologue that is his coffee preferences.”
Her hand is offered to him, a one-way ticket out of this mess in it. And all he could do was stare. Whatever he was going to say next, if it were even important, didn’t matter now. Because someone finally seemed to care. Not out of obligation. Not out of exasperation for him to stop talking, simply because they wanted to.
And it felt incredible.
“Thank you.” He managed, his tone surprisingly clear. “Thank you so much.”
With a nod, she holsters her own bag over her shoulder and heads out, much too quickly for him to ask for her number or anything that could allow him to see her again. He’s left with a simmering warmth in his chest, so foreign and practically forgotten it seeps into his ever growing mind. Once more, he’s yearning for her, and the most embarrassing part is that she likely didn’t even feel the same.
His boss is pleased to have his coffee, and his coffee machine, as he wanted it. Though, he did give Spencer a couple of good backhanded compliments because of his ‘in progress speed of preparing caffeine.’ Whatever. The most frustrating part about all this was how cowardly Hedger was. Too harsh to treat his skilled employees with respect, too ‘kind’ to be honest with his immature bias. But that was all authority, wasn’t it? Doing anything to make themselves look better, anything to save their own tail. Even if it meant tossing others aside.
But he didn’t have to worry about that now. The file that laid before him has had his attention for what’s felt like years. This had to be his biggest case yet, despite his time here.
You.
An inmate who’s been receiving inconsistent counseling for your horrid crimes against humanity, terrorizing the streets with silent wrath. What’s really stumped most is your seemingly reformed behavior. Besides teasing and being rather uncooperative when discussing motives and childhood, you’ve never once shown the violent tendencies displayed in your behaviour since the beginning of your rehabilitation.
Flipping through previous case files, he read through them once more before writing his request to take your case.
Patient displays playful, social behavior in conversation. Yet, I have not been able to establish solid answers regarding childhood or motivation for the acts of murder committed.
Yeah, yeah. He knows that.
Patient is honest about victimology, pointing out and naming each victim. She goes as far as to even recite coherent chronology of each murder. More-so, the patient has — on multiple occasions— given personal information on her victims that are unattainable without prolonged interaction. Because of this, I believe that this patient had stalked her victims intently before killing then. As to why is still uncertain.
Interesting. From his profile of you, you shouldn’t care about your victims this much. You showed textbook antisocial behaviour, these men and women should be pawns to you and nothing more. Yet, you chose and studied these people almost reverently. Why? Why would you care about something like that?
“It doesn’t make sense.” He mumbled, leaning his head against his palm. His curls gently framed his face, focused brown eyes scouring the page as if his answer lay between the lines.
“Wow, something doesn’t make sense to you?” He heard someone snark, the very sound making his head hurt. Right. People who’ve never emotionally developed since highschool had jobs now. “Guess even computers mess up, huh?”
Bruno Ramírez was a pretty face. Nothing more. With a cup of coffee in his hand — perhaps there was a pattern here— he showed up, did barely the bare minimum, then collected his awards like he solved cancer. People let it slide, obviously. His father is, for one, on insanely good terms with Hedger. Two, he’s a nepo baby. Billionaire dad, who needs morals?
This agency felt like he never left those highschool hallways. Suffocating.
“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bruno.” Spencer muttered, not taking his eyes off of his request form.
Too late. Not like he’d get any other result. Bruno had taken it upon himself to stroll over and peer right over Spencer’s shoulder. Reading the words ‘request’ and your name did enough, because the next thing that escaped the man’s mouth as a very loud and guttural laugh. So loud, Spencer mentally noted. His hands, naturally, tapped against his thigh. As if the string would finally shut him up.
A thought came to him then, a thought of taking the pencil next to him and piercing it through Bruno’s eye. Maybe then, with his screams and wails as blood began to pool down from the wound, his brain would be scrambled enough to keep him—
—He needed to get it together. His hands still, instead curling into a fist harsh enough for his nails to break skin.
“Bruno, drop it. I told you I don’t want to bicker with you today.” He settled for, his hand once more roughly running down his face.
“Shh, shh, hey.” His coworker cooed in return, patting his shoulder with condesection. “You haven’t heard?”
And for a minute, Spencer Reid was actually interesting in what Bruno Ramírez, out of all people, had to say. He finally meets the other man’s eye, his eyebrow cocked.
“Jeremy already has someone working with that chick.”
Time froze over, and the walls frost with ice. The next words out of Bruno’s mouth are so, so much slower than ever before. Without realizing, Spencer had allowed his request to plop back against the desk, his eyes slightly widening as his brain raced to catch up.
Already has someone working on it? But that was mine. Hedger said I could oversee the assessment. This was mine. He has someone else working on it? He has someone else. Working his assessment? His assessment?
“…Said you were too good at what you have now to move up….”
How was he supposed to be taken seriously now? No accomplishment was as good as this. He was lied too, again. Fooled, again. Humiliated, again. Again. Again. Again.
“…Who else could make coffee like you can, Spence?”
Was this his life? Sitting here and taking insults from morons like Bruno Ramirez and Jeremy Hedger? Starting each day with hope that dies by the end of it, as he lies in his bed with nothing but exhaustion? Exhaustion for what? This? This?
“Why do you think he hired that new girl?”
What?
New girl.
Why do you think he hired that new girl?
New girl. He hired. New girl.
“Maeve. Maeve Donovan.”
“Why do you think he hired that new girl?”
“Jeremy already has someone working on that chick.”
“New girl.”
“He has Maeve Donovan working her case?” Spencer repeated. “On my case?”
A disgusting snort escapes Rameriez, who waved his hand as he seemingly tried his very hardest to bite back laughter. Apparently, seeing goody-two-shoes Spencer Reid at his limit was the funniest thing in the entire world. Never does it get old. Everyone was laughing, and though this was his normal, it felt so much louder. It pounded against his ears like drums, ringing around his head like church bells.
His chair spins as he stands, dashing to the mens bathroom and hoping no one stopped him. He doesn’t hear Rameriez and the rest of his goons call for him, nor does he notice how his boss shot him a confused look from his office. On his way, he dreadfully does notice a familiar young woman meeting him halfway. Joyous and determined to take on the world, he supposed. So, so determined to take his job.
“Hey, Spencer!” Maeve hummed, trying — and failing — to keep up. Her smile faltered as he didn’t look toward her, “You alright? If you want, I can take—“
“Take. That’s all you do, huh?” He spat, finally reaching the bathroom and slamming it shut behind him. From outside of his body, he winced at how cruel he was. But who could blame him? What, was he supposed to keep being the bigger person as everyone spat in his face? Smile and congratulate her for what she stole?
He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, eyes digging into what he saw with almost malice.
Dr. Spencer Reid stared in the mirror for a very, very long time.
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A/N: this took so long, and I lwk ran out of motivation at the end.. but shh.. anyway, lwk what you think … also yeah Reid here was based off of the show “Sweetpea.” Readers introduction is soon!!