a very compelling definition of beginning
the first night in your shared apartment, and spencer reid is fairly certain he owes the universe a significant debt he has no way of repaying.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader
warnings: fem!reader, bimbo!reader, pp!reid, established relationship, suggestive content, domestic intimacy, light alcohol consumption, thigh kissing, spencer reid being down horrendous, fluff galore, implied smut, future family thots
wc: 1.5k
It’s hard to fathom how Spencer ended up here.
He’s thought about it, the way he thinks about everything, which is to say obsessively and at inappropriate hours, usually at 2:17 a.m. when his brain refuses to power down, insisting instead on rerunning every decision he has ever made since 1993.
He keeps arriving at the same conclusion.
Either he was exceptionally virtuous in a previous life or the universe made a clerical error. There is no third option.
Perhaps he rescued endangered species in this other life. Donated kidneys anonymously. Solved minor geopolitical conflicts in secret.
Something substantial enough to justify this cosmic return on investment.
Because nothing in his thoroughly documented, unimpressive personal history adequately explains you.
There is a version of his life, one that felt inevitable as recently as three years ago, where he is alone tonight in a different apartment with beige carpeting and questionable lighting, eating takeout from the container over a stack of unopened mail.
That version still exists in some alternate probability stream.
It just… does not exist here.
Here, there are boxes everywhere. Each one labeled in looping pink markers with titles like “Kitchen-ish” and “Spencer’s Nerd Things.” A lamp casts warm strokes of gold across the room and over the generous stretch of skin visible beneath the hem of your pajama shorts as you stand in the middle of it all, refilling your wine glass.
A treat, you had announced, for all your hard work.
He made a very conscious decision not to point out the distribution of labor involved in getting those forty-three boxes up three flights of stairs. You looked so pleased with yourself. The wine was fine. He would herniate a disc tomorrow if it meant seeing that expression again.
“Okay,” you say suddenly, navigating the minefield of boxes with your wine glass lifted like some glittering, irresponsible Statue of Liberty. “I have decided that we are not unpacking anything else tonight.”
Spencer watches you attempt to cross the living room (barefoot, triumphant, entirely unconcerned with structural stability) and feels a very specific kind of anticipatory dread that he has learned is uniquely attached to you.
You fold yourself into his lap on the floor with far more confidence than coordination, knees bumping a box labeled “Bathroom??? Maybe” on the way down.
The wine punishes you for it, a thin, cold ribbon sloshing over the rim and catching your thigh on the way down.
You make a face.
He considers explaining inertia. He decides against it.
“Fortunate,” Spencer says mildly, “that we’re still waiting on the couch.”
“That couch.” You jab a finger toward his chest. “That couch is why I deserve wine. Do you know what I did to get that couch?”
He opens his mouth to say something.
You do not allow it.
“Crate and Barrel. End of season sale. I set an alarm for four a.m., Spencer. Four. And I got it for half price because there was a scratch on the leg. You can’t even see it, honestly, and I just —”
He has heard this story before. Twice, technically. He does not mind hearing it again. He likes the way your voice sharpens with pride at the word half, like you personally outwitted late-stage capitalism.
What he does instead is lift your leg at the ankle before pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh where the wine has cooled.
Your words, predictably, dissolve into a soft, startled inhale. He feels the warmth return to your skin under his mouth.
He leans back.
“Sauvignon blanc?”
“I don’t remember,” you admit, blinking at him.
Flustered is a rare state for you. He revels in every second of it, setting your leg down gently to reunite with his own, fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary because self-control is a muscle and his is fatigued.
“That’s concerning,” he notes, “given that you spent forty minutes in the wine aisle.”
You had. He knows because you FaceTimed him at minute twelve to debate label aesthetics versus vineyard credibility, and again at minute twenty-eight because one bottle had a “super cute watercolor fox.”
He had launched into a thoughtful comparison of tasting notes, sugar content, and regional soil composition. You had nodded very seriously. You chose the fox.
“Well, it needed to be perfect,” you insist, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “It’s the first official drink in the our new apartment. That’s special. You don’t just grab whatever for something special.”
“You’re right,” he says finally, and there’s no teasing in it now. “It is special.” Then he adds, “I would’ve thought it was perfect either way.”
“Even if it tasted bad?”
“Especially then,” he replies.
“It’s just,” you continue, a little softer now, tracing the line of his collar, “this is the first night of our life here. Like the beginning beginning.”
“The beginning beginning,” he repeats.
“Well, yeah. Because we’ve had beginnings before. Like when we started dating. Or when I basically moved in without calling it that. But this is the first time we both signed something and we’ll put our stuff in the same closet. That’s different.” You gesture vaguely around the room. “And tomorrow morning we’re gonna wake up here and brush our teeth here and argue about where the coffee machine goes. That’s the real start.”
He doesn’t respond right away because he’s busy picturing it.
Not just tomorrow, but after that.
The long stretch of ordinary days stacked on top of each other. Holidays here. You insisting on decorations that clash with his sensibilities. A bigger place eventually. A dog, almost inevitable given your documented ability to pass one without emotional compromise and what he privately suspects is a pre-installed savior complex.
A backyard. You barefoot in it. A smaller bedroom painted some color he would never choose and would nevertheless defend if anyone dared mock it.
Marriage, his mind supplies before he can stop it.
He has never been particularly sentimental about the institution. It is, in his estimation, a legal reinforcement of intent. A contract acknowledging what already exists. Love should stand without witnesses, without the state stamping approval on it.
But then he imagines a ring on your hand. Light catching on it when you gesture too enthusiastically. You shoving your hand under Garcia’s nose and announcing it like you’ve secured a Nobel Prize. You calling him your husband.
He adjusts you in his lap before any of that leaks into his expression.
Damage control.
His hands slide to your hips, grounding himself in something tangible, lifting you closer until you’re fully pressed against him, warm and real and very much not hypothetical.
You squeak out a startled giggle, clutching at his shoulders. “Spence —”
He buries his face in your neck for a second, partly because you smell good and partly because he needs a moment to collect himself.
“That,” he murmurs against your skin, “is a very compelling definition of a beginning.”
He pulls back just enough to see you, but not far enough to lose contact. His hands stay firm on your hips, holding you like he’s afraid he might slip into some alternate version of his life if he loosens his grip.
Your eyes search his face.
“I am,” he says, mock-serious now, “prepared to engage in all foreseeable coffee-related disputes for the remainder of my natural life.”
You look at him suddenly with that particular glint. The one he has spent an embarrassing amount of time attempting to categorize, because it defies clean classification.
It isn’t quite mischief and it isn’t quite innocence and it occupies some theoretically impossible overlap between the two, like a Venn diagram drawn by someone who didn’t fully understand the assignment.
Spencer’s pulse adjusts accordingly.
“I mean… I can give you another very compelling definition of a beginning, if you’re interested.”
“I’m listening,” he replies, immediately, without a single second of deliberation, which tells him everything he needs to know about how much self-preservation instinct he has left where you're concerned.
The answer, for the record, is none. The answer has been none for quite some time.
Your fingers find his chest, tracing the slow topography of muscle and fabric and the involuntary rise and fall of his breathing, which has, it should be noted, become considerably less even in the last thirty seconds.
His brain makes a valiant attempt to remain operational.
“Well,” you say, gaze steady on his, “if this is the real start… we should probably christen the place properly… The bedroom specifically.”
His gaze drifts, helplessly, to your mouth.
“Historically,” he begins, “christenings involve breaking a bottle against the hull.”
You watch him, patient, faintly delighted. “And?”
His thumb presses into your hip.
“And,” he says, eyes darkening in a way that has nothing to do with lamplight, “I would strongly advise we skip the glassware.”
He stands in one smooth motion, lifting you with him, wine glass somehow removed from your grip in the process because despite everything, he is still capable of problem-solving under pressure.
“The bedroom,” he agrees quietly.
You were right, as it turns out. Nothing else gets unpacked tonight. Well — one thing gets unpacked.
Thoroughly.
Several times.
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