maybe || spencer reid x reader you decide to back off of spencer when it comes to your affections. little do you realize, it's the last thing he wants. (or, the three times you're certain spencer reid doesn't share your feelings and the one time you're certain he does) contains: mutual pining, fem!reader, slightly gay reader (aren't we all) and a very fluffy ending!
if you didn't know, we're closing off the month together to ring in my 23rd birthday!! TODAY IS THE DAY!! so enjoy my special, self-indulgent b-day fic that I've been working on for the past few weeks and join along here. thank you thank you soosososo much for anyone and everyone interacting so far!! the best gift I could ever be given was this community. the second? reblogs, comments, and yapping with me in my inbox! >:)
There’s something about the way the side of his mouth turns up as he smiles. Ever so slightly, pulling at the skin at his cheek. A dimple tasked to kill.
“So, what do you think?”
You would be lying if you said you’d processed a word Spencer has said in the past fifteen minutes. You’re nearly sure that he’s been talking about some Romanian documentary he found on some obscure website. Beyond that, though, your memory begins and ends with the way his hair curls just so slightly at the ends.
“Hm,” you murmur, noncommittal, “can’t say it’s something I would go out of my way to watch.”
Spencer’s face flickers, for a moment, with a second of hesitation before he’s smiling again, one shoulder crouching up in a shrug. “I have weird tastes in movies, I guess.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” you muse, leaning forward across your desk to peer at what he’s doing at his. Your world seems to orbit around him – what report is he filing? Is he still looping his g’s in an even circle or has he finally abandoned the habit? You know he picked it up after seeing some writer he admires sign his name with it, you’ve been aching to know how long the desire to mimic sticks.
“It is if you ever want someone to watch something with you.” There’s a hint of something in his voice. Something tinged with bitterness, nearly spite.
You stop yourself in your tracks before you dig deeper.
It’s hard, a constant uphill battle, to not profile everyone around you. Especially Spencer. Devotion roots easily in your gut, your passion is what made you such a good prosecutor and an even better profiler. You enjoy digging your nails under the edge of people, peeling them back, watching their brains process and hum. But, the obsession runs deep. The line between observing a near-stranger – a witness, a defendant, an unsub – and someone you know is constantly begging to be toed. You refuse.
Once you know someone beyond the initial internal documentation of their ticks, once you know exactly how hot they like their coffee, not by the way they approach a steaming cup set before them, but by habit of placing the mug on their desk daily, it becomes easier to fill gaps with what you want to see instead of what’s actually in front of you.
It’s a habit you’ve forced upon yourself after years of heartbreak driven by stupid, selfish, temporary wants and desires.
Not that this intense desire to study Spencer Reid has been temporary. You find yourself lingering on him constantly. Always edging the boundaries you’ve set for yourself, testing the limits of getting to know someone and subconsciously getting under their skin entirely.
You spent your childhood sheltered inside of your mind, creating universes that only serve to crush you when they don’t come true. You can’t let yourself build one where Spencer Reid is upset at the prospect of you not enjoying a movie with you.
So, instead, you mimic his shrug (subconscious, mimicking him to appear similar to him, to be that one step closer to him), and say, “I guess so.”
You realize too late that you’ve led the conversation to a dead end, too busy catching yourself before you stumble into a world of fantasy where Spencer is in any way interested in you beyond the polite friendliness he gives the rest of the team.
“Um,” he says after a minute, “have you watched anything interesting lately?”
You consider for a second, gnawing on your lip while you think. The last movie you watched was Finding Nemo – a piece of perfect cinema you’re certain he wouldn’t appreciate. You tell yourself you’re imagining how his eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering on teeth biting into skin.
“Not really, no. I did read that book you recommended, though.”
Your chest glows as his face lights up, jumping into the nuances of the memoir he recommended last month. Settling into the comfort of listening to the steady drone of his voice, you rest your chin on your palm and listen to him.
You don’t need fantasy to indulge in some fantastic world where you have everything you need. For now, (forever, as far as you’re concerned) it’s enough to watch him talk with his hands, eyes locked on yours, enthusiastic as you relate over a shared interest.
It becomes easier to tell yourself that you rimagination has always been just that – fodder to harbor your crush, to stoke an ember that you don’t want to let die – when you see the girls he eyes. Bar nights Morgan has dragged him out to and cases where female witnesses are present, you force yourself to watch how his breath catches when faced with the attention of girls much prettier than you. How he stumbles on the first syllable of the first word he says to them, how he avoids eye contact in favor of staring at the very-safe shoe.
He doesn’t do that with you. He looks you in the eye, let’s his gaze slide right past your exposed shoulders and collarbones in the slinky tank top you put on to join the team out.
It was Morgans idea, of course, it always is. You’d landed early, why not take a nap, freshen up, and celebrate the lives you’d won at extending on your past trip?
The bar tender is gorgeous. All long blonde hair falling smoothly across tanned shoulders and cute freckles spanning her nose. You sit with her a while, leaning against the bar to chat and bask in the cute southern accent as she describes her recent move from her home town. You’re giggling with her when Spencer approaches.
“Scotch, neat, and an ice water please,” he says, lingering too long on his s’s and making a mad dash from noticing her face to focusing on the bottles lining the wall behind her. The scotch for Hotch, the water for him.
You consider pointing out that he hates most ice and will certainly hate that this bar serves it crushed. You don’t, though, swirling the remnants of the fruity drink the bar tender recommended to you minutes earlier.
Your mind is slightly hazed, edges of the scene around you blurring and mixing together. It’s this mush of thoughts and feelings that begs you to throw down the rest of the drink and make a move. A tentative one, something that can be explained away and laughed off tomorrow. Bold enough to gather intel.
The alcohol wins, giving you the golden feeling in your limbs that makes you just brave enough, just warm enough, just stupid enough, to tilt your chin up and swallow the contents.
It barely burns as it goes down, fruit overtaking your senses.
You scoop up the scotch when she sets it down, giving the girl a grin. You won’t blame Spencer’s obvious attraction on her, she’s beautiful in the way you love openly as well.
“C’mon,” you say to Spencer, holding the sleeve of his soft sweater between two pinched fingers and leading him to the table. You set Hotch’s glass in front of him with a soft smile before rounding on Spencer, still holding him close.
“What?” He asks, a laugh lifting the end of the question. So comfortable, so familiar, so used to you that his eyes meet yours and hold them.
It feels like an insult.
Spencer has gained confidence, slowly, like a sapling breaking through the soil and reaching toward the light. Steadily, he’s shedded just enough of his awkward nature that he doesn’t feel any hesitation around colleagues. Friends, you allow yourself to call it. But, enough lingers that he stumbles near a girl he finds pretty.
It’s stupid, but his mellow smile aimed at you is the insult.
A little dizzy, you breathe in to answer. You were going to ask him to dance, judge his reaction based on that. You’ve managed to drag him out before, giggling as he fights to determine where to put his hands. Laughing outright when he makes an actual attempt at moving with you.
But you’re hardly drunk, maybe just a toe beyond tipsy. Nowhere near the armor you would need when he doesn’t struggle to place his hands on your waist – why would he need to be nervous when it’s just you? Or worse, when he flat out denies you.
So, cowardly, you smile softly at him, “can you order me a cab? My cell is dead.”
Your spirits are down after your revelation at the bar. Nowhere near devastation that would reek to your colleagues, but enough that you sit next to Emily on the plane.
The crush feels so immature to you but you can’t kick it. Late at night, you might admit that you’ve stretched far, far beyond a crush and are sitting firmly in the place of love, but the day brings some shame so you’ve committed to calling it a crush. It’s safer to pretend it’s just that, safer to imagine that it’ll fade away.
You ignore how easily he brightens your days with a steadfast determination. It’s made difficult by how consistent he is, though. He’s maintained his habit of filling your mug whenever he goes to refresh his. He hands you gingerale as you step on the jet and reminds you of the weather when you’ve been told a destination (you never remember to check the forecast).
You’re glad when Hotch makes the call to let the team sleep and fly out early the next morning after a case. You won’t be able to sleep, never have been in hotels, but it affords you the rare moments of peace. No files to cram your mind with, no paperwork to file. Just a warm tea in a hotel lobby in a town you’d never heard of before six days ago.
You’re tired, but you realize you’re not unhappy.
“Hey,” Spencer says from behind you, voice soft. It doesn’t scare you, really, but it’s unexpected enough to make you jump slightly in your seat. “Can’t sleep?”
He asks even though he knows the answer.
“I decided I’m over that whole trend,” you reply, smiling at him as you watch him fold into the couch next to you. “What about you?” “I came to find you,” he says, sitting on the opposite end of the couch but turning to face you, knees angled toward yours.
“Oh?”
“You’ve seemed down.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, just a casual observation. “Kind of distracted, I guess. You know, Rossi has some really good connections to therapists that specialize in our fields. I only went to a few sessions but I do believe talk therapy can be useful. Actually, I was just reading about –”
“Spencer,” you cut him off, shaking your head with a small smile and a pit in your belly. “I’m okay.”
His eyes flicker over your face, watching for a lie. Luckily for you, you’re a good liar and he simply lets out a sigh in response,
“I am,” you nudge him with your foot, knocking his ankle with your shoe.
A part of you wishes he would prod, just to show he cares enough to double check, but you know it’s a silly desire. Your conclusion is only fortified by his reaction: to leave you be, just like any adult friend would.
“Okay. Can I tell you about the study anyway?”
You let him, of course you do.
You find Spencer, outside, pacing. His hands white from being wrung and exposure to the frosty air. You practically run to him, hands holding his scarf tightly, calling his name.
When he looks at you, he looks near to tears.
“What’s wrong, Spence?” You ask, catching his elbow.
“Nothing,” he says, too fast, breath uneven. You click your tongue at him in disapproval, tugging him forward by your hold on his elbow.
“Come on,” you urge, bringing him around the building so the wind isn’t as biting.
The trick with Spencer, you’ve learned, is that he hates leaving a silence lingering. You take your time pushing yourself up on your toes and winding his scarf around his neck. You even loop it through, the same way your parent did to you when you were a child. Two pats to his chest where the edges of the scarf lay, biting your tongue the entire time.
“I’m just scared that I’ve messed it all up.”
“One setback in the geological profile isn’t going to stop the investigation, we just have to start over.”
“No, not that.” A fierce shake of his head, curls tumbling over eyes that bore into yours. “Not just that, at least.” He’s breathing heavily enough that you’re seriously concerned that he’s going to have a panic attack.
You’re in New York and have spent the past fifteen hours working, with hardly more than bathroom breaks, on a geological profile just for the unsub to break his pattern immediately after conclusions were drawn. Hotch had sent both of you to go back to your hotel to sleep and try again. Spencer dodged immediately, forgetting his bag and you inside.
Thinking for a second, you grab his elbow again, this time linking your arms. “Come on,” you say for the second time in five minutes, leading him again. He follows you without any question or preamble.
It’s easy to find a stand selling hot drinks and you buy cocoa for both of you before leading him back through the spaces between several buildings. You find a somewhat secluded cove for him to duck into, press his drink between his cold hands, and make him drink.
After a few minutes of thawing, Spencer’s breathing returns to normal. “Talk to me,” you urge him, voice pitched soft and calm. “You’ve never not talked to me before.”
“Says you,” he whispers, morose.
“What?”
“You’ve been gone,” Spencer says, voice low, eyes steady on yours.
“What?” You repeat, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Spencer, I’ve been here, with you and everyone else.”
“Sure,” he says, finally breaking his gaze to blow steam off of his cup and take a sip.
“Don’t do that,” you beg, “don’t cut me out.”
“You cut me out first. One day, it’s like normal. You were my best friend, all bubbly and ready to listen to me talk nonsense and … and you. And then suddenly you’re gone.”
You swallow thickly, guilty. You hadn’t thought he noticed how the sting of constant rejections shot across the field of your mind made you distant. You’d been so busy worried about proving to yourself that your love for him is one sided that you hadn’t realized that you were suddenly pulling back from him entirely.
“Maybe I’m just completely out of the loop on this kind of stuff, it wouldn’t be the first time. But I thought,” he cuts himself off, leaning his head back and exposing his throat over the top of his scarf, “and then. I don’t know, maybe I never knew.”
“You’re not making sense,” you say, worried and stepping closer. “Which is quite weird for you, given how much you usually explain things to me.”
“I don’t know how to say what I want to say without ruining this more,” he admits, still looking skyward.
Your heart throbs, mind racing with all the awful things he could be fighting against admitting to you. You refuse to linger on them though, shaking your head even though he’s not looking at you.
“Just tell me, Spence, I promise I’m not gonna react badly.”
“You can’t know how you’ll react.”
“I know that I trust that any part of you, no matter what you think about it, couldn’t be anything but wonderful to me.”
He’s quiet for a while, after you say that. You let him, patiently waiting and doing your best to not tumble into a world of uncertainty as you do.
“You used to say that kind of stuff to me all of the time. Last year, six months ago, I thought I knew everything. Where this,” he gestures between you, looking down from the sky to meet your eyes, “was going. Maybe it was wishful thinking or naivety or just a crush running rampant making me think all sorts of things, but then I suddenly do something to ruin even just the friendship we have and you’re gone, not taking to me, and I’m left not even knowing what I did. And now I’m lost – I’m nearly 30, I’ve been here before, I’ve been worse and better and I don’t know where I’m going from here. I especially don’t know where I’m going without you here.”
You blink at him, heart pounding in your ears. He’s hardly making sense, rambling whatever thoughts tumble into that brilliant mind of his.
“Where did you think it was going?” You ask, stepping closer to him, urging him to answer.
He says your name like he’s begging and you shake your head at him.
“Please, just say it.”
“I thought you felt the same way,” he admits.
You’re teetering, looking forward into something you told yourself, over and over and over, was just a dream. A reality you could never have, a boundary you should never toe.
“The same way?” You ask, voice soft and wavering.
“Please,” he says, voice breaking and eyes shutting, “I’m sorry, just, please don’t make me say it.”
You take the final step closer to touch him, first his arm, then his shoulder, and finally his cheek. You swipe a finger under the soft skin of his eye, urging him to look at you.
“Maybe I did.”
He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, completely still. When he opens them, he comes to life. The wind is moving his curls around his face, messy and tumbled. When he speaks, there’s no preamble, just the messy outpour of thoughts you’ve been getting up until now.
“You left,” he says, as if it explains everything. “And I –” he swallows, “I tried to ask, and then I convinced myself you didn’t need me. That I didn’t deserve – ” His words splinter. He inhales and the next sentence comes out like proof. “I thought you felt the same way.”
The world narrows to the precise tilt of his mouth. You forget the cocoa, the winter, the hotel lobby – you forget how you always tell yourself not to build a life on a wish. He’s two steps closer than he was seconds ago; you feel the heat from his jacket, the scent of peppermint and old library books. His hand finds yours like it’s always known the path. There’s no stutter, no overthinking; just the clean, hot certainty of him.
“Please, tell me it wasn’t just me.”
You shake your head before he can finish. Your heart is racing, pumping warmth and adereneline to every facet of your being. Your head is dizzy, your mind stumbling to keep up. To break past the boundaries you so firmly set for yourself.
You’ve seen it, over and over, the way he notices you. But it was never the way you thought it should be so you forced yourself to ignore it, to rationalize. The sudden shift in perspective gives you whiplash.
“I was scared,” you admit, slow, hand sliding from his cheek to rest on his neck. He steps closer again, toes knocking against yours, invading your space. “I didn’t want to assume. You know how easy it is to take what we do, how closely we have to look at people, how easily we learn about them, and twist that into something we want and now what they need? I was terrified that’s what I was doing to you, Spence. I didn’t want to hope.”
He’s nodding as you talk, eyes alight.
“I kept trying to be rational about it, like it was a case file: list the evidence, eliminate the impossible, leave what’s left, and it always came back to you; it always did, but then you pulled away, suddenly, and I thought maybe I’d misread everything. Like, maybe I’d built this whole thing in my head because I wanted it to be true, and I kept rewriting the conclusion just to avoid how much it hurt, but then every little thing you did contradicted that distance and I didn’t know what to believe anymore, and I – I don’t want to keep running these hypotheses just to keep myself safe. I want to try something different, with you as the constant and me as the variable, and I know I’m not good at this, I’ll probably trip over it constantly, I’ve never actually done this before. But I want to try. If you want to, I really, really, want to try.”
Breath shaking in a sudden exhale, you nod at him, “yes,” you whisper, pleading and happy and nervous all mixed into one word.
Slowly, you tilt your chin, leaning up and hoping, wishing, in a way you’d never before. To your delight, he responds, dipping down and pressing his forehead to yours.
“Okay?” he asks, so Spencer, so polite, so him in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Okay.”
He closes the last inch between you like he’s testing gravity, like the world will hold him if he dares. Your lips meet first in the faintest, most careful brush, and the breath you’ve been holding since he admitted everything hitches out of you. It’s soft, exploratory, almost shy, but electric, and you feel him tilt his head just slightly, matching your angle, warming the air between you.
Your hands find his sweater, fingers tangling in the soft fabric at his shoulders, drawing him closer without words. His own hands move to your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, as if anchoring himself to you, and the pause stretches for only a heartbeat before he deepens the kiss, slow and certain, like he’s memorizing every curve of your mouth, every tremor of your lips.