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pairing: spencer reid x reader
word count: 2k
warnings: none
a/n: another early drop because i am feeling so good about this! now we r getting somewhere!! i am so attached to these two it’s ridiculous. please, please PLEASE leave a comment, reblog, or give me feedback in any way you like!! i adore feeling like. the people who read actually interact w me/and the story :)
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He comes in a few afternoons later, a little bashful.
You breathe a sigh of relief, noting the flush of color in his cheeks and the spark in his eyes. He looks better, and this settles something in your chest that has been sounding the alarm ever since you took him home. Luckily, the store is nearly empty. This conversation feels like it requires a little space.
“I’m sorry about the other day.”
You sigh, tapping your fingers against the counter. Of course he’d apologize. While it’s good to see him clear-headed again, you wish he wouldn’t always be so transactional.
“Don’t even. You don’t have anything to apologize for.” You insist, pleading with him as he looks down at you. He looks far too sad to be someone seeking solace.
“I do, though. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”
“Spencer, I can’t argue with you while I’m working. Let me clock out.” You tug your apron off, leaving a stunned Spencer behind as you change in the back. A few minutes pass before you emerge, your hair down and your bag slung over your shoulder.
You sit next to his usual seat, crossing your arms over your chest. He looks anxious, his mouth pinched into a tight line, eyes unwavering from you.
“I meant what I said, you know.”
You look up at him. He’s different, up close. It occurs to you that you’ve never sat together, never shared a drink. You rack your brain for the interaction he’s referencing, until it hits you.
“About us being friends? Why would I think you didn’t mean it?”
“You’ve acted differently since that day. I thought maybe I’d insulted you. You’re surprisingly difficult to read, you know. I thought you thought I sounded…I don’t know, disingenuous. And then I came in sick, and basically forced you to take care of me. I haven’t treated you very well. For a friend.”
You sigh. While Spencer Reid is arguably a genius, he can be utterly clueless sometimes. You hop out of your seat, crossing the bar to start two lattes. Spencer simply watches as you foam cream and pour it into espresso, your hands shaking as you attempt to draw a design. When the design is finished, you sprinkle cinnamon over the top. Handing it to him, you reignite the conversation.
“Spencer, I’m not angry. You didn’t say anything wrong.”
He shakes his head, standing his ground. He’s taken to examining his coffee with a critical eye, turning the mug in his hands, and fear sparks in your chest. It’s now or never.
“I’d take care of you again. Because I care. Don’t you see? I don’t do this for all of my customers. I don’t take everyone home and I don’t learn latte art so I can draw hearts for them. I’m a shitty barista, and I have a lot of regulars, you know.”
Something clicks. It’s miraculous, to watch it happen. A literal lightbulb goes off, and his eye meets yours.
“You’re not just being nice?”
You laugh, shaking your head. A slow blush is creeping onto his cheeks, pink tinting the tips of his ears.
“No, Spencer. I like you. I was just bummed that you friend-zoned me. I’m not this flirty with everyone.” You are surprised that you are able to vocalize this, even with your heart pounding against your ribcage. You suppose he makes you feel brave.
“Really?”
A woman at the table across from you stifles her laugh with a cough, and you are too absorbed in the astonished expression on his face to care. He narrows his eyes, and leans forward like he’s about to argue with you. You exhale deeply, the heat in your cheeks fading as you brace for rejection.
“Dozens of people come in here every day.”
A small smile forms on your lips. He’s clearly talking you—and himself—through this. His eyes flick up to meet yours and your stomach does a somersault.
“Yeah, give or take.” You shrug nonchalantly, relishing in your calm amidst his intensity.
“Literal dozens. It’s a popular coffee shop. You work most mornings. You make small talk with them, too. I’m terrible at small talk. I talk to you about literature and theory and human nature and everything else. It’s your job to listen to me.” His eyes are far too sad. You hope with all of your heart that he knows you listen to him not out of obligation, but genuine interest. He sits back in his chair, not quite looking at you, and you take this as your sign to pose your rebuttal. Lacing your fingers together, you lean forward.
“Untrue. It’s my job to make you coffee,” you say, pointedly eyeing his latte. “It’s not my job to listen to you.” He deflates a little, and you’re quick to resume.
“But I listen anyway. Because it’s you.”
He perks up, and now his gaze is unflinching. You nod, both to him and yourself, and hide behind your mug.
“Out of everyone, you choose me?”
You are certain that nobody has ever been this forward with you while asking you out, but since when have you gravitated towards tradition?
“Every morning. It’s you, Spencer.”
To punctuate your point, you reach across the table and envelop his hand in yours. Germs be damned. He doesn’t move, a small grin widening across his face as he processes.
“Why?”
You groan, burying your face in your hands.
“Spencer, if you could logic your way out of—” You don’t say love, not yet, because you feel that it is entirely too soon and it weakens your point. Spencer is red enough already; you want him to hear at least some of what you say. “this nobody would date, ever. I can’t explain it. I like you. I like that you teach me something new every day. I like that you try new things, and if it’s not selfish to say I think part of that is because of me. I like the way you look when you’re thinking critically and how you hold a coffee cup like it’s too small for you. I like the look on your face when you walk in and look for me. I look for you, too. I like you.” You pause to clear your throat. “A lot.” It’s becoming increasingly clear that you’ve just delivered a bit of a bombshell. Spencer’s grip on your hand has tightened into a squeeze, and he’s looking at you like finally, he understands.
“I like you, too.” He says, once he registers the fear on your face. You feel yourself smile, a bit overdue, and watch as his expression turns into something triumphant and smug. “A lot.” he adds, and you resist the urge to reach over the table and smack him.
“That’s all I get?” You ask, because you are feeling particularly daring. To your surprise, Spencer shakes his head, and leans forward. You’ve watched him go from confused to...emboldened, and this makes something in your chest spark with hopeful anticipation.
“There’s an espresso machine, at the office.” He says plainly, and you furrow your brow. He seems to note your confusion and springs into an explanation.
“Penelope—I drink so much coffee that she paid for a replacement in the break room, for my birthday. I haven’t used it in weeks. Everyone’s been asking why.” He shakes his head, a wistful smile on his face. “I can’t explain it either. I’m terrible with words. It’s just you. You drew a butterfly on my cup, the first time I came in. I was running late, and it was crowded. You smiled at me. I think I knew then.”
You sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, and you go over the conversation in your head. You can’t really blame him for failing to realize the latte art was meant to be a heart. While you’re good at many things, you’re not sure if making coffee is one of them. Spencer doesn’t seem to mind.
“I’m not sure how to do this. There’s no first step.” He stammers, when his cup is empty and he’s taken to staring at you from across the bar. It’s endearing, his speechlessness, and this newfound power spurs you forward. You grin, shrugging your shoulders.
“How about you ask me for my number?”
He nods, and you laugh again. Pulling out your phone, you’re delighted to learn that Spencer has exactly three apps on his. Luckily, he enters your number quickly, and adds an emoticon that you don’t recognize after your name.
It’s almost like pulling out his phone was a catalyst. He gets a phone call a few minutes later, after you’ve finished explaining all the instances in which you weren’t just being friendly, and yes, you really are interested. He takes it, his voice hushed as he listens to whoever’s on the other end.
“I’m sorry. We have a case.” You nod, the smile on your face fading. He shoulders his satchel, looking at you with a new emotion in his eyes. A little bold, he straightens his spine.
“I’ll call you.”
“Call me when you land.”
You laugh as you speak in unison. Nodding, hands in your pockets, you confirm that you’ll call him. You wave him out, a small smile on your face as you watch his frame disappear into the street.
