ᯓ★ LIFE ON MARS? ──☆ spencer reid x college bsf!reader
[series masterlist]
When Spencer finds you crouched between the stacks of the college library, blasting Bowie through your headphones, he’s instantly captivated. With little to no information on you, he makes it his job to run into you again.
cw: literally zero! fluff!! Silly Spence!!! a/n: meet cute anyone?? i'm obsessed with them. cannot wait to share their college shenanigans with you hehehe
The campus library was almost eerie at 5:45 AM. It carried a cavernous silence. Only the faint hum of the banker’s lamp broke through, its glow pooling over Spencer’s open notebooks. He was already there, of course – vaguely ghost-like, hunched over a pile of books. A pencil was clutched in his fingers, moving in quick, precise scratches that might have passed for hieroglyphics rather than English.
He liked the quiet.
No, he needed it.
That’s why the library at this hour was perfect. Rows of untouched books, the soft sigh of the air conditioning, the uninterrupted solitude of early morning. No voices. No small talk. No eyes watching him. There was only silence.
Until there wasn’t.
The sound was unmistakable: a thunk, a heavy book hitting the floor somewhere deep inside he stacks. The noise cut sharply through the silence and Spencer froze mid-word, pencil suspended in the air.
He didn’t even breathe.
Nothing followed. He thought that maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe it was the pipes in the walls or the building settling – old libraries were always full of strange creaks and murmurs, weren’t they? But then it came again: the scuff of boots dragging across carpet, followed by the low clatter of something – another book? A bag?
His pulse stuttered. Because who else would even be here?
It was only the second week of term. Students didn’t come here at sunrise unless they were getting paid to shelve books – or were possibly drunk, having stumbled into the wrong building the night before. This was his time. His carefully curated hours of work and focus.
He swallowed, and realized the back of his throat was dry.
Because someone was out there.
His first instinct wasn’t to get up. It was to catalogue, to run through the list of possibilities: A janitor? Possible. Another early bird? Maybe, but unlikely. Did libraries like these get rodents?
His mind flicked through news stories, grainy headlines of violence in places meant to be safe. Campus security reports, probabilities, government statistics he shouldn’t know by heart but did.
His hand tightened around his pencil. The graphite was worn to a stub from his morning’s work, but he wielded it like a pathetic weapon regardless. His mind conjured the image of trying to stab someone with it, and immediately spun off into calculating the force it would require to break through a jacket. (Not much, technically, but the wood would likely snap before it did any real damage.)
The sound came again, this time accompanied by a low muttering.
Against his better judgement, Spencer rose from his chair. His body felt stiff, all sharp angles and nerves. He should sit back down, ignore it, focus on Clairaut’s theorem and leave the strange noises alone. But his feet had other ideas.
He was already moving down the aisles with hesitant steps, pencil still in his grip.
And then, he saw you.
You were crouched low between two towering shelves, a surrounded by a small pile of books. Your boots were scuffed, jeans ripped neatly at the knees, and a faded sweater hung loose on your frame, one sleeve rolled up, the other drooping almost to your fingers.
You didn’t look up immediately. You were too absorbed, fingertips tracing the cracked spine of a Soviet-era cipher manual, turning it over like it was a sacred artefact. The way you handed it – careful, almost reverent – struck him. People didn’t usually treat books that way.
Spencer’s breath actually hitched, the pencil suddenly feeling unbearably heavy in his grip. At once, the quiet library seemed so alive.
Then you looked up.
Your eyes met his, steady and unreadable, but not startled. You weren’t even mildly surprised to find someone watching you.
“Hey,” you said simply, voice low and warm, like you were welcoming him into a secret club of early morning library goers. Then you turned back to your book, thumbing through it’s pages like nothing had happened.
Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but the proper words tangled up and fled.
Instead, he blurted: “You’re loud.”
You blinked and looked back at him, a smile tugging at your lips. Not mocking, but amused. Almost tender.
“Loud?” you echoed, pulling a headphone out from beneath your hair. A faint stream of music bled into the quiet – something upbeat, vaguely 70s. You raised an eyebrow. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to break the sacred silence.”
“No, I mean—” Spencer dragged a hand through his hair, painfully aware of how awkward he sounded. His thoughts were tangled, tripping over one another. “It just… startled me. Most people aren’t here at this hour and… yeah, you’re… loud. Not that I’m trying to chastise you or anything, I just—making an observation.”
You tilted your head slightly, and allowed your eyes to drag across his features. The sweater vest, the glasses sitting slightly lopsided on his nose. You were studying him as much as he was studying you. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You spend a lot of time by the coffee cart.”
Spencer’s cheeks burned. The thought that someone like you had noticed him at all was staggering. His words rushed out in a clumsy jumble.
“Yeah, I’m there a lot. I—I like coffee.”
He wanted to press more. After all, he was sure he’d remember seeing you by the coffee cart, with your messy hair and ink-stained fingers.
You laughed softly. “Lucky me then,” you said, still crouched on the ground, “seeing you again.”
Spencer swallowed, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. In a desperate attempt to keep the conversation from dying, his brain scrambled for something – anything – relevant to say.
“What are you listening to? The music—” he blurted.
You glanced down at the headphone dangling between your fingers. “Bowie.”
“Bowie?”
“David Bowie.”
“I—I don’t…” Spencer hesitated, frowning slightly.
“You don’t know Bowie?” Your tone was incredulous, but not cruel, an eyebrow raising at his revelation.
“I mean, I’ve heard the name, but I’m not… familiar with his music.”
You shook your head with mock despair, rising from your haunches. “Seriously? You’re missing out. Here—”
Before he could protest, you were at the end of the aisle, pressing one of the headphone gently against his ear.
Spencer froze, every nerve screaming at once. You were close – close enough that he could catch the warmth of your skin, the scent of coffee and something sweet. Vanilla, maybe. He stiffened instinctively, caught between wanting to lean away (germs, proximity!) and wanting to experience whatever this was.
The first notes floated into his ear – strange, lilting, beautiful.
“Wow,” he whispered. The word wasn’t even about the music.
You smiled, folding your arms casually. “See? Told you it was good.”
Spencer carefully removed the headphone. His fingers hovered uncertainly, as if he wasn’t quite sure where to put it. Back in your hand? Drape it over your shoulder? He panicked and just held it out awkwardly. You took it back without any comment.
He wanted to say something intelligent, something about Bowie’s voice or musical structure.
“You liked it?” you prompted, curious, your smile softening into something more shy – like you’d just shared a secret with him and genuinely wanted to know what he thought.
“I—yeah. It’s good. He has an… interesting voice.”
“Interesting? Yeah, I’ll take that.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, knuckles whitening around the pencil as if it would provide him with advanced musical knowledge.
“I just… I don’t have a lot of references,” he explained. “My music taste is limited to classical. And—yeah—that’s different from this.”
“Just classical, huh?” You nodded and tucked the detail away for later. “We’ll have to fix that."
Spencer’s brain caught on one word: we.
He stared at you, dumbfounded, as you returned to your books and gathered them up with effortless strength. He glanced at the rest of the spines – modern European history, something about linguistics, political philosophy. Heavy hitters.
“Well,” you said, adjusting your grip and tucking one headphone back beneath your hair. “I got what I came for.”
“Oh,” Spencer said lamely. “Um… good. That’s good.”
You gave him a crooked little smile, hugging the books to your chest, unconcerned with how heavy they were.
“You like that word – ‘good,’” you observed. Your gaze flicked to the pencil clenched in his hand like a weapon, and back up to his face. “You studying in here?”
“Yeah, I—I was just…” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the library’s center. “Reading.”
“Obviously,” you said with a soft laugh. “Come on then.”
And just like that, you started walking toward the front of the library. Spencer hesitated for a split second before instinct kicked in and he followed, a step behind you.
By the time you reached the main hub, dawn light was bleeding through the tall windows. Spencer’s books sat dead-center on one of the tables, a chaotic sprawl of open pages and notes.
You stopped, eyebrows lifting. “You were sitting there?”
Spencer frowned slightly, confused and caught off guard. “Yes?”
“You know there’s a better spot, right?”
“Better?”
“Yeah.” You tilted your head toward the far corner of the library. Tucked behind the stacks was a small alcove, which you’d already located on the second day of term. “Nobody ever sits back there. I think because there’s a big spiderweb above the seats – and it’s kind of hidden. It’s quiet, even during the day. Much better than sitting out in the open. Unless you like that, of course.”
But judging by the fact Spencer was here in the early hours of the morning, you assumed not.
Spencer glanced at his current table, the mess of open notebooks and scribbled margins, then back to you.
“Maybe I’ll try it.”
You smiled, content with the fact you’d provided something useful for him. You shifted the books in your arms again and smiled.
“Great,” you said, taking a half-step back toward the doors. “Enjoy. Tell me how you get on with it, yeah?”
He nodded. The simple question rolled over him like a strange, warm tide.
“Okay,” he said.
You turned, your boots scraping softly against the carpet again as you headed for the exit.
Spencer stood there a moment longer, his fingers flexing around the pencil. It was only once the door had closed behind you that he realized he didn’t have your name. Or your course. Only that you had a fondness for Bowie and a spider-web covered desk in the corner of the library.
He considered running after you, but by the time he’d come to that decision a decent amount of time had already passed. He shuffled lamely back to his desk, staring down at his open notes, his pulse still racing.
And he concluded this was not the last time he’d be seeing you.
Spencer had been at the library for forty-eight minutes and seventeen secods. He was pacing the stacks like a man searching for something he’d lost. Which, in a way, he had.
Library girl.
That’s what he had started calling you in his head. It was embarrassing – stupid, even – that he couldn’t come up with something better, but what else could he do? He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your course. Didn’t know if you lived on campus or just had an affinity for early-morning libraries.
All he had was an imprint of that morning: your smile, the worn boots, and the lingering echo of Bowie’s voice tangled somewhere in his brain.
Naturally, he’d gone down a Bowie rabbit hole since then. It had started innocently – a quick search on Bowie’s influence on glam rock – but three hours and twenty-seven google searches later, he was listening to Life on Mars? At 2 AM and wondering if you’d just him for not discovering Bowie’s brilliance sooner.
His roommate had noticed.
The guy wasn’t nosy – actually, he was probably the most laid-back person Spencer had ever met – but even he had raised an eyebrow when Spencer started leaving their dorm earlier and coming back later. Spencer, who typically avoided the library’s busiest hours, now wandered the campus like someone with… plans. Or, at the very least, intentions.
“Big day, huh?” his roommate had once teased, some point during the third week of term, when Spencer shoved books into his bag with uncharacteristic urgency. Spencer, of course, didn’t explain. Because how do you explain: I’m trying to run into someone I barely know because they smiled at me once in the library? He’d just muttered something about ‘research’ and hurried out the door.
His search hadn’t been going well.
He didn’t know your schedule, only had that single, stubborn image of you crouched between the stacks. So he staked out the library. Every morning for two weeks, he sat in the same corner (your corner), pretending to study while his eyes flicked to the entrance every few seconds. But the alcove remained stubbornly empty.
On day three of his search, he had been desperate enough to wander back to your aisle. It felt oddly intimate, stepping into that space again. He glanced around like some trace of you might have been left on the shelves.
On the seventh day, he spotted one of the books you’d taken out – returned, spine slightly more worn than before. Proof. You were still here, somewhere. Relief flooded him, followed immediately by disappointment. He’d missed you. If only he’d come an hour earlier, or later, or – something.
By the second week, his roommate (now friend, reluctant life coach and semi-professional tease) had started keeping a score board after dragging an explanation from Spencer.
“Day nine,” his roommate said, leaning against the wall as Spencer grabbed his bag. “What are we thinking today? Library girl: real, or just a caffeine-induced hallucination?”
Spencer muttered something about statistical probabilities and the size of campus enrollment. His roommate grinned and added another tally under ‘fail.’
So now Spencer was pacing the stacks again, telling himself to stop obsessing because clearly you were one of those fleeting moments life hands you just to take away. Each day, the chances that you had been a caffeine-induced hallucination were only growing, and he was starting to give up hope, until—
There you were, at the end of an aisle, chewing on your lip as you perused books on the fourth shelf.
For three whole seconds, Spencer’s brain stopped. Then all his thoughts collided into one big, clumsy word: “Ohmygod.”
He stood for a second too long before his feet just… moved. Spencer wasn’t sure if he walked or floated, but suddenly he was there, walking toward the end of the aisle like an accidental stalker.
You looked up and pulled your headphones off immediately.
“Hey!” you said, voice bright with recognition. “Library guy! We meet again.”
Library guy.
“You—” He pointed at himself. “You remember me?”
“Yeah. You wielded a pencil at me.” You tilted your head, amused. “And you didn’t know Bowie.”
The words tumbled out of him, unstoppable and chaotic: “Actually, I—I do now. I mean, a listed to a lot of Bowie, because you said I should – well, you didn’t say I should exactly, but you implied it. And I liked what you played me the other day – ‘Changes,’ Right? So I thought maybe I’d like the rest of his stuff – and I do.”
“Wow. You did your homework.”
Spencer froze, realizing the sheer insanity of his words. “Homework?”
“Well, you clearly binged Bowie for, like, a week straight,” you teased, leaning one shoulder against eh shelf. “I’m impressed, Library guy.”
“I—uh—I have a name,” he said, awkwardly half-extending a hand before retracting it to scratch the back of his neck. “Spencer. Spencer Reid.”
“Nice to meet you, Spencer,” you said, offering your name to him in return. He repeated it silently, rolling it over in his mind, erasing any chances of it being forgotten.
“I—uh,” he started, and his voice cracked slightly. He tried again, smiling in that lopsided awkward way that made his ears burn. “I’ve been sitting at that desk you recommended.”
Your brows lifted. “You braved the spider corner, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, and rubbed at the back of his neck again with a sheepish nod. “It’s actually great. Really quiet. No one bothers me. So, thanks. For that.”
“You been studying there a lot?” you asked, hitching your bag higher on your shoulder.
Spencer couldn’t exactly admit that he’d been there every day, clocking more hours in that corner than most people spent in their dorms. So instead, he nodded once and mumbled, “yeah, quite a bit.”
“You know there’s a whole campus out there, right? Sunlight? Fresh air?” You gestured vaguely toward the tall windows. You gave him a look that hovered between teasing and exasperated.
Spencer blinked at you, like you’d just suggested something absurd. “You’ve been studying… outside?”
“Yeah,” you said, grinning as you slid a book from the shelf, brushing off the thin film of dust on its spine. “The lawn’s great for studying. And people watching.”
“The lawn,” Spencer repeated, like the word itself was foreign, like the concept of studying outside had only just been invented.
He then felt an almost ridiculous wave of annoyance crash over him. He’d been looking for you in the wrong places this whole time.
“You should try it sometime,” you teased. “Get some vitamin D, Spencer.”
For once, someone was saying his name like he wasn’t just a collection of quirks and equations. Like he was just Spencer. It knocked all thoughts from his brain, and the next words were out before he could stop them, bypassing his brain entirely and barreling into the open air.
“Like… now?”
His stomach plummeted. Now? Now?! How desperate could he sound?
Your fingers tightened around the book, head tilting as your grin sharpened with amusement. “Now?” you echoed, as though testing the word.
Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again, feeling heat climb his neck. “I mean—only if you’re free, and if it’s not a—”
“Yeah,” you interrupted softly, a the edges of your grin tilting into something more gentle. “Sure. Why not?”
For half a beat, he just stared at you, wide-eyed and stunned, before nodding dumbly. “Great. Okay. Let me grab my things quickly.”
The two of you walked to the alcove where he’d left his books, and you watched quietly as he gathered his things and placed them into his bag with methodical precision. He swung it over his shoulder, getting it settled against his side.
Outside the library, a cool burst of mid-morning air washed over you both. It was a lot brighter out here, sharper, and Spencer surveyed the students sprawled lazily on the lawn outside, or moving in loose clusters from one class to the next.
“So,” you said suddenly, glancing sideways at him as you descended the library steps, “what composers do you like?”
“What?”
“You said you like classical music,” you reminded him, brushing a strand of hair from your face as the wind teased it forward. “So I figure I need to do my homework on it – since you did yours on Bowie.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, your words sinking in. The idea that you’d want to know his favorite composers – his favorite composers – was so unexpected it almost short-circuited his brain.
“Oh. Um. Well—uh—Bach,” he blurted first, because it was easy. Obvious. Safe. You nodded encouragingly, your eyes fixed intently on him, urging him to keep going. And that was enough to break his verbal dam.
“But also Rachmaninoff. And Debussy – ‘Clair de Lune’ is actually scientifically proven to elicit emotional responses due to its harmonic progression, which I think is fascinating – and who else…?” He paused to think, and caught your eye, realizing he had just spoken far too quickly. “Sorry.”
You were smiling at him though. Really smiling.
“Don’t apologize,” you said. “You’ll just have to make me a list or something.”
You surveyed the patch of grass the two of you had reached, and concluded, “Here’s good.”
You dropped onto the patch of grass, setting your books in a neat little pile beside you, legs crossing as you got comfortable.
Spencer hesitated for half a second, then awkwardly folded himself down opposite you, knees drawn up. He shifted restlessly, like he wasn’t sure how a human body was supposed to sit comfortable outside, and clutched at the strap of his bag like it would help.
His pile of books was somewhat more haphazard than yours, the corners of his notes poking out and rustling in the gentle breeze.
You glanced at the stack, eyes narrowing as you read the complex titles. You tapped the cover of the top one with a single finger. “So… what are you studying that requires this amount of notes?”
“Engineering,” he said shyly, picking at a corner of one of his pages before his fingers hesitantly nudged the book closer to you for you to see. “That’s my… focus.”
You picked up the book, gently thumbing through it, brows rising “Engineering? That’s—” you gave a low whistle, placing it back down. “Intense.”
“I guess.” He reached out as if to straighten the book you’d placed back down, though it was already perfectly aligned. “I’ve been focusing on mechanical systems. Well, mostly. I’m still refining my thesis proposal.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Thesis? You’re already doing a master’s?”
He hesitated, throat working. “No. A PhD.” Another hesitation. “My second one.”
There was a beat of silence as you processed that.
“Hold on.” You leaned forward, studying him even harder. “This is your second PhD?”
The tips of his ears flushed pink as you stared at him. You smiled, leaning back on your hands .
“Overachiever much?” you teased lightly.
He flushed more. “I—I just like learning,” he mumbled, as if that explained away the magnitude of his academic achievements, trying to make himself appear like less of a curiosity.
“So you must be some sort of genius, right? I don’t know anyone who already has a PhD at our age.”
Spencer’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m not—well, I mean, technically I have a high IQ, but… I don’t really like calling it that. ‘Genius,’ I mean. It’s just numbers. And memory. And—” he paused, realizing himself he was about to spiral into a breakdown of what IQ scores actually meant.
You tilted your head, amused again. “Oh, yeah. You’re definitely a genius.”
His lips parted soundlessly, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t think of a single logical way out. Instead, he pressed his fingers into the grass, picking nervously at the blades before finally muttering, “I guess. Yes.” Then, desperately wanting to turn the conversation away from him, he gestured at your pile of books. “Russian?”
“Yeah,” you said with a grin. “I’m majoring in linguistics. Double minor in history and Russian studies. Because, you know – why make life easy for myself?”
“And you said I was the overachiever.”
You laughed at that. Actually laughed. It caught him off guard. It wasn’t sharp or mocking, but light and airy. Like you couldn’t help but find him funny in a way that didn’t make him want to sink into the ground.
“Touché,” you said, winking playfully at him. “But seriously, engineering? That’s brutal.”
Spencer shrugged, though it looked more like a nervous twitch. “It’s… structured. Predictable. I like when things make sense.”
You hummed thoughtfully, the sound low and amused. “See, I think I like when things don’t make sense. Languages are messy, unpredictable – there’s always some exception to the rule. It keeps you humble.”
“But that would drive me insane,” he said, voice soft but earnest. “I’d want to know why something broke the rule.”
“Exactly,” you said, grinning. “That’s why linguistics is fun. It’s like trying to have a conversation with history.” You laughed softly and shook your head. “Now I’m rambling on,” you said, pulling a book into your lap and pulling a pen from your pocket. “You wanted to study, right?”
What Spencer wanted was for the conversation to continue, but he nodded regardless, grabbing a book and following suit. The shift from conversation to quiet study felt surprisingly natural.
For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t the brittle silence Spencer was used to, the kind that pressed on his lungs and made every shift of his pencil feel like a disruption. This was… different.
The grass itched a little beneath him, and the sun filtered lazily through the leaves above, but all he could really focus on was you.
You had two books precariously balanced on your lap now, and you were leaning forward, your hair falling into your face as your fingers traced the pages with a careful reverence. Every now and then, you’d scribble something in the margins – a quick note in looping script – or tilt your head in thought, lips parting slightly as you silently mouthed words.
Spencer should have been reading. He knew he should have been reading. The book resting on his lap had been open to the same page for what felt like an hour, the words blurring together as his mind kept drifting away. Yet no matter how hard he tried to focus, his eyes kept drifting back to you.
There was something about the way you focused. The quiet intensity of it reminded him of the way he got when he was caught in the pull of a problem, unable to stop until he solved it. He found himself wondering what it was like to be inside your head – what thoughts and half-formed ideas lived there.
You looked up suddenly, but if you noticed him watching, you gave no sign.
“I’ve got a lecture to catch,” you said, snapping him back to the moment. “You have a list for me?”
“A list?”
“Yeah—of your guys. Bach and Debussy and… that other one.”
“Rachmaninoff,” Spencer supplied. He glanced down dumbly at his notes, then back up at you. “No. I could email it to you?”
The silence that followed made his heart slam in his chest. He was sure he’d overstepped. But then your lips curved into a slow, amused smile.
“Email?”
He nodded earnestly, cheeks coloring. “Yeah. I use it for most of my research correspondence. It’s… reliable.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s surprisingly formal for sharing music recommendations.”
Spencer blinked, not sure if it was a compliment or an insult.
“I—it’s just easier to keep track of everything that way…” he explained quietly, trailing off as he watched you tear a sheet from your notebook and scribble down your email.
“Alright. Hit me with your emails then,” you said, and held the paper out to him. He took it from you hesitantly, let his eyes trace over the letters numerous times before meeting your eyes again.
“I’ll try not to flood your inbox,” he said with a small smile.
“Oh, no. Please do. I think your emails would be the most interesting thing in there.”
Spencer’s cheeks flamed hotter than they had all morning. He stumbled over his words, trying to come up with a response to your words, but you were already smiling and walking away.
“Bye, Spencer,” you called over your shoulder.
He barely managed a breathless, “Bye,” before watching you disappear around the corner of a building.
Spencer’s roommate was in the dorm when Spencer returned, looking up from his work.
“Okay, so what’s the verdict? Still no library girl?” he asked, going to draw another tally on the ‘fail’ side of the board.
“I found her,” Spencer muttered, fishing out the scrap of paper from his pocket. He pinned it to the back of his desk, staring at it in silence for a long moment.
Behind him, his roommate laughed.
“Adding a point to the scoreboard then. One for Spencer – finally making a move!”
a/n: i have PLANS for spencer's roommate just you wait and see *deviously rubs hands together*
also, do you guys get my vision of baby spencer having an epiphany looking at her while "changes" plays i hope you do
[series masterlist]