when Spencer has to work late on a case with JJ, you find yourself spiralling with jealousy. And now, you're determined to make him remember exactly what he's been missing.
cw: 18+ Spencer reid x jealous!fem!reader. NSFW content. Mildly insecure reader, explicit language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation, heavy making out, slightly toxic relationship and emotional manipulation if you really really look
a/n: so this was a request, but I'm technologically inept and deleted it when trying to copy it to my word doc. ANYWAY, I feel like I veered slightly off topic, but I present my take on jealous!reader and some dumb bitch-ish Spencer™ for you mwah mwah please feel free to send in more requests i am happy to take whatever!!!
wc: 3k
The clock flicks to 11:00 PM.
You watch the numbers change with quiet contempt, the harsh glow of the display slicing through the darkness. The sheets beside you remain cold and untouched. Empty. Too still and too silent.
Still no Spencer.
It’s the third night this week. The third night of cold pillows and even colder silence. The third night of laying in a bed made for two and wondering if your boyfriend was going to crawl in before the sun came up – or if he’d even bother returning home at all.
He’d been busier at work in the past month, his absence only being amplified by the newest case.
You’d tried to follow along when he explained it. Something about Montclair, Virginia. Weird geographical patterns, overlapping jurisdictions, unusual victims. Apparently, it was the kind of bureaucratic mess that kept the BAU tangled in an endless supply of paperwork.
But all you’d really heard – what had stuck and started looping in your head – was JJ.
JJ.
JJ and Spencer. Working late nights in close quarters.
Beautiful, capable JJ. With her glossy hair and understanding eyes. Who could read a room in seconds and had helped Spencer through numerous cases. JJ, who had history with him. Real, lived-in history. She probably understood the way his brain worked in ways you hadn’t even discovered yet.
JJ. Who had the privilege of seeing him more often than you did lately, while you were stuck eating leftovers and watching the clock tick toward midnight.
You tried not to be the jealous girlfriend.
Tried so hard.
But it’s easier said than done when you’re alone in a dark apartment, with your texts left on read since 12:23 PM.
You can picture it too clearly – Spencer and JJ tucked away in some dim conference room, heads bowed over maps and files, shoulders brushing. JJ laughing softly. Spencer glancing up from his notes with that boyish smile that he reserves for only his favorite people. A room of shared trauma and comfort, of inside jokes and a history you can’t compete with.
You hate how vivid the image is.
You hate how much it turns your stomach even more.
Your fingers curl around your phone, thumb hovering for a beat before you start to type:
Any idea when you’ll be home? x
You stare. Waiting.
The dot-dot-dot appears almost instantly. He’s always fast, when he can be.
No, this case is a mess. JJ and I are still trying to determine the geographical patterning. I’ll be home when I can.
That’s it.
That’s it?
No “I miss you.” No “Sorry for the late night.” No acknowledgement that its eleven-fucking-o’clock and you’re still alone, curled up in his shirt, half-hoping for the sound of him returning to break you out of this fog. Just plain, clipped Spencer-speak. Cold. Factual. Like he’s updating Hotch, not the person who shares his bed.
“JJ and I.”
Of course.
Your jaw tenses and you type again:
Should I leave the door unlocked, or is your work wife walking you home tonight?
No response. Probably back to his files. Or worse – laughing with her about something brilliant he said. You picture her touching his arm. Picture him not pulling away.
Two minutes pass, and you try again:
Let me know if she likes it when you quote Voltaire.
Maybe she even moans when you pull out statistics too.
Still nothing.
You throw your phone to the end of the bed with a dull thud, resisting the urge to follow it with your wine glass. You’re not drunk – not quite – but your veins are warm and the wine bottle is getting low. Almost as low as your patience.
You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.
It’s not that your insecure.
But it’s been a long week. And you’re tired. And lonely. And a little more than marginally horny.
And all that serves to make a deadly combination.
You glance at the wine bottle on your nightstand, dragged in here from when the living room started to feel too big. Half-empty now, or maybe half-full, but you don't feel like looking on the bright side today. Your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass like a lifeline, and you take a slow sip.
The taste of sour grapefruit and poor decisions.
It doesn’t take long for you to start wondering things you shouldn’t be wondering.
Like if JJ’s ever seen Spencer shirtless, skin flushed from an adrenaline-fueled takedown. Like if she notices the way his lashes flutter when he gets focused, and the subtle tick in his jaw when he’s trying to hold back a dirty comment. Like if she’s ever heard the quiet, shaky sound he makes when you touch him just right – a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like forever.
You huff, irritated with yourself.
This is not the kind of spiral you want to be in.
But how are you supposed to feel okay when the man you love has spent more nights with someone else this week than with you?
Someone brilliant and bright and right beside him.
Your mind drifts – dangerously, again – to what he might be doing if he was here. What you wish he was doing. Your hand plays absently with the hem of his shirt, sliding a little higher up your thigh, feeling the fabric brush over bare skin. Skin and air and silence.
You wonder if he’d even notice you were awake if he walked in right now.
Or if he’d still be thinking about JJ and her smiles.
Your stomach twists again.
You set the wine glass down, staring into the dark, heat curling beneath your skin like a storm on the verge of breaking.
You’re not proud of the jealousy. Or the spite. But tonight?
You’re not sure you care.
It’s 1:00 AM when you hear the door open.
You’ve migrated back to the couch now. Curled up like a forgotten thing in the quiet throb of the living room. A blanket is pulled tight around your shoulders, forging a cocoon of spite and cheap Sauvignon Blanc. The bottle on the coffee table is empty. There’s half a glass still in your hand, warmed by your palm. Your fingers are molded around the stem like its something keeping you grounded.
The door shuts gently.
Spencer enters the apartment the way he always does when he knows it’s late. Softly. Cautiously. The guilt doesn’t show on is face right away, but seeps in to the little things. The way he trades his leather shoes for worn slippers like they might squeak loud enough to wake you up. The careful way he sets his keys down, not with the usual absentminded clatter, but softly, like he might disturb you.
You hear the rustle of his cardigan being shrugged off and flung over the back of a chair. He moves through the apartment with the measured care of someone navigating a crime scene. Almost like a ghost; present, but not where you need him to be.
The bedroom door creaks. A pause. Then a soft, confused hum, like he’s surprised the bed is cold and vacant.
You don’t move.
His footsteps return, still soft and hesitant, and then the living room light clicks on. It’s not bright, just enough to paint his face in a warm gold shadow. When he sees you, wrapped up and still, his features settle somewhere between relief and worry.
‘There you are,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t think you’d still be up.’
His voice is warm. Too warm. Like he’s dealing with a wounded animal, already prepared for a potential fallout.
You don’t answer right away. Just lift the glass and sip what’s left of the wine. It brought warmth before, but now just feels thin and useless as it settles in your stomach. A comfort that has already faded.
Spencer looks like he always does after a long day – exhausted. Shirt untucked and wrinkled at the collar. His hair is tousled like he’s raked his hands through it a dozen times. His lips are parted, already searching for the right apology.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ you say. The words land flat and cold. Sharper than you intended, but not enough to make you regret it.
His brow furrows as he takes a tentative step forward. ‘Oh no. Are you okay?’
‘Oh, just peachy.’ You flash him a malicious smile and tilt your head. ‘How’s JJ?’
‘JJ?’ he repeats. ‘She’s… fine?’
‘I bet.’
You see it in him. The subtle shift. His brain starts ticking, trying to process the change in tone, piece together context clues. His hands twitch slightly at his sides. You’ve seen it before, when he’s dealt with a particularly messy profile. It’s how he acts when trying to decode erratic behavior.
But this time, you’re the chaos.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks, slower this time. Careful.
You finally meet his eyes, steady and level. ‘You’ve spent more time with her this week than you have with me.’
He exhales and crosses his arms. Not intentionally defensive, but it comes across that way. Just the subtle shift of someone bracin against a growing storm.
‘Me and JJ? We’re working the same case,’ he offers. Not patronising, just explaining. ‘That’s how assignments work.’
A rational answer. Reasonable. Sensible. And completely useless to the part of you that’s been sitting in silence every night, nursing bitterness like it’s a glass of wine.
‘That’s not what I said,’ you reply.
You toss off the blanket and stand, wanting to be level with him.
His gaze drops, almost instinctively, to your bare thighs peeking out from beneath his shirt. Snaps it back to your face instantly. Like he caught himself doing something inappropriate, even if it wasn’t.
‘She get’s your attention,’ you say softly. ‘Your thoughts. Your little facts. Your laughter. Your time.’
His mouth opens, but no words come out.
You keep going. Getting closer enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
‘And I get cold sheets and texts left on delivered.’
‘I didn’t mean to ignore you–’
‘She gets to share your space. Share your mind. Is that what gets you off now? Criminal profiling and shared trauma? Is that your kink, Doctor?’
His cheeks go red immediately.
‘She’s married,’ he points out, like that’ll resolve the tension.
‘Married women flirt too, Spencer.’
He’s still red, sputtering slightly now. ‘I don’t—I don’t think of JJ like that. I never have.’
‘Do you think of me like that?’ you challenge. ‘Or have I been bumped down your priority list below paperwork and tactical briefings? Do I need to start talking about blood spatter patterns during foreplay? Or maybe I need to join the FBI just so you’ll remember me.’
He swallows visibly, jaw tightening. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘No,’ you snap. ‘What’s not fair is me touching myself alone in our bed to the sound of your voice in some old Quantico press briefing because it’s the only version of you I could get this week.’
His eyes widen slightly. His breath catches.
‘I think about you constantly,’ he says, almost desperate.
You scoff. ‘Sure. Right after filing case summaries.’
‘No,’ he says, firmer now. ‘I do think about you. I just—I hyperfocus. And when I hyperfocus, my brain sort of queues everything else. It’s not about priority or importance. It’s about sequence. You’re just… waiting in line.’
‘Great,’ you say flatly. ‘I’m a fucking deli number.’
He winces. ‘That came out wrong.’
You look at him, taking a breath. Run a hand through your hair.
‘Do you think I’m crazy?’
‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘I think you’re angry and hurt. And I think you’re trying to make me angry and hurt too. Like earlier, your messages were mean. That’s why I ignored them... Now, you’re just sort of scaring me.’
That stops you. Not because you’re insulted, but because he looks genuinely lost. Innocent.
‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ you say quietly. You deflate slightly, some of the heat leaving your voice. ‘I’m just… trying to remind you that I’m still here. Wanting you. Waiting for you.’
There’s a silence.
Then–
‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. I thought you just wanted some space.'
You nod. Not spitefully, just confirming the truth.
‘Do you even remember what it was like?’ you ask. ‘When you used to come home and fuck me like you were starving. Like you couldn’t stand being apart from me. Like the space between us physically hurt you.’
He doesn’t answer. But you see the recognition in the way his jaw ticks, the way his hands clench at his sides.
‘I miss that,’ you say. ‘I miss you.’
That look returns to his face, unsure if this is a test. If you’re being serious. If you’re going to snap at him for misreading your cues.
So you lean in – slow – until your lips are just inches from his. ‘You say you think about me constantly… prove it.’
He hesitates. Blinks. ‘You mean like—right now?’
‘Preferably in a way that makes me forget I’m mad.’
He pauses. ‘...Sexually?’
‘That would be ideal.’
He clears his throat. ‘I just want to make sure. Because sometimes when you’re upset, you use sarcasm to—’
You lift your hand, cutting him off. ‘No sarcasm now, Doctor.’
He shifts his weight, brows still drawn a little.
‘Right, okay.’ Another pause. ‘So, just to clarify – you’re asking me to have sex with you. Now. Because you want to stop being angry. Or is the sex part of the anger expression?’
You stare at him.
He continues.
‘Because if you’re just using me to release emotional frustrations, that’s fine, I want to have sex with you, but I’d just like to know in advance so I can—’
You step in and kiss him.
Not sweetly or softly.
It’s the kind of kiss used to shut him up. Open mouthed and hard, tongue sweeping across his lower lip before he’s even realised your lips are touching his. For a moment, he’s caught between instinct and hesitation. Trying to figure out if this is you just getting back at him.
Then you feel him give in. His hands grip your waist, grounding himself, allowing his mouth to move with yours in a way that’s messy and uncoordinated – like he’s catching up with weeks of missed makeout sessions.
When you finally pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his lips flushed and slightly parted.
‘I’m not asking you to give me a therapeutic exercise,’ you state. ‘I’m asking you to stop thinking and touch me.’
He nods, too quickly. ‘Right. Touching… now?’
‘No. In another three days,’ you say sarcastically, grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath the hem of your shirt – his shirt – until his fingers are splayed across your ribs.
His palm is warm. Touch a little tentative.
‘Do you even remember what touching me feels like?’ you ask, breath brushing against his cheek.
Spencer exhales sharply, the memory hitting him and punching the breath from his lungs.
‘I think about it all the time,’ he whispers.
‘Then why are you still just standing there like this is a goddamn team-building exercise?’
He snaps into focus. ‘I’m sorry. You’re just—when you’re mad, and basically half-naked, it’s hard to follow all the emotional subtext and my working memory has lost it’s buffer—’
You roll your eyes, pushing him backward until his knees hit the couch. He drops onto the cushions with a surprised noise. Part yelp, part breathless laugh.
His hands instinctively settle on your thighs as you straddle him. He stares up at you like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he doesn’t deserve for it to be happening.
You place your palm on his shoulder, playing with the soft cotton of his shirt.
‘Spencer.’
‘Yes?’
‘Please stop thinking.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Try harder.’
You lean down and kiss him again. Slower, this time. Deeper. He responds instantly now, hands sliding to your waist, then up your back, holding you close to him. His mouth moves with less hesitation, more purpose.
‘I missed you,’ he murmurs between kisses. ‘Missed you so much. I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to say without it sounding like I was making excuses before.’
You shift your hips against him, just enough to feel him getting harder beneath you.
‘I don’t want an apology,’ you say.
‘You don’t?’
‘No.’ You grind down again, a little harder. ‘I want you to make it up to me.’
He moans softly, head tipping back against the couch cushions. He nods in understanding, taking a moment to catch his breath before pressing his lips to your jaw, trailing them down to your throat, feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.
‘You’re so…’ he pauses for another kiss to your skin. ‘I mean, you always look good, but—God, you’re so, so pretty. I missed you.’
His fingers dig into your hips, and then his mouth is back on yours, rougher now. He’s kissing to make up for all the nights you went to bed alone, all the hours he spent at work while you touched yourself to a crackly echo of his voice.
His hands slide up beneath your shirt again. Tracing your skin. He gets to your breasts, and gasps softly, like he’s surprised.
‘You’re not wearing anything under this.’
You roll your eyes at his astute observation.
‘You want to keep narrating?’ you ask, a little breathless. ‘Or do you want to do something about it?’
‘Doing something. Yes.’
He lifts the shirt off your body. Slow and tentative, like you’re something delicate. It’s a sight he’s seen numerous times before, bit his eyes still go wide as he takes you in. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares.
‘Jesus, Spence,’ you say, nudging his shoulder, getting impatient.
‘Sorry. You’re just gorgeous. And naked. And still angry. And you—’ he pauses, runs his hand up your ribs again. ‘—feel like something I shouldn’t be able to touch.’
‘Well I’m letting you touch me.’
You grab his wrist, guiding your hand to press between your legs. He sucks in a breath, still looking up at your face.
‘This is how mad I was,’ you whisper.
His brain seems to short-circuit again. ‘I have… no response to that.’
You push your hips down against his hands.
‘Then shut up, and make me come.’
a/n: i ummed and ahhed about putting an aftermath scene but decided not to because I lowkey like 'em toxic >:) We also do NOT hate JJ in this house, she was just convienient. I also (can you tell I like to yap?) don't know what era of Spencer Reid I pictured for this. Somewhere in the earlier seasons, maybe? But idk. You choose.
I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. I've decided not to put tags on my 18+ fics, just as I don't want any minor interactions with them
Also, to the person who requested this: if it did not align with your request I'm so sorry and I can do if you really really want xxxx
summary: the voit case has become personal, his obsession bleeding into your life leaving you shaken. with spencer away on assignment, you struggle to live with the new revelations – until an early return shows you just how safe you are
pairing: spencer reid x media liason!wife!reader
cw: cm evolution typical themes (BAU-Gate. Mentions of serial killers. Stalking. Obsession). Fluff at the end, and a tiny bit of PDA
a/n: i don't know how canon compliant this is, because I watched evolution once and haven't returned to it since. i just remember being lowkey confused. Alsooo, people who usually read my fics will know I normally use ‘’ instead of “” (I grew up reading Stephen King books, he uses ‘’). HOWEVER, I used “” in this one just to see if it makes a difference and if I like it better. Still trying to decide.
w/c: 6.5k (how it got this long, I don't know, lowkey a lot of yap at the beginning but i had to make the stakes and context knownnn)
“Huh,” Penelope hums, the sound sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of computers and low chatter. Her eyes dart rapidly across her laptop screen, neon-pink nails clacking against the keys in a rhythm that doesn’t sound good.
It’s late at the round table. The blinds are drawn, the lights are harsh. Aside from the team and a few yawning agents in the bullpen, the floor is empty. Everyone’s gathered around, shoulders slumped, mugs of lukewarm coffee resting beside tired hands, an overwhelming sense of fatigue tying it all together.
You glance up from your own laptop, where you’ve been painstakingly flagging conspiracy sites for Penelope to dismantle later – the ones peddling lies about BAU operations, tarnishing the Bureau’s name. Your eyes sting from starting too long.
“What is it, Garcia?” Emily asks, her tone shifting from exhaustion to razor-sharp alertness in seconds.
Garcia doesn’t look up. Her brows knit. Lips purse. Her fingers fly faster over the keys.
“This is weird. I mean, really weird,” she mutters, her voice trembling with adrenaline. And confusion. “I’ve been trying to crack the backend of Voit’s BAU-Gate activity for days, right? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. His coding isn’t just good – it’s impossible. Like, ‘chess with ten queens” impossible. But now—just now—suddenly—I’m in. Just like that.”
A ripple of unease passes around the table. No one says it, but they’re all thinking the same thing. This isn’t good.
Beside you, JJ tenses, her shoulders stiff. Rigid. You don’t even think before reaching under the table and slipping your hand into hers, your fingers curling around her hand in silent reassurance. She squeezes back, just once, quick and almost distracted. But you catch the flicker of gratitude in her eyes.
Her gaze lingers on the screen longer than anyone else’s. You recognize it. Sharp and guarded, but threaded with fear. She’s already thinking about how this could get even more personal, what other ghosts this code could awaken – old photos she thought were buried in forgotten servers, locked behind firewalls that suddenly don’t feel strong enough.
You know her well enough to see the pain in her eyes.
“What changed?” Tara asks, leaning forward.
“I—I don’t know. But it’s like it wanted to be opened now. There’s no walls of encryption anymore. No trap code. No digital landmines. I didn’t do anything new. This section just… blinked into visibility.”
Penelope hits a key, projecting her laptop onto the big screen at the head of the table. A blank directory stares back at them – no file names, no metadata. Just empty digital silence.
“Not even a folder title,” Garcia says softly. “It looks creepy as hell, but I’ve run every virus scan I’ve got and it looks clean. Should I open it?”
Emily hesitates, glancing at JJ. The silence that follows is taut and brittle, ready to snap.
“Whatever’s inside,” Emily says finally, her voice low but firm, “we need to see it.”
JJ’s hand tightens around her coffee cup, the ceramic creaking under the strain of her grip. The tension rolling off her is palpable, sharp enough to cut.
Emily’s gaze softens, but only slightly.
“And I’d like you to go through it JJ, please,” she says. “BAU-Gate… it’s personal to you. I don’t want the rest of us seeing things you’re not ready for.”
“Emily, I don’t—” JJ begins, but Emily’s tone slices across her words.
“No.” Her voice brooks no argument. “This shouldn’t be sifted through with everyone watching.”
JJ stares at her, jaw tight, and for a long moment you think she’ll refuse. Her exhaustion wins out instead.
“I can’t do it alone,” JJ says finally, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I’ve already looked through the site once. I don’t know how far I’ll get doing it myself.”
Emily’s gaze flicks to you, to your interlinked hands beneath the table, and she gives a deliberate but subtle nod. “Stay with her.”
One by one, the others file out. Tara gives JJ’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she passes. Luke offers you a small nod, and even Garcia leaves without a quip, her expression solemn. When Emily closes the door behind them, the sudden quiet is deafening.
JJ exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sorry,” she mutters, voice barely audible.
“No, I’m sorry,” you say. “This should be over by now.”
You give her a faint smile, meant to be comforting, though your stomach feels like it’s in knots.
“I’ll focus on my work. I won’t look unless you want me to,” you add, nodding toward your laptop.
JJ’s expression twitches with something reminiscent of gratefulness, but her eyes look dull and bruised beneath the blue. She pulls Garcia’s laptop closer to her, jaw clenched, and with a steadying breath, she clicks enter.
The screen flickers. For a moment, nothing. Then the blank folder erupts with files – hundreds of them, cascading down in a blur of cryptic names. Color-coded, it seems, but labelled only with numbers.
“I’m going to open one,” JJ says, voice low. You avert your eyes as she enters the first file.
It expands into a photo.
“What the hell—” you hear JJ mutter. She leans closer to the screen, then looks up at you sharply. “Look.”
Confused, you lift your gaze to the projector – and freeze.
It’s you. Not JJ. You.
A candid, slightly blurry photo of you leaving the BAU, at least seven years ago. Spencer is beside you, his hand hovering awkwardly near the small of your back, his profile caught mid-turn.
Ice floods your veins, settling in your chest.
“Go to the next folder,” you manage, your voice tight.
JJ clicks. Another photo – this time a security camera still of you in a grocery store aisle.
Another.
Another.
The images keep coming, endless and relentless. Thousands of them. Some you recognize: BAU press briefings, stills from news clips where you’re barely in frame, caught just off to the side of someone speaking.
But the others—
A photo of you tying your shoe outside a coffee shop.
A grainy shot from across the street, capturing you leaning against your car, texting Spencer.
Another from inside your old apartment – your home – where you’re sipping coffee in nothing but an oversized shirt. The angle is wrong, invasive; it must have been taken from a building across the street with a long-range lens.
JJ’s breath hitches. “This is… this is sick.”
There are photos of you laughing with Penelope at a work function. One of you about to enter a convenience store.
Every single one is labeled. Catalogued.
‘Nervous.’
‘Smiling at someone (husband?).’
‘Pretty face.’
‘Morning routine.’
“What the fuck,” JJ mutters, her voice trembling somewhere between anger and disbelief.
There are folders within folders. One is marked voice.
JJ clicks it open. There are dozens of files. Recordings pulled from press briefings, interviews, even an old TV segment. All edited, chopped up, stitched back together into something that sounds like a sermon.
JJ hits play on the first one. Your own voice echoes back at you, warped into a chant:
“You’re in good hands with us, trust me… You’re in good hands with us, trust me… You’re in good hands with us, trust me…”
Looped. Twisted. Worshipped.
Another folder: movement. Videos of you jogging. Walking through airport security. Adjusting your bra strap in your office.
“I don’t—are these real?” you whisper, your throat tight. “I mean… JJ, your videos were deepfake, right? Maybe these are too—”
JJ just slams the laptop shut.
“I’m getting Emily,” she says.
The door shuts behind you with a heavy clang, the sound hitting off concrete walls. It makes you flinch.
You don’t belong here.
You’re not a profiler, not a field agent – you’re the calm voice at the podium, the one who translates horror into words that the public can digest. That’s your land.
Not this. Not interviewing suspects or trailing around high security prisons. Not staring down the man who’s memorized the details of your life.
But Emily concluded that your presence would get him to talk. Not necessarily give answers, but give something. He cataloged you like a specimen. There’s no way he won’t react to you.
So here you are.
JJ stands at your side, spine straight and unyielding. She steps forward first, taking up space like it’s a weapon. You stay half a step behind, hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bite into your palms. You’d told yourself you’d meet his gaze the moment you walked in, show him you weren’t afraid.
But just the sound of him moving, of him breathing – you can’t. Not yet.
“Agent Jareau, pleasure to see you again,” Voit greets, voice infuriatingly casual. He drags a chair across the floor with a grating screech, sitting behind the bars with a lazy sort of confidence. You hear it in his tone, the curve of a smile he shouldn’t be wearing. “And… Agent Reid. I hoped you’d come. I wasn’t sure you would.”
You lift your head. Slowly.
His eyes lock on yours instantly. It’s not a glance. It’s a study. His gaze lingers too long, unblinking, cataloguing you even now.
JJ’s glance flicks to you, checking your reaction. You swallow down the lump in your throat, straighten your back, and speak. Your voice is steadier than you feel.
“We know you have information. Give it to us, or I walk.”
Voit tilts his head. His smile stays. “I don’t do ‘transactions,’” he says smoothly. “I do conversations.” His eyes shift to JJ, then back to you. “You’re not usually part of this, are you? Interviews. Evidence collection.”
“No,” you say tightly.
“No,” he echoes with a small, satisfied nod. “No, you belong in the light. Not… this.” He gestures around the sterile cell like it’s beneath you.
JJ leans forward, a silent warning in her posture.
Voit ignores it.
“You have a very distinct presence,” he continues. “When you speak at press conferences, everyone listens. But it’s different seeing you in here, like this. No podium. No cameras. No carefully chosen words to hide behind. You don’t like this, do you? Being seen without the frame you’ve built.”
Your jaw tightens. He’s too close – not in distance, but in knowing. Peeling back layers you haven’t given him permission to see.
“You don’t know anything about me,” you say.
“Oh, but I do.” His voice lowers, intimate and mocking. “I’ve been paying attention. Especially to the little things. The way you tap your pen when you’re thinking. How you take a second too long to blink when someone mentions a child victim. The subtle tension in your shoulders when Dr. Reid isn’t by your side.” His grin widens, sharp as a blade. “He’s far away right now, isn’t he? Long assignments are hard.”
Your throat tightens. You say nothing.
“I even compiled all my observations together for you,” he adds lightly, as if he’s discussing an art project. His gaze slides to JJ. “You showed her, right? I mean, you know your way around BAU-Gate better than anyone.”
JJ’s jaw ticks.
Voit’s grin deepens, as though that silence is all the confirmation he needs. “You did show her. What did you think, Agent Reid? Did you like the pictures, or was it too much?”
“Enough,” JJ cuts in sharply, voice like a blade. “This conversation ends unless you give us something useful.”
Voit chuckles under his breath, slow and low. “Useful? Oh, Agent Jareau, I’ve already given you something. That site… you’ve barely scratched the surface. You want real answers?” He gestures lazily toward you. “They’re standing right next to you.”
“Give us something concrete, Voit.”
“I have,” he says with feigned innocence. His gaze snaps back to you, deliberate and unblinking. “I wonder what Dr. Reid would make of all this. Funny. He must know how easy it is for someone to invade your life like that. I’d have expected him to keep a tighter grip. I know I would have, if it were my wife.”
“You’re pathetic,” you manage.
“Pathetic? No, not pathetic,” he corrects softly, leaning forward just enough to make your skin crawl. “I’m thorough. That’s the word you’re looking for.”
JJ shifts subtly in front of you, blocking his line of sight as much as she can. But his voice slithers past her, wrapping around you like smoke.
“Do you want to know what I liked best?” he asks. “Not the press briefings. Not the polished soundbites. The little things.” He raises his eyebrows. “Like the sweater you wore when you left Agent Jareau’s house one time. The chipped mug you drink from. They remind me how real you are.”
Your throat feels like sandpaper. You glance at JJ, whose glare could cut steel.
“And real is rare,” Voit muses. “Better than pixels and passwords. Those photos? Those notes? That’s just the surface. The real part… that’s what I visited most.”
“What are you talking about?” you ask, though your voice shakes. You already feel the cold dread twisting in your chest, whispering you don’t want the answer.
“A place where you’re not just an image, but… a presence.”
“We’re done,” JJ says abruptly.
Voit leans back with lazy satisfaction. “Oh, don’t leave yet. I haven’t even told her my favorite picture. You know the one. She’s wearing blue, and she—”
“I said enough!” JJ’s voice cracks across the room.
Voit goes silent. But the smile – the smug, knowing smile – stays.
JJ’s hand closes around your elbow, firm but gentle, guiding you toward the door. Your legs feel stiff, heavy.
His voice follows you out, soft and venomous:
“Tell Dr. Reid I understand why he keeps you close. Some things are worth collecting.”
JJ’s bedroom is dark, and the atmosphere feels too heavy for sleep. The only light comes from the narrow strip spilling through the crack in the door, painting faint lines across the floor.
You lie on your back, hands twisted together on your stomach like if you keep yourself still enough, the unease will finally stop buzzing under your skin.
The mattress dips as JJ shifts beside you. A slow, sleepy movement. You hadn’t meant to share a bed again, but when you’d changed and crawled under the covers next to her, she’d accepted it without a word. It was routine; on a bad case, or when Will was away on nightshift, keeping each other company in the quiet of the house.
Staying with her was Spencer’s idea. Something to keep you safe while he was away.
Quietly, she says: “I can hear you thinking.”
You exhale through your nose, the breath shaky. Then you turn, pressing your cheek to the pillow to face her.
“I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About the photos. The recordings. The way he smiled when he talked about it – treating it like a game.” Your voice catches on the last word. “What kind of a person even thinks like that?”
JJ is quiet for a beat. She finds your hand on the top of the blanket. “A sick, broken person,” she says. “But he’s behind bars. He can’t get close to you. Not anymore.”
“I hate that Spencer isn’t here.”
The words fall out of you before you can soften them. They muffle against the fabric, but the ache behind them is loud.
JJ sighs, tired but fond. “If he knew what Voit had done…”
“He’d lose his mind.”
“Completely,” she agrees, then laughs faintly. “But then he’d take your hands, and look at you like only he does, and he;d remind you that none of this is your fault. That Voit’s obsession isn’t about you. It’s about power. Control.”
You don’t reply. Your throat is too tight for anything else.
JJ squeezes your hand. “I know,” she murmurs. “You just want him home.”
You nod. The pillow is damp beneath your cheek. You hadn’t noticed when the tears started.
She shifts closer, blanket rustling. “And when he gets back, you can let him hover and be ridiculous, and wrap you up in all those Spencer Reid words until your brain finally shuts down for the night. You’ll roll your eyes, and he’ll act offended, and then you’ll fall asleep on his shoulder like you always do.”
You manage a watery laugh. “You sound like you’ve seen this happen before.”
“I’ve been third-wheeling you two for almost a decade,” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “I know how it goes.”
You let the silence settle again. This time, it feels different. A little lighter.
Your gaze drifts toward the bedside table. Spencer’s scarf – the one he wrapped around you before he said goodbye – rests there. Folded, waiting. A reminder that he’s coming back.
JJ shifts beside you again, drowsy.
“Until then,” she whispers. “We’ve got each other.”
You’re sitting at Spencer’s desk, legs curled under the chair, one of his old cardigans draped around your shoulders. You’ve been working here since he left. Some irrational part of you swears the air still smells like him – mint and old books, that faint warmth of his skin. It steadies you. Keeps the panic from finding too many cracks to slip through.
Your pen scratches against a battered notebook, the sound almost grounding. It’s safer than opening a laptop. Safer than being anywhere near the encrypted site and the images you’re trying not to replay.
“Walk with me a minute?”
Rossi’s voice breaks the silence. Soft, but not a suggestion.
You glance up and find him leaning against the next desk over with a familiar knowing look in his eyes. You nod, rising from the chair, keeping the notebook in your hand as you follow him down the corridor. Past the glass doors. Along a quiet hall. He knows you think better when moving – when the walls don’t have a chance to close in.
“You’re not okay,” he says once out of earshot of everyone.
You blink, caught off guard. “I’m… functioning.”
“That’s not what I said.” His tone is firm but kind, cutting through the armor you’ve been wearing. “You’ve got your game face on. I know that look. But I also know that voice you use when you’re trying not to fall apart.”
Your lips press together. You don’t argue, because he’s right.
His voice softens. “You don’t need to be bulletproof all the time. I know you think you do, because you’re the one people see. But you don’t have to be that way with us. Not with me.” He doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t push for confessions. It’s not about prying – it’s about reminding you that someone has your back.
He loops around the floor with you, and eventually you find yourself back at your office. Rossi follows you in, closing the door with a quiet click.
“Now, I hate to do this, kid.” He pauses, expression a little more solemn. “But we found something last night, and I want you to hear it from me. Not the rumor mill.”
Your stomach tightens. You set the notebook down and slump back into your seat. “Found something?”
He exhales slowly, pulling the chair across from you and sitting with deceptive ease.
“Remember – you don’t have to be bulletproof,” he reminds you, his voice suddenly serious. “We’ve been digging since your interview with Voit. And we found a new container.” He pauses again – like he’s weighing how much to tell you all at once. “It contains pictures of you. Like the website, but physical. It’s all locked down, and it’s evidence. We’re one step closed to figuring this whole thing out.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. You push your chair back with a scrape, breathing coming shallow. Physical. Real. You want to throw up just thinking about Voit being down there.
“Hey.” Rossi’s voice cuts through the panic. “Look at me.”
You do. Barely.
“No one else has seen it,” he says, eyes holding yours. “No one else will. It’s under control, and none of it will touch you again. Do you hear me?”
You nod, but your hands are still trembling in your lap.
Rossi stands, circling the desk to your side. His presence is heavy but safe, like standing in the shadow of a wall built just for you.
“There’s more,” he admits. “Because of the deal with him, Voit is coming here. To the BAU. Under full supervision, but…”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yes.” Rossi’s tone is like stone. “And trust me, kid, I don’t like it any more than you do. But this is on our terms. We’re in control of the situation. He’s on our turf, and I won’t let him get near you.”
“What if he—”
“He won’t.” His voice sharpens, no room for doubt. “We’re not taking chances. I’ll set you up in my office while he’s here. You stay there. You and JJ have each other, and you have us. Let us carry this one for you, kid. You’ve already carried too much.”
You swallow, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction. His words land like a promise.
“Good,” he says after a long pause, reading your face the way only Rossi can. His hand rests briefly on yours—warm, reassuring. “Now, let’s get you some coffee. And a pastry. You look like you’ve forgotten what food is.”
You’ve been holed up in Rossi’s office all morning, curled into the guest chair with your knees angled toward the desk like it’ll act as a shield. Rossi sits across from you, a silent sentry, arms folded over his chest. He’s been keeping watch, both on you and on the team outside. You can tell this case is gnawing at him – there’s a weight in his eyes, something that mirrors the discomfort chewing at your insides.
“That’ll be him,” Rossi mutters. His tone is flat, but grim. He shuts the file he’s been reading and stands, moving closer to the office door but not opening it. The motion alone is enough to make your breath catch.
Despite every warning bell in your head, curiosity scratches at you like claws on glass. You shift just enough to tilt your head, peering through the narrow strip of reinforced glass on the office door.
Voit is there.
Even bracketed by Luke and Tara, even surrounded by agents, he moves like the BAU belongs to him. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no fear in his face. Just that eerie, unhurried calm, like he’s strolling in for an afternoon chat. His eyes skim lazily over desks and walls, cataloguing, calculating.
And then – like he feels it – his gaze slides toward the door you’re behind.
For a split second, you’re certain he sees you. The glass feels like nothing, as though his eyes pierce straight through it. His lips twitch upward, the faintest ghost of a smile, one brimming with recognition. Satisfaction. By the time someone calls his attention and he turns, that smile is gone – erased so quickly you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.
You tear your gaze away, pulse thundering against your ribs.
There’s a quiet beat, then his voice cuts through the hum of the bullpen like a knife, calling for you and Rossi. A taunt. A dare.
Rossi glances at you, shaking his head once. Don’t.
You nod, but your curiosity betrays you again. You risk another glance.
Voit has drifted toward Spencer’s desk. He’s standing there now, fingertips grazing the surface, tapping lightly at the rim of Spencer’s mug like he’s testing the texture of it. His hand skims over the pile of journals stacked neatly on the corner, movements slow and deliberate. As if he knows. As if he’s touching those things just because he knows you will see it.
Your stomach twists so hard it’s almost painful.
“Step away from the desk,” Tara’s voice rings out, sharp and commanding.
Voit doesn’t move right away. For a long moment, his hand lingers there – just long enough to leave the image burned in your mind, like he’s carved the moment out for you to remember later. Only when Luke shifts closer does he finally step back.
But the way he looked at that desk, the way he touched it.
It stays with you.
Two days.
Two days of Voit’s presence seeping through the walls. Even when you don’t see him, you feel him – like a shadow stretching just beyond your line of sight. Rossi hasn’t left you alone once.
You’re still in Rossi’s office, combing through documents. You feel the shift in the air, freeze in place when the door clicks softly behind you and a voice speaks softly.
“Why are you in here?”
Your breath catches. Slowly, you look up.
Spencer.
For a moment, your brain doesn’t compute. He’s standing there, rumpled from travel, dark circles under his eyes, but he’s real. He’s here.
“Spence—” The word comes out as a shaky breath.
He crosses the room in three long strides, pulling you up from Rossi’s chair before you can speak. His arms wrap around you in a tight grip, trying to ground you in the moment.
You clutch at is coat, burying your face in his neck, the smell of him – coffee and mint and something faintly like rain – making your eyes sting.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, smoothing a hand over the back of your head. You haven’t felt this at peace in weeks. “It’s okay. I’ not letting go.”
“I missed you,” you breathe.
“I missed you too,” he murmurs into your hair.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming back.”
“They pulled me out of the assignment early,” he says, his thumb brushing absently against your shoulder, nose pressing further into your hair.
You want to tell him he’s right. That he’s needed here – by you – but the words stick in your throat. You can feel your eyes misting up as you hold him close, the tension easing in your chest.
He pulls back just enough to frame your face in his hands, searching your expression, observing your features because the memory of them hadn’t been enough while he was on assignment.
“Why are you working in Rossi’s office? I had to look all over for you.”
“It’s easier here,” you say, but your voice wavers. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to be alone in my office.”
“Why not?” His voice is soft but insistent, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “They briefed my on the case – encrypted website, shipping containers – but—” His expression twists slightly as he looks at you, his head tilting. “There’s more, isn’t there? What haven’t they told me?”
You can’t meet his eyes. “Spence…”
“What?” His hands remain on you face, coaxing you up to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”
“It was me.”
Confusion flickers across his face. “What?”
“The container. The website. It was about me. Voit had this whole section on BAU-Gate – photos. Old press conferences. Notes about things I said…”
Silence falls between you. Spencer blinks once, twice – then his jaw locks.
“He—what?”
His hands drop, fingers curling into fists. His voice lowers to a whisper that somehow sounds more dangerous than shouting.
“Emily didn’t tell me that. No one told me it was about you.”
“Spence—”
“Are you okay? Did he—” He cuts himself off, breath hissing through his teeth. “I—I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”
“You couldn’t have known,” you insist, reaching for his sleeve. “I’ve been staying with JJ, like you suggested. And she’s been great. She was with me when I interviewed—”
“When you what?”
Your words falter. “—Interviewed him…”
The silence turns deafening. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“No.” His voice sharpens. “No, you don’t interview serial killers. That’s not your job. You’re not supposed to be anywhere near him.”
“It was for the case,” you say. “Emily thought sending me in would get Voit to talk—”
Spencer’s laugh is hollow, disbelieving. “Oh, sure. Great tactic. Send my wife in to talk to the psychopath who’s been obsessing over her. That’s brilliant.” His voice is rising, his jaw tight, one hand raking through his hair as he begins to pace around the office. “If I had been here, I would not have let that happen.”
“Spencer—”
“I’m serious.” His eyes find yours, wide and pleading, attempting to get you to see reason. He crosses back to you, hands gently cupping your face again. “That is not your role. You’re not in the field. You’re not bait. You’re not expendable.”
“I was fine with it,” you try, your voice wavering. “JJ was there—”
“Fine?” He glances around Rossi’s office. “You’re hiding, honey. Hiding isn’t fine. You shouldn’t have to feel on edge here.”
“I’m not… hiding. Rossi told me to move in here while Voit’s in the building.”
Spencer freezes yet again. For a second, the words don’t seem to compute. He scoffs, because that’s the only sound he can make.
“He’s… here?”
“They’re using him for the case,” you explain softly. “He’s under constant supervision, but—”
Spencer’s face hardens, all emotion drained except for the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Where is he?”
“Spence, you can’t—”
“Where. Is. He?” His voice is low, barely controlled.
Before you can stop him, he’s striding out of Rossi’s office. You call his name, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t wait for you to follow him, just storms through the bullpen with long, confident strides that are fueled by something electric.
You call his name as you follow behind him, but it’s useless. He knows how the BAU operates when they’re desperate, knows exactly where to go.
You hurry behind him as he finds the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms.
Through the glass, Voit sits at a metal table, calm, whistling like he’s bored.
Spencer stops. His shoulders rise with a sharp intake of breath, then his jaw clenches tight and he moves forward, pushing the door open.
The click of it shutting behind him is final. You stand behind it, arms hanging limply by your sides as you move to look through the glass, raking a stressed hand through your hair. Their words are slightly muffled behind the glass, the surveillance video crackling with static.
Voit looks up, smirking. “Dr. Reid. I was wondering when I’d get the pleasure.”
Spencer doesn’t sit. He doesn’t blink.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Spencer says, voice low. “You don’t speak to her or about her. You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her?”
Voit tilts his head, amusement playing across his features. “That’s a bit controlling, don’t you think? Besides… it’s hard not to look.”
Spencer leans in slightly, his tone dropping even lower. You can feel the coldness through the glass.
“I’ve spent my entire life studying men like you. I know exactly how you operate. Every game, every pathetic attempt to hold on to control. You may believe you hold the power here – but you don’t. And I’m not going to let you so much as breathe her name again.”
Voit studies him. His smirk falters for a second, but he pastes it back on. “You think you scare me?”
Spencer’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t care if I scare you or not. I care that you understand me. You think you know her? All you have are pictures and words you’ve twisted into some sad fantasy. You’re delusional. You don’t know her. You’ll never know her. You don’t even have the capacity to understand who she is.”
There’s a flash of something – anger, or frustration – in Voit’s eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came.
“You weren’t even here,” he says slowly, a last ditch attempt to control the situation. “You let her go through all of this alone.”
Spencer braces his hands on the table, leaning closer, ignoring the jab. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to stay quiet about her. If you try anything – anything, even a look – I’ll make sure that the rest of your cooperation is miserable. And when it’s done, I’ll make sure you’re sent far, far away from here. I’ll even move you myself if I have to.”
Voit’s eyes flicker again, but he stays silent. Then, finally, he smiles, though this time it’s thinner. Forced.
“She married someone… interesting.”
Spencer straightens, gaze hard. “She married someone who will never let you near her.”
He turns and walks out. The click of the door feels louder than any threat.
You watch the whole conversation with wide eyes, frozen in the hallway behind the glass. Only when Spencer’s eyes land on you does your breath return.
The sharpness in his face softens instantly.
“Spence,” you whisper.
He’s quick to stand in front of you again, arms wrapping around you, standing between you and the glass to shield you from Voit, from every nightmare you’ve had since he stepped into your orbit.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice close to breaking now. “God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through any of this.”
“Don’t,” you whisper into his chest. “You don’t have to apologize for being gone.”
“Yes, I do,” he says, pulling back enough to look at your face, scanning your expression like he’s checking for damage. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”
“You’re here now,” you say softly.
Something shifts in him at that. His grip on you gentles, his forehead pressing to yours for a beat.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m here now. And I’m not letting him get anywhere near you again. Ever.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s grounding himself, before steering you down the hall with a protective hand at your back.
“Come on. I need you to fill me in on everything so we can put this bastard away.”
The scent of homemade lasagna fills every corner of Rossi’s dining room, rich and comforting, feeling like a warm hug. Candlelight flickers off the polished wood of the table, casting a soft glow over the familiar faces gathered around it.
Emily and JJ are leaning toward each other, laughing over some half-told story, while Tara is smirking at Luke, teasing him with what sounds suspiciously like a ‘your mom’ joke that makes Garcia nearly choke on her wine.
At the head of the table, Rossi presides like a proud patriarch, his easy smile softening into the knowing look he gets when he’s watching his family – because that’s what this is.
The clink of glasses, the scrape of serving spoons against dishes, the shared laughter – it all feels like a balm after the storm of fear and chaos that’s been hanging over you for weeks.
The case is finally over. Voit is gone – locked away in a high-security federal facility, miles away from Virginia, exactly as Spencer promised he would be. The shadow he cast over the BAU has been lifted, replaced with the quiet relief of knowing he’ll never come near you again.
You sit tucked into Spencer’s side, your chair so close to his that your legs brush with every subtle movement. His arm drapes lazily over the back of your chair, but there’s nothing casual about the way his fingers occasionally trace along your shoulder, a quiet reassurance that he’s here and he’s not going anywhere.
“So, seriously,” Garcia says, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “You actually told Voit that you’d make ‘every second of his cooperation miserable?’ Because that, my love, does not sound very on brand for you.”
Spencer’s cheeks tint the faintest shade of pink, his mouth twitching as though he wants to deflect but doesn’t know how.
“Don’t be so quick to put him in a box,” Tara says, lifting her glass with a sly smile. “I’ve seen first hand that this man is capable of going a little ‘cell block D’ when he wants to.”
That gets a round of laughter. Luke sips his drink, muttering something about “picturing Reid in a prison movie.”
Spencer shrugs with faux modesty, clearly trying to downplay the story, but you squeeze his hand under the table, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.
“I was watching,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice. “and I can confirm the rumors. It was a little terrifying.”
His eyes flicker to yours, warmth and affection softening the curve of his mouth. “Well I couldn’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, so low, only meant for you. “Not then. Not ever.”
Your heart does that familiar little stutter. You squeeze his hand back, your thumb brushing over his wrist. Around you, the noise of the table continues – clinking glasses, Garcia’s dramatic retelling of her latest shopping spree – but all you can feel is the steady beating of his pulse under your skin.
Spencer shifts closer, his knee brushing yours under the table, his shoulder leaning into yours like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. He dips his head just slightly, voice lowering into a soft, intimate tone that makes the rest of the world fade.
“I missed this,” he says, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Missed you. The normal.”
You smile, tilting your head just enough to rest it against his shoulder. “Me too,” you whisper.
His arm slides more securely around you, pulling you against his side. You feel the warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the spices from dinner. It feels like coming home.
Another joke gets cracked across the table – something about Rossi’s pickiness when it comes to wine – and Spencer chuckles softly, but his gaze comes back to you, hazel eyes glimmering with something so tender and steady that your breath catches.
Before you can stop yourself, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing the soft scratch of stubble there.
Spencer’s fingers squeeze yours again. With the soft look still in his eyes, he leans down – just close enough that the rest of the table seems to vanish around you – and kisses you.
Unhurried. Sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. I’m here, I love you, I’ll keep you safe – all the words are wrapped up in the gentle press of his mouth against yours.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the smile ghosting across his lips.
“I love you,” he whispers, soft enough that it’s just for you.
“I love you too,” you breathe, your hand reaching up to brush your thumb against his jaw.
“Alright, alright,” Luke groans from across the table, smirking. “Get a room, you two.”
JJ swats Luke’s arm without missing a beat.
“Let them live,” she says with a grin. She catches your eye across the table, and there’s a quiet understanding in her look, like only she really knows just how much you needed this peace.
Rossi stands a the head of the table, glass in hand, his smile soft but full of pride.
“To family,” he says simply, voice carrying across the table.
Everyone else lifts their glasses, the echo of their voices warm and unanimous. “To family.”
You clink your glass gently with Spencer’s, leaning into his side as his arm tightens around you. The warmth of the team, the glow of the evening, the simple comfort of being here with him – it all settles perfectly in your chest.
➻ You make water droplets race down Spencer's back. He makes your heart race in return.
cw: 18+ MDNI spencer reid x gf!reader. smut (fingering, unprotected p-in-v [wrap it before you tap it guys] and I think thats it i don’t know i’ve literally never had to tag smut before kinda nervous) fluff!!! if you really squint i think this constitutes as softdom spence
a/n: first smut post here what. this has been sitting in my drafts for SO long because I was really nervous about posting it but here we are. also discovered my biggest enemy is pace. like i couldn't for the life of me figure out if this was too long, or too short, or whatever so bish bash bosh this is the finished product it is what it is.
my requests are always open and you can ask for them here :) I promise i’m getting through them (just at a snail’s pace)
w/c: 3.3k
‘My droplet is winning,’ you murmur, nudging a tiny bead of water just a fraction ahead of the others as it slides down Spencer’s damp back. It sparkles in the warm bathroom light, racing along the smooth curve of his spine.
From in front of you, he gives a breathy little laugh.
‘Pretty sure you just moved it,’ he says, his voice low, still drowsy from the shower’s warmth. ‘That’s cheating.’
‘I didn’t cheat,’ you whisper dramatically, tracing the water’s path with your finger. ‘I guided it. There’s a difference.’
‘Mmm, sounds like cheating to me.’
The droplet you’re watching collides with another, ending that trail. You hum softly, dragging your eyes back up to the smooth line of his shoulder, and follow the path of another droplet as it curves around the subtle dips of his muscles, racing to catch up with the one just ahead.
Spencer’s eyes close, breathing even and calm. His hair, damp and tousled, clings to his forehead and the nape of his neck in messy strands. You wring out a small section in your hand, coaxing more water onto his skin.
‘It’s strangely hypnotic,’ you say, tracing a streak down his back.
He shivers where your touch reaches the small of his back, but stays still. Relaxed. Letting you explore.
‘You’re paying very close attention,’ he says.
‘I have to. This competition is serious.’
You hook your chin over his shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to his jaw. Your eyes catch the path of a lone droplet sliding slowly down his chest, starting near his collarbone.
‘Oh,’ you say softly, tapping his side. ‘This one’s trying to win now.’
Spencer glances down, brows raised slightly, watching the bead of water crawl toward the center of his chest.
‘Decent form,’ he says, voice hushed and amused. ‘Confident start.’
You smile, unhooking your chin to find another bead just beginning its journey down the slope of his back. Resting your finger between his shoulder blades, you say, ‘Okay. Mine’s going from here. Same rules: no guiding, no cheating.’
He huffs a quiet laugh. ‘So you admit you cheated before?’
‘I admit nothing.’
You tilt your head, watching the droplet inch lower, catching on a dip in his spine before picking up speed again.
‘Is yours winning?’ he asks after a moment, eyes still following the one on his chest as it meanders past his sternum.
You compare their positions.
‘No way. Yours is practically halfway down. Mine’s being a slacker,’ you mumble.
Spencer tilts his head, stealing a glance at you over his shoulder.
‘Should we… cheer them on?’ he asks, lips twitching into a tiny, crooked smile.
You laugh softly, considering it. ‘It might distract them.’
‘Oh. Well we can’t have that.’
Pressing your forehead to his shoulder, you watch silently as your droplet reaches the small of his back, just about to slip beneath the towel wrapped low on his hips. Both of you are still, neither speaking – just breathing and listening to the soft hush of water in the pipes.
You look at his front to see the position of his droplet, palm splayed across his back as your thumb lazily brushes over a ridge in his spine.
‘I think they tied,’ you conclude.
Spencer hums. ‘A diplomatic outcome.’
Something about the moment feels suspended. You don’t want to speak too loudly. Don’t want to shatter the bubble of comfort surrounding you. You’re not even sure how long you’ve been doing this – tracking droplets, touching, breathing him in.
‘I was supposed to be cutting your hair,’ you say, reminding yourself and sitting up straight on the counter.
Spencer smiles, unconcerned. ‘That you were.’
You smile back, hand still tracing the curve of his spine. ‘You distracted me. Being all quiet and sweet. Indulging me in my water races. And… well.’ You gesture as if to say here we are.
‘Well,’ he echoes, soft and fond, not moving.
A pair of scissors sit on the edge of the bathroom counter. You glance at them briefly, then back at his hair. The curls cling damp at the nape of his neck, still too long – the very reason you brought him here – but suddenly, you don’t want to cut a thing.
You run your fingers through the strands, mussing them up further.
‘I can finish another time,’ you say, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. ‘You’re too pretty like this.’
‘Too pretty?’ His voice is teasing.
You smile, brushing your fingers lightly through his damp curls again. ‘Yeah. Way too pretty to mess up with scissors right now.’
He chuckles softly, a small laugh vibrating through his chest. ‘Is that so?’
‘Definitely,’ you confirm, wrapping your arms around him from behind, thumbs rubbing warm skin. You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.
Spencer’s eyes flutter closed for a moment. ‘You’re being too nice to me.’
‘Somebody has to be.’
He turns in your arms, looking at you with a soft pout. ‘Does this mean I don’t get my haircut?’
‘No,’ you say, laughing quietly. You lift your hands and playfully curl your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to pull him closer. He shifts, resting his hands on your waist as he stands between your legs. ‘Can I offer you a different service instead?’
He pretends to think it over, letting out a faint hum. ‘…Kisses?’
You sigh, as if he’s massively inconvenienced you, then smile and nod.
‘I think that can be arranged,’ you say.
Spencer’s lips quirk into another crooked smile, then part as you press gentle kisses to his nose, his forehead, then down to the curve of his neck. His skin is warm beneath your lips, water droplets still clinging to him like tiny jewels.
His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer. He tits his head, chasing your lips, and you giggle when his catch yours in a careful kiss – slow, at first, then deepening as you surrender to the warmth between you.
He shifts, trying to get even closer, and his towel slips a fraction lower. Instinctively, he reaches to pull it back up, nearly knocking you off the bathroom counter in the process. His laugh is a quiet, delighted sound against your mouth, breath mingling with yours in the shower-steamed air.
‘Was that an invitation?’ you tease, pulling away just enough to flick your eyes down to the now slightly lower towel.
Spencer laughs again. ‘I wasn’t trying to—’
You cut him off with a sweet kiss to his jaw, then trail your lips back down the other side of his neck. His breath catches, and he lets out a contented sound.
‘—But it can be an invitation, if you want it to be.’
You confirm that yes, you do want it to be an invitation, pressing your lips to his again, kissing until his tongue traces softly against your lips in his typical exploratory fashion. Always careful, but unmistakably eager.
His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and he murmurs, ‘Off?’
You nod, and he helps you lift it over your head, his hands trailing reverent paths along your sides, fingertips brushing lightly against your ribs as he goes. The shirt drops somewhere on the floor, forgotten.
‘You’re pretty—’ he starts to say, but you kiss the words right off his mouth.
One hand slides into his damp curls, keeping him against you, while the other rests against his chest – right over the steady thrum of his heart. You shift slightly, drawing him in, and when your thighs tighten around his waist, he exhales a low, unguarded sound that sends a hot ripple through your stomach.
‘These too?’ he asks quietly, between kisses that have now migrated down to your collarbone, hands tracing the waistband of your shorts.
You nod again.
He adjusts your position with measured movements, guiding you forward to ease the fabric over your hips. He kneels slightly, just enough to help get them off your legs, fingers brushing reverent lines along your thighs, then your calves, as he slips them off.
You nod before he can ask about your underwear. They go next.
When you’re bare in front of him, he stands again, looking at you like you’ve just undone him.
You hook your ankles behind his back, drawing him close, grounding yourself in the heat of his body. Your arms loop around his neck again as his hands settle on your thighs.
‘Okay?’ he whispers, brushing his nose gently against your cheek.
‘Very okay,’ you murmur, turning your head just enough to catch his mouth again.
His hips shift forward, and when he presses against your center, the contact makes you gasp quietly against his lips.
He laughs softly, pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath is shallower now, voice barely above a whisper. ‘What do you need?’
‘You,’ you say quietly. ‘Whatever you’re willing to give.’
In Spencer’s mind, that equates to everything.
His hand slides between your legs, fingers finding you slick and warm.
He makes a pleased sound. You bite your lip. Eyes flutter closed as you rest your forehead against his shoulder.
His breath brushes your ear, steady and warm, anchoring you as heat starts to coil lower in your belly.
His fingers move slowly at first – lazy circles that coax soft gasps from your mouth. The warmth spreads, thick and dizzying, curling through your body until your breath is hitching against his skin. You feel his nose nudge your cheek again, encouraging you to look at him.
When you lift your head, his gaze is already waiting – unbearably soft eyes and a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Completely enchanted.
You shift your hips instinctively, pressing into his hand, wordlessly asking for more.
He listens, as always, pressing harder, fingers gliding over sensitive skin. Each stroke draws a soft, involuntary moan from your lips, and you don’t even try to hold them back.
‘Feeling good?’ he murmurs.
‘Mmh… better than good,’ you breathe.
He adjusts the angle of his hand, just enough to slide two fingers inside you, curling perfectly – and your breath stutters. A full-body shiver ripples down your spine.
He watches, making sure you’re okay, taking the way your fingers dig lightly into his shoulders as a sign to continue.
His fingers move in a careful rhythm, curling with intention, each motion precise and devastating.
‘You’re so, so perfect,’ he says.
The words seep into your skin. You giggle breathlessly, voice fluttering out in shaky little gasps. ‘Feel—feel like I’m gonna melt…’
‘Oh no,’ he whispers with mock concern, unoccupied hand sliding up your side. It’s as if he’s taking your words seriously, arm wrapping around your body and holding you close – keeping you together so you don’t completely dissolve.
‘I won’t let you melt all the way,’ he says. Grins. ‘Not just yet.’
Your hips press against his hand again, chasing the warmth that’s building fast and sweet. The bathroom feels far away now – everything narrowed down to him: his hands, the soft rasp of his voice in your ear, and the care woven through every movement.
The air is thick with steam and the quiet sounds of your breathing, punctuated by his low hums of encouragement. When his fingers find that perfect spot, you gasp, a helpless little sound that spills from your lips before it can be caught.
Every movement winds the tension tighter, fanning the flames inside you. Your thighs tremble around his waist.
‘Almost there?’ he asks, and your body’s clench around his fingers already tells him the answer.
You nod, one hand fisting gently in the damp curls at his neck. The world narrows to his hand, the pulse of his thumb, and the heat rising inside you.
A moan slips free, low and breathy, as your body tenses, the wave building fast and bright in your core. You lean forward instinctively, hips stuttering into his touch – and your whole body shudders forward with the force of it.
He catches you immediately, using the arm wrapped around you to guide you back onto the counter. He keeps you steady. Held.
‘Easy,’ he whispers. ‘I’ve got you.’
You shiver, letting the tension crest – sweet and full and flooding through you in trembling waves. You melt against him, the warmth of your climax leaving you loose and shaking, lingering in every shudder and sigh.
He keeps his hand between your legs a moment longer, gentle through the aftershocks, before slowly easing it away. His fingers brush along your thigh as they withdraw, reluctant to leave.
Quiet reassurances are whispered against your temple, a kiss pressed to your forehead as your body slowly settles.
‘You should see how beautiful you look right now,’ he murmurs, voice low and full of quiet awe.
You smile, eyes still heavy-lidded.
‘Can’t,’ you say, still breathless. ‘Mirror’s fogged up.’
Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, his smile curling against your temple.
‘Guess I’ll just have to describe it to you.’
He shifts a little closer, his fingers drawing absent, soothing patterns along your skin.
‘You’re flushed right here,’ he says, brushing a knuckle over your cheek. ‘And your lips are a little swollen from kissing me too much. And I believe the scientific description for your eyes is completely blissed out. It’s very beautiful.’
‘You’re being too nice to me.’
‘Somebody has to,’ he says, and your chest aches just a little. He gives you a soft smile, before his expression shifts back to teasing, and he lightly taps your nose. ‘Seriously: blissed out.’
‘If I am,’ you murmur. ‘You’re the reason.’
Something flickers in Spencer’s eyes – warm and unguarded and particularly reverent. His hand stills on your thigh, stroking gently against your skin. Thoughtful.
You shift slightly on the counter, your legs still wrapped around him, and the movement draws a soft inhale from both of you. The air thickens, already warm with steam and affection and the pulse of what’s still lingering.
Your body still trembles faintly, the aftershocks of your climax making every touch feel sharper, every sensation more intense.
‘We can keep going,’ you say. ‘If you want.’
‘You sure?’ he asks softly, lifting a hand to gently cup your cheek. ‘Not feeling too overwhelmed?’
‘No, I want to,’ you say, firm but tender. ‘I want you.’
His eyes soften. He leans in, brushing his lips against yours in a light kiss that deepens just enough to make you sigh softly. He guides you closer to the edge of the surface, both hands settling on your hips.
His towel is gone – somewhere without your notice – leaving him entirely bare against you. Your eyes remain on his face, pushing back his hair as one of his hands slides down, steady and sure, guiding himself to you.
The first press is careful. His thumb strokes your hip as he sinks into you, inch by inch, giving you time and anchoring himself in the soft give of your body and the trust in your (still blissed out) eyes.
You gasp – pure breath – as he fills you completely. Your hands move to tighten lightly on his arms, every inch felt more acutely than ever after the high he just gave you. It borders on overwhelming. But it’s perfect. It’s him.
He pauses when he’s fully seated inside you, and it’s all he can do to breath.
‘God—’ he exhales, voice rough, almost startled by how good it feels. You can feel his body trembling slightly with the effort of restraint. ‘Alright?’
‘Uh-huh. Please—you can move.’
His eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, and you catch what is a whispered swear leaving his lips. He begins to move then, slow and deep, his breath stuttering in rhythm with each roll of his hips.
He tries to talk, to say how it feels, but can’t to find the words that do it justice.
Every thrust is deliberate. Unhurried. Not frantic. Just full feeling and the quietly overwhelming Spencer Reid kind of intensity. Like he’s feeling everything all at once and is trying to give it all back to you in return.
Your name falls from his lips like it’s sacred. You answer with a breathless moan, wrapping yourself tighter around him, and the look he gives you then – half undone, wholly in love – makes your heart pound.
The rhythm builds, each thrust a little deeper, a little more desperate in the way it seeks closeness, rather than friction. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours, his eyes never straying far from your face – even when they threaten to roll back from the way you clench around him.
Every sound he makes – soft, stuttered gasps and half-formed praises – settles deep inside you.
The heat swells again in your core, overwhelming and steady, coaxed further by every deep press of his hips and the whispered “you feel so good”s that fall from his mouth like he can’t stop them.
You try to tell him that you’re close. All that comes out is a quiet, high-pitched whimper, and he knows. He feels it too.
He shifts his hand between your bodies, fingers slipping deftly to where you need them most, drawing slow, perfect circles that push you right to the edge.
‘’S okay,’ he whispers, so gentle. ‘I’ve got you.’
And then you’re unravelling, clinging to him like he might float away. Your release rushes through you again, more full-bodied this time, thighs tightening around his hips as the wave rolls through, leaving you gasping.
The way you pulse around him pushes Spencer right over the edge. His rhythm falters, and a low, broken sound tears from his throat as he spills into you, his whole body tightening with the force of it. He buries his face against your neck, breath hitching with each soft aftershock, holding you like he never wants to let go.
Eventually he does move, oncee your breaths have synced into something more steady, slowly easing out of you with reluctance.
You shiver at the absence, at the lingering sensitivity.
Without a word, he leans down and retrieves the towel, unfolding the fabric in his hands. He steps in close, wrapping it around both of you in a shared bundle, tucking you to his chest as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
He pats gently at the sheen of sweat on your shoulder, down your arm, over the dip of your back. Tender, almost methodical. His fingertips are warm, but his touch is cooler than your skin, making you twitch and sigh in little, overstimulated flutters.
For a moment, you both simply exist in the steamy bathroom – relishing in the lingering heat, the feeling of his body against yours.
Then, he lifts a hand and points to the streak of water trailing down one of the tiles just beside the mirror. ‘That one,’ he says softly, tapping just beside it, the action a little languid. ‘That’s mine.’
You blink, then laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. ‘Oh, we’re doing this again?’
‘I take droplet racing very seriously now,’ he says, feigning gravity.
You tilt your head, peering at the tile beside his. Another droplet forms near the top and begins a slow descent down the fogged porcelain. You point to it. ‘Mine.’
You both go quiet for a moment, watching them drip side by side – slow and unbothered, weaving slightly as they trail down the tile wall.
Spencer shifts closer, nudging his nose against your cheek. ‘No guiding, no cheatig,’ he whispers.
Your laugh is a soft puff of air against his skin. You rest your head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed as you watch the droplets chase each other down the smooth, misted wall.
Yours gets caught on a ridge of grout. His slides ahead.
‘Unbelievable,’ you murmur. ‘Yours has an unfair advantage.’
Spencer, looking at you like he can’t believe he gets to have this at all, murmurs one last thing as his lips find the edge of your smile:
ᯓ★ LIKE NO TIME PASSED ──☆ spencer reid x college bsf!reader
[Part 2] | [Cipher masterlist]
A challenging case reunites Spencer with an old college “friend,” resulting in relentless teasing from the team.
ᯓ★ Based on this request here
cw: spencer reid x fem!reader. fluff (idk, it doesn't really have a genre). lots of teasing!!! silly oblivious people
a/n: i love silly stupid people!!!!! i love derek morgan!!!!!!! if you want to submit a request of your own, you can use this link here :)
w/c: 3k
During his second year of college, someone once asked Spencer if you were just a friend.
He said yes.
That wasn’t entirely true.
Because from the moment he met you – surrounded by the dusty, neglected shelves of the east wing library in the early hours of the morning – something had shifted. Something internal. Subtle, but seismic. You were there in an oversized hoodie, notes spread into carefully chaotic piles. And Spencer, who lived more in his head than in the world, had found himself suddenly grounded in the present.
There was something about you.
Something quiet, but not small. You offered gentleness and attention. You listened to him like listening was an artform. Like every tangled thought he offered was something beautiful. You nodded at the right moments, smiled at his obscure facts, laughed like you meant it – like he was funny. Like he mattered.
Maybe it was the way you never interrupted him. Or the way you’d pause your own train of thought just to make space for his.
Maybe it was even simpler than that: maybe it was the way life felt a little less difficult when you smiled at him.
You were friends.
Study partners. Midnight coffee co-dependents. Occupants of the same, forgotten library alcove. And in that quiet space, something grew.
It was never declared. Never defined. But there were moments – fleeting and silent – when it felt like you both knew.
He felt it. Physically. In his chest and his lungs, in the way his hands would tremble slightly when you brushed past to reach for a book.
He felt it when you brought him coffee without asking, just how he liked it.
He felt it when you saved him a seat during finals week, surrounded by books that created a fortress just for the two of you.
He felt it in the way you looked at each other: a split-second pause, an almost-confession hovering on your lips before it faded into something safer. Something certain.
He came up with excuses for never saying the words. Timing. Fear. Realness – because real things have edges, and real things can break.
And then life, as it tend to do, moved forward.
He graduated early, caught up in accelerated programs and ambition. You chased opportunities – internships and research grants, followed by a fellowship that took you across the ocean.
There was no dramatic farewell. No final moment when the truth spilled out. Just a slow, quiet drifting. The inevitable fading of something unnamed.
You still talked. Occasionally.
He knew when you moved: first to Nice, then Berlin, then Prague. You knew when he joined the FBI, even sent him a card when he earned his badge.
There were letters and long-distance calls filled with laughter and static.
And then the calls grew less frequent, the letters reduced to birthdays and Christmases. And then nothing. Only the nights when he thought of you, the still moments when he wondered what could’ve been if something had been said.
Until even those thoughts ceased too.
And then life, as it does, brought you back. Years and years later.
Not through a phone call or a letter or a carefully planned reunion, but through a case.
The BAU had a problem One that even Spencer Reid, with all his degrees and carefully curated brilliance, couldn’t solve.
A string of engrupted messages. Dozens of them. Each more convoluted than the last. There were codes layered in linguistic inconsistencies and cultural references, scattered across multiple languages and dialects. The meaning lay just out of reach.
Hotch made the call for outside help – someone wth a background in linguistic analysis and decoding systems used by foreign operatives. Spencer didn’t ask who. He was tired, too deep in the data, too frustrated with himself for not seeing the answers already. He expected someone from Rockport. Or maybe an overly confident private contractor with too much ego.
What he did not expect was you.
You were stood in the lobby of the precinct, visitor badge clipped to the lapel of your coat and a manila folder tucked neatly beneath your arm. The wind had caught your hair on the way in, causing it to fall just like it used to after sprinting through the rain from the library to your dorm.
Spencer was frozen in his seat.
His breath caught, all thoughts in his mind ceasing. He blinked, twice, as if expecting you to suddenly vanish. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hands remained rigid over the files like the case had fallen out of focus and you had taken centre stage instead.
Then you turned. And your eyes found his.
There was a moment of confusion. Then recognition. And you smiled. Slow and familiar, time slotting back into place.
You made the first move – just as you had all those years ago in the library – crossing the precinct and coming to a halt in front of him.
‘Hi,’ you said, breathless from the wind, and most likely the shock of seeing him there.
Spencer stood so quickly he nearly knocked his chair into the wall behind him. His mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out at first. Just a wide-eyed, stunned silence.
‘Hi,’ he finally managed.
And then, without hesitation, he hugged you.
Spencer Reid hugged you.
Not politely. Not professionally. Not the kind of hug that said it’s nice to see you again.
No, this was something else entirely – a full-body, arms-wrapped-tight, press-your-face-into-his-shoulder, stay-there-for-a-second-too-long kind of hug. He took a deep breath, one hand gently curling into the fabric of your coat like he didn’t want to let you go.
Across the room, Derek Morgan visibly choked on his coffee. The loud splutter was enough to make JJ flinch.
‘What the hell—’ Derek wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, eyes wide as he stared.
JJ turned slowly, eyebrows high, amusement playing on her features. ‘Are his eyes closed?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Morgan nodded, looking mildly scandalized.
Emily rounded the corner with a file in her hand, only to be roped into the impromptu watch party when Morgan grabbed her arm. She looked between her fellow agents, before her eyes fell on Spencer.
‘What are we watching?’ she whispered, glancing between him and the mystery woman he was still hugging.
‘Reid. Hugging someone. Voluntarily,’ JJ said.
‘He’s gone, I tell you,’ Derek said, gesturing toward the two of you with the hand still holding his coffee. ‘Gone.’
Spencer finally – finally – pulled away. Reluctantly, and just barely. His hands hovered at your arms like he wasn’t quite ready to let you. He scanned your face like he was memorizing it again, like he still wasn’t quite sure you were real.
‘You—how are you—? I didn’t know you were coming,’ he said, releasing a stunned laugh. ‘I had no idea it was you they brought in to consult.’
You pulled back a step, tipping your head as if to get a better look at him.
‘I didn’t know this was your team either. I didn’t know you were based here.’
‘I—I mean, technically I’m not. The team travels. Quantico is home base, but we get dispatched on—uh— a case-by-case basis. This came in the day before yesterday, and we—well, we flew in yesterday, but I didn’t—’
‘Still talk too fast when you’re flustered, huh?’ you teased, voice warm.
‘I’m not flustered,’ he replied automatically.
‘Sure you’re not.’
Behind him, Morgan looked about five seconds from combusting.
And that only seemed to worsen when, without even thinking, you reached forward and straightened Spencer’s tie – crooked from the sudden hug. You didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. It was instinct.
Derek just about lost it, covering his mouth with one hand and pointing his coffee at the two of you with the other in stunned silence. This was the man who recoiled at high-fives and fist-bumps. And now he was letting you adjust his tie like it was an everyday occurrence. He then proceeded to gently smack JJ’s arm like are you seeing this.
Spencer’s smile softened further.
‘How have you been?’ he asked. ‘You were in Berlin for a while, right? Then Prague?’
‘Yeah. Then Budapest for a bit. And now Texas, apparently.’
He let out a short laugh.
‘You look exactly the same.’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘I mean—not exactly. You look… good. Great, actually. Not that you didn’t look good before—’
‘You look good too, Spencer. Really good.’
The years seemed to fold in on themselves. The air between you was suddenly thick with something that had never quite faded. Library corners, late-night coffees, unsaid words – they were all right there, shared in a single breath between you.
It looked like you might say something more when Hotch stepped into the room, calling your name and cutting through the peace.
‘Can I see you for a moment?’
You lifted the file in your hand and smiled sheepishly at Spencer. ‘Duty calls.’
‘Right. Yeah. I’ll be here…’ he said, nodding quickly.
He watched as you turned and disappeared don the hallway, your figure swallowed up by the curve of the corridor.
The second you were out of sight, Morgan spun around with wide eyes.
‘Okay,’ he said, practically vibrating as he stepped into Spencer’s path. ‘What was that?’
Spencer looked slightly dazed. Blinked once. ‘What was what?’
‘That whole reunion scene that looked like it was ripped straight from a Hallmark movie.’
‘We were just saying hello,’ Spencer frowned.
Morgan’s mouth dropped open. He looked around at the others as if to confirm he wasn’t the only one who’d witnessed the scene.
‘Reid, you hugged her.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ Morgan echoed, incredulous. ‘You don’t hug people.’
‘I hug people,’ Spencer said, looking mildly offended at the accusation, crossing his arms.
‘You absolutely do not.’
‘I’ve hugged people before.’
‘Name one,’ Derek challenged, crossing his arms right back.
Spencer opened his mouth. Hesitated. Thought for a beat.
‘…I’m sure I’ve hugged JJ at some point,’ he said, glancing toward her with hopeful eyes.
‘You actively recoiled when I hugged you at my baby shower,’ she said, stifling a small laugh.
Spencer opened his mouth again. Nothing.
Morgan continued to grin, relentless. ‘Since when have you had a girlfriend, man?’
‘Girlfriend?’ Spencer said, physically reeling back. His voice had raised at least two octaves. ‘She’s not—what? No! We went to college together. We were friends.’
‘Just friends?’ Emily asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously as she leaned in. ‘Because you let her fix your tie. That’s a big thing for you.’
‘That doesn’t make it romantic,’ Spencer insisted. ‘It’s just… a familiarity thing. We knew each other really well back then.’
‘You know us really well,’ Morgan pointed out, still gesturing wildly like he was presenting evidence to a jury. JJ and Emily seemed convinced, at least. ‘And you would rather look at a double homicide than let one of us touch your neck. She walks in and starts adjusting your clothes like its nothing.’
That had Spencer looking mildly horrified. His eyes darted between JJ and Emily, desperate for a lifeline.
‘We’re just friends! From college!’
‘And you were grinning like an idiot,’ JJ added beneath her breath. Not helpful.
‘I was not.’
‘You were,’ Derek and Emily said in unison.
‘And so was she,’ JJ added. More helpful. ‘You were both looking at each other like…’
‘Like a couple of college sweethearts,’ Emily supplied.
‘I was gonna say “like a Nicholas Sparks montage,” but sure, lets go with Emily’s thing,’ Morgan said, nodding.
Spencer opened his mouth to argue again – flustered, red-faced, completely overwhelmed – but the sound died in his throat as you reappeared. His posture straightened instantly.
Morgan coughed pointedly and stepped back with a knowing grin.
File in hand and eyes bright with focus, you made a direct beeline toward Spencer. It was like he held his own gravitational pull.
‘Agent Hotchner briefed me on the case details so far,’ you said, glancing up to offer him a quick smile. ‘He said you’d be able to walk me through what’s already been decoded?’
Spencer nodded a little too enthusiastically, smile wide and boyish. (Far too wide, if Morgan’s exaggerated hand gestures in the background were anything to go by.)
‘Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. I—uh—I’ll get th notes,’ he said, turning in a quick, almost tripping circle to locate the correct files.
It was only then that you turned to the rest of the team, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes warm.
‘Sorry—hi—I should’ve introduced myself,’ you said, accompanied with an apologetic laugh. You supplied them with your name before continuing, ‘I’m the linguistics consultant. It’s really nice to meet you all.’
JJ smiled back instantly. ‘You too.’
Morgan grinned innocently, nodding in agreement. ‘Yeah. Real nice to finally meet Spencer’s girlfriend.’
You blinked, caught off guard. ‘I’m sorry—what?’
Morgan kept his smile angelic.
‘You know,’ he said. ‘Girlfriend. Partner. Sweetheart. That whole thing.’
Spencer looked like he wanted to die and crawl into a hole.
You laughed awkwardly, eyes darting to Spencer, then back to Morgan. ‘Oh, no. We’re just friends.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Emily murmured.
JJ tilted her head, speaking to Emily behind her hand, ‘Just friends who stare at each other like they hung the moon…’
Before either of you could mount a defense, the door swung open. Rossi strolled in, brows furrowed as he scanned the room.
‘Did we pick up a consultant?’ he asked casually, eyes landing on you.
Morgan didn’t miss a beat, still not letting up. ‘Yeah. Spencer’s girlfriend.’
Simultaneously, you and Spencer blurted: ‘No!’
Rossi stopped in his tracks, taking in the scene: Spencer’s tie was slightly askew, his ears were crimson, your file folder was tilted in your arms, and you were standing too close for it to mean nothing.
‘You sure?’
Spencer turned and looked at you helplessly.
‘I swear, this is not what working here is usually like,’ he insisted.
‘No, the soap-opera commentary doesn’t exactly scream FBI professionalism,’ you teased. The gentle laugh behind your words caused a warmth to spread through his chest.
‘Come on,’ he said, leading you toward the small conference room at the end of the hall. ‘I’ll walk you through the code so far. Fair warning – it’s mess.’
‘That’s fine,’ you said, smiling. ‘You know I enjoy puzzles.’
The two of you fell into a quick and easy rhythm.
Whiteboards filled with scribbled notes. Coffee cups stacked beside discarded wrappers. The low hum of some piano music coming faintly from your laptop. You debated theories, challenged the syntax logic, bounced ideas off one another like you used to in late-night study sessions.
At some point, he forgot to feel self-conscious. You were just… there. Like no time had passed.
And then, as naturally as you'd appeared, you’d stood to go check in with Hotch with what you had so far. The room felt colder when you left.
Spencer found himself glancing at the door.
More than once.
Which is exactly what Morgan noticed when he casually strolled into the room minutes later, sipping from a fresh cup of coffee, holding another one out wordlessly.
Spencer accepted it with a way glance.
‘I wanted to say sorry,’ Derek added, his voice more subdued than earlier. ‘For the teasing. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.’
Spencer took a long sip. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yeah, okay – maybe it was too much. We just don’t see you like that very often. And… I guess it kind of surprised us.’
‘Like what?’
‘Smiling like an idiot,’ Morgan said, sitting down in the chair beside him. ‘Staring longingly at the door, waiting for her to come back... Look – I’ll put the teasing aside for a minute: you want talk about it?’
Spencer paused. Took another sip. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. She’s just a friend. And she has interesting insights.’
‘She could tell you the sky was purple and you’d write a thesis defending it.’
‘That sounds like teasing,’ Spencer pointed out, before continuing, ‘and I wouldn’t defend her on that. But it doesn’t take away from the fact she’s incredibly intelligent and her work on linguistic systems is genuinely—’
Morgan held up a hand. ‘Stop. Before you start spiralling. Let me ask you something simple: do you like her?’ he asked, leaning in slightly.
‘I’ve always liked her,’ Spencer responded. ‘She’s my friend.’
‘No. Do you like like her?’
‘What are we, twelve?’ Spencer asked, brows furrowing.
‘Just answer the question.’
Spencer hesitated and shifted awkwardly.
‘We were close in college,’ he began. ‘I don’t—nothing ever happened. And then we both went separate ways. Lost touch.’
‘Reid,’ Morgan said, gently now. ‘You’re avoiding the question.’
Spencer inhaled through his nose. Exhaled sharply. His fingers tapped against the lid of his coffee.
‘I just… I don’t know.’
Morgan nodded slowly. ‘Okay, tell me this, then: when you saw her today, how did it feel?’
That question didn’t require much thought.
‘Good. Like old times. Like everything was back in place.’
‘Exactly,’ Morgan grinned.
There was a very long pause. Spencer blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth parted slightly and a dawning look of horror crept across his face.
‘There it is,’ Morgan continued. ‘You like like her.’
‘No—I mean—I don’t—do I?’
Morgan just sat back, letting the truth settle in.
‘Oh no,’ Spencer mumbled, rubbing a hand across his face.
Morgan, smugger than he’d ever been before, nodded vehemently, ‘Oh yes.’
Spencer dropped his head back, letting out a sigh and staring up at the ceiling like it might provide him with the answers.
‘Was it really that obvious?’ he asked.
‘Yeah… I mean, the way you hugged her – you practically melted into her.’
‘In front of everyone,’ Spencer mumbled. ‘That's so humiliating.’
‘Spencer, it’s not humiliating. Look, I teased you, sure – but it’s completely human.’
There was a brief silence as Spencer fiddled with his coffee lid again, mind clearly racing. Morgan gave it a beat, then leaned forward.
‘Here’s the part you’re not going to overthink—’
‘There’s a part I’m not going to overthink?’ Spencer questioned warily.
‘—you’re going to ask her out.’
‘What?’
‘Come on. You’re a genius, Pretty Boy. You can figure out how to ask her on a date... She’d say yes, by the way.’
‘You think so?’ Spencer said quietly.
‘I know so,’ Morgan responded, clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Go get your girl.’
In which Spencer takes care of you when you have a migraine
cw: spencer reid x gn!reader (i think). pure comfort!!
a/n: I have NO clue what is in the air but my god have I been plagued with migraines recently. So this is fully self-indulgent because I’d like spencer reid to care for me when I have migraines I feel like that would be really healing actually
also!! i am working on requests they are on their way don't you worry!! if you have any requests, feel free to ask for them here (or just ask anything, i love to yap <3)
w/c: 0.6k
The migraine hits like a wave halfway through the afternoon. Slow, at first, then crashing in all at once. It starts at your temples, dull and throbbing, and by the time you’re on the metro heading home, every sound and every jolt of movement feels like someone chiseling into your skull.
You don’t text Spencer. You can’t. The light from your phone hurts too much to look at, waves of pain pulsating behind your eyes. You just need to make it to your apartment. To darkness and silence. To him, if he’s there.
The key clinks too loudly in the lock, trembling hands making it difficult to get the front door open. You wince at the sound.
He’s there, thank God. You can feel his presence in the air, his scent lingering in the space.
His head pokes around the kitchen corner, hair tousled and cardigan sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His face softens almost immediately at the sight of you.
‘Hey—what’s wrong?’
‘Migraine,’ you say quietly, toeing off your shoes with as little movement as possible. Your voice is barely there, your neck feeling stiff with tension. ‘Bad one.’
He’s already moving, crossing the space in a few long strides. ‘Okay. Come here.’
He takes your bag and gently sets it aside, sliding an arm around your waist. His touch his light, but steady, each step careful as he tries not to jostle you. You lean into his side with a self-pitying whimper.
‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs. ‘The bedroom’ll be nice and quiet.’
He guides you through the apartment, wordlessly flicking off each light as you pass the switches. In the bedroom, he draws the curtains, submerging everything in a cool, gray hue.
Meanwhile, you collapse onto the bed, curling on your side as the room seems to spin on every axis. He kneels beside you almost instantly, brushing hair from your face with gentle fingers.
‘I’m going to grab a cold cloth for you, alright? Just give me a second.’
You would nod, if it didn’t make the migraine worse.
He returns minutes later, pressing the damp cloth against your forehead before adjusting the covers beneath you with his other hand. Maybe it’s the heightened senses, but you can feel his touch lingering. It’s warm and calming against your skin.
‘How’s that?’ he asks, running a hand through your hair again as he holds the cloth to your forehead. ‘Is that okay?’
His question earns a slightly less self-pitying whimper, and a single nod.
‘I hate that you’re in pain,’ he whispers, more to himself than to you.
Then the cloth is removed from your forehead and the bed dips as he slips in beside you. One of his hands finds yours on top of the sheets, holding it lightly. You squeeze it once in silent thanks.
‘There’s a research study,’ he says softly, keeping his voice at a low murmur, ‘that shows that holding someone’s hand during a migraine can actually help reduce pain. The gesture can have analgesic effects, because it increases the connectivity in the somatosensory cortex – which is where pain perception is regulated.’
He pauses, and you feel a faint kiss being pressed into the crown of your head – the only place your migraine doesn’t touch.
‘Mm. Love science,’ you say quietly.
There’s a soft puff of warm air against your hair as he speaks. ‘Me too. Not that I’m only doing this because of science.’
You manage a small smile, despite the ache behind your eyes.
He stays silent after that, his thumb simply tracing slow, soothing circles on the back of your hand. He’s even quietened his breathing, somehow, each inhale and exhale carefully planned. You want to tell him how much that means – how much he means – but all you can do is squeeze his hand.
He doesn’t leave your side. He stays right there, one hand in yours and the other running soothingly through your hair.
You drift in and out of sleep, pain fading to a dull pressure, the edge of the migraine blunting a little.
‘Spence?’ you say quietly, somewhere between the fourth and seventh wake-up.
‘Hmm?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Always.'
(a/n: any sudden disappearances for a few days can normally be attributed to my migraines. i am still here, i promise!!)
when a late-night case load threatens to derail your plans, Spencer steps in with a "strictly practical" offer
cw: sunshine!fem!reader x post-prison spencer. reader talks about wearing makeup. not much else to say, just though this was a fun dynamic.
a/n: when I was writing this, I had sort of an age-gap in mind, but that doesn’t really translate. So maybe I’ll give these babies another lil story at some point and develop on that. this was just a fun, small story while I work on something bigger and get through some requests !!!
w/c: 2k
Friday nights at the BAU were always a gamble.
Sometimes the team made it out before nightfall. Sometimes not at all. Tonight fell somewhere in the middle: a limbo of sorts, where the bullpen was half-empty and the overhead fluorescent lights hummed like they were ready to call it quits too. The hallway murmured with agents’ quiet goodbyes, blinds rattling softly as they were drawn shut one by one.
It had been a long week. Grueling. Not just in hours, but in weight. It was heavy; the sort of case that lodged itself deep inside and refused to be shaken loose. The aftershocks still lingered in the air – metaphorically, emotionally, and painfully literal in the form of a mountain of paperwork.
You were still at your desk. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, jacket thrown over the back of your chair. You’d wanted to look like the picture of dedication; an agent hammering through work with unwavering professionalism.
The truth? The thought of spending another few hours alone with this pile of files was enough to make you consider crying into your keyboard. Seriously. Your soul was actually aching.
It was a losing battle, and you were painfully aware of it. But hope had always been your favorite bad habit.
You stared at the stack with a sigh that originated from deep in your chest. There was no way you’d finish this and still make it to your dinner plans. And you’d really been looking forward to this one. A date – something finally outside the BAU. Easy. Normal. Just dinner. You’d picked out your outfit four days ago, perfume already set out and waiting. You’d even memorized the menu like it was part of your prep for a case.
But you weren’t one to leave work unfinished.
Especially not now. Not with the team running on fumes. There had been a quiet tension all week. Too-tight smiles. Long, exhausted looks. Even your usual optimism – "relentless," as Garcia once called it (which was saying something, coming from her) – could only stretch so far before starting to feel tone-deaf. You didn’t want to be the agent who slacked behind when everyone was struggling.
So, with a barely concealed disappointed sigh, you pulled out your phone and started typing. Another cancellation. Another “rain check?” Not the first, and definitely not the last. You hated how practiced you’d gotten at writing them. Someday, someone would look over your romantic history as a trail of sweet apologies and slowly vanishing matches. You’d lost count of the number of times you’d let potential soulmates slip away because federal work took precedence.
‘Big night?’
The familiar voice came from behind, breaking the silence.
You turned, finding Luke Alvez leaning against his desk, arms crossed. The tilt of his head suggested he already knew the answer.
‘Was supposed to be,’ you said with a wry grin. ‘Dinner plans. With an actual human. Real food, no blood spatter analysis. I was even going to wear lipstick.’
‘Must be a special guy if you’re willing to step out of the realm of FBI professionalism,’ he teased, light, but slightly strained with exhaustion.
‘I was feeling bold,’ you said with a playful shrug. ‘But alas, my hot date with bureaucratic despair wins again.’
‘Wait—this wasn’t the date with moustache guy, right?’ (You’d only offered a vague description. Garcia had given him the nickname). ‘The one who was going to take you to the Italian where they handmake the pasta in front of you?’
‘Don’t remind me,’ you said with a small groan. ‘He was literally taking me to carbohydrate heaven. I was emotionally invested.’
‘You might still make it,’ he offered, half-hopeful. He already knew the chances were unlikely. ‘Leave a few papers for tomorrow. No one will chase you down over it.’
A hesitation on your end. A tiny flicker of temptation in your chest.
But then you shook your head. ‘If I leave this many, I’ll end up rushing to get it done tomorrow. And if I rush, I’ll miss something. And then Emily will hit me with that look.’
Luke winced in sympathy. ‘The lip-press. Brutal.’
‘Exactly. So, tragically, ravioli and wine will have to wait. Paperwork is calling.’
Luke gave you a mock salute. ‘You’re stronger than me,’ he said, and you smiled more genuinely this time. ‘If I was you, I’d already be halfway to the wine and pasta.’
‘I’ll live vicariously through your freedom, then,’ you responded brightly, despite the fact your heart was sinking just a little.
As he turned to leave, you settled back into your chair, noticing the subtle hint of movement from a few desks down.
Spencer Reid.
He’d always been… bristly, for lack of a better word. Distant. Curt. Formal to a fault. It wasn’t like you’d expected warm hugs, but you hadn’t anticipated an emotional barbed wire to surround him.
He looked up from behind the shield of a computer screen, eyes flicking towards you. Just for a moment, not enough to count. Barely even a tilt of his head. He didn’t speak, but that was to be expected. He never spoke with you.
There was a strange stillness. Quiet and calculating. The pause was too long to be accidental. Like he was deciding something.
He looked away as you pushed from your desk to grab a cup of coffee – a humble ally to your late-night paperwork, something to hopefully bribe your willpower into working and getting things done.
Three minutes in the kitchenette. Water boiled. Mug filled. And then you were returning to your desk.
Except it wasn’t empty.
He was at your desk.
Spencer was at your desk.
And thumbing through your files, no less.
Your first thought was that in the two minutes it had taken for the water to boil, reality had somehow shifted and you were now in an alternate dimension. Or maybe he’d been body-snatched.
Either way, you froze mid-step. A moment of total suspension, where you blinked hard and tried to reset the scene.
But no, he remained. Dividing your files into two neat piles with a furrowed brow. Categorizing with some unknown, internal metric. Scruitinizing.
You’d never moved across the bullpen so fast, all but sprinting, skidding to a halt beside your desk and setting the thoroughly-sloshed coffee down.
‘Whoa, whoa—Reid. What are you doing?’ Breathless. Inconclusive if it was from the sprint across the room, or the panic of seeing him look through your work.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up.
‘Dividing them,’ he responded curtly.
‘Yeah, I can see that. Why?’
‘You told Luke you wouldn’t be able to finish them all.’
‘Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you’re here.’
‘I’m taking some.’
‘Huh?’ You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Definitely body-snatched. ‘You’re doing what now?’
‘Half,’ he said plainly, pulling the heavier stack of paperwork towards himself.
‘Okay, what?’ You laughed. Incredulous. Bewildered. Your eyes widened a little in confusion. ‘Are you sick or something? Should I be checking for a fever?’
He gave you a deadpan look, and you raised your hands in defense.
‘Kidding,’ you said. A beat of silence. ‘You’re seriously taking half?’
‘I can finish it tonight,’ he responded with a nod.
You let out another disbelieving laugh. ‘You do remember you have your own paperwork, right? You can’t take it all on. Surely you know some statistics about burnout, or something.’
‘I've accounted for them.’
Another pause, eyes still wide and confused. You attempted a different tactic. ‘You don’t have to rescue me.’
‘I’m not.’
More silence. You stared at him, trying to understand what was happening, what had shifted. This was the same man who barely spoke to you unless it was case-related. Who responded to your warmth with indifference.
And now he was… helping?
You gawked at him. ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t be checking you for a fever?’
The look he gave you this time was withering.
‘Because this is very un-Dr. Reid of you,’ you continued. ‘Like… I would not be surprised if you had been replaced by an android while I was making coffee.’
Nothing. Not a smirk. Not a twitch.
Tone-deaf joke, or just an emotionally closed off Reid? Maybe a mix of both.
You sighed. ‘I didn’t ask you to do this.’
‘I never said that you did.’
‘And you’re sure this isn’t going to make you burn out or implode or whatever?’
‘I won’t implode.’
You stared at him. Hard. ‘And you’re sure you’re not an android?’
He ignored that. As was to be expected.
Spencer turned to walk back to his desk, but something about the exchange was nagging at you. The abruptness of it, perhaps? Your mouth opened, then closed again, reminiscent of a fish. He was halfway to is desk when you called, following behind, ‘Reid, wait—’
He paused. Barely. Turned halfway with a clenched jaw.
‘—why are you really doing this?’
He ran his tongue across his top teeth, jaw ticking slightly as he glanced down at your files, then back to you and your now crossed arms.
‘You were visibly upset,’ he said finally, tone clipped. ‘That affects accuracy. A 2.8 second emotional distraction can double the likelihood of error. This is a practical solution to your… date crisis.’
The way he said those words was indecipherable. Annoying, because you were meant to be a profiler who could read micro-expressions, but he was giving nothing away. As usual.
You studied him. ‘So… damage control? Over paperwork I haven’t even started yet?’
‘Exactly.’
You raised a brow next. ‘Not because you wanted me to have a nice night?’
‘I don’t care if you have a nice evening or not,’ he responded, mechanical and flat. ‘I care about correctly filled in paperwork.’
You placed a hand over your heart, clutching it in mock betrayal. ‘Ouch. That’s seriously cold. Ruthless, even. I’m sort of devastated.’
He simply turned and walked away.
You watched him sit, pull your files closer, an start working in the meticulous way that was so Spencer Reid. Like this wasn’t strange at all. He was doing something nice. Not kind, or warm, but helpful. In a repressed and reluctant sort of way.
There was something mildly captivating about watching him work, too. He’d get into the zone with unwavering, clinical concentration that you were a little envious of. Only a little, though.
You slipped your jacket over your arms, firing a quick text to ‘Mustache’ that let him know you were actually okay for the date. He responded quickly, plans back on and in place. A much needed reprieve from the monotony of paperwork and the chaos of murderers.
You were set to go, until a thought struck. You glanced at the undrunk coffee on your desk. Still hot. Still steaming. You picked it up and walked over to him, setting it down on his desk which earned an almost horrified look.
‘I’m not going to drink it,’ you explained. ‘You can have it, if you want.’
‘I’m not touching your mug,’ he said, visibly uncomfortable. You saw his fingers twitching in distaste at the thought.
‘Germs?’ you guessed, familiar with his somewhat eclectic ways. ‘Fair enough. I can pour it into your own mug?’
‘Please—don’t.’
You smiled sheepishly. ‘I just feel like I owe you.’
‘You don’t. I’m not doing it as a favor, and I’m not doing it for you. It’s a practical solution, like I said before.’
‘Still, thanks,’ you said, softening your voice. That had him pausing mid-sentence for half a second, before he returned to writing. ‘Even if you’re not doing it for me.’
He said nothing, and you took that as the end of the conversation. Turned and walked to the elevator. In your hand, your phone was buzzing with “Mustache’s” messages; what time he’d be coming to pick you up and how he was really excited you were doing this.
You hummed thoughtfully. Spared a final glance through the glass doors into the bullpen where Spencer was seated at your desk. Knee-deep in your files, illuminated by a slightly yellow-hued lamp on his desk.
He didn’t look up. But you smiled at him anyway.
taglist: @curatedbylucy @cynbx @internallysalad @jeuj @redorquid @thoughtwriter @whitenoisewhatanawfulsound @written-in-the-stars06
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Your only plan for sports day is to stay caffeinated and cheer quietly. Until your kid ropes you into the parents' three-legged race
cw: Aaron Hotchner x Single parent!reader. Pure fluff and fun!!! No use of Y/N :))
a/n: first Hotch fic ahhh!! hopefully i did him justice!!!!!!
wc: 1.1k
My requests are also OPEN, so please feel free to visit my blog for guidlines (I will probably accept anything teehee!!)
You aren’t exactly dressed for a three-legged race.
In fact, when you packed your bag this morning, your only intention was to spectate – find a quiet spot near the shade, sip your coffeefrom a travel mug, and pretend not to feel wildly out of place among the hyper-enthusiastic PTA parents who seem to treat sports day like an Olympic qualifier.
But now, here you are, standing at the edge of a makeshift racetrack on the schools sun-bleached field, clutching a bright orange band in one hand and the remnants of your dignity in the other.
Across from you, a man – tall and serious and very much not dressed for track sports – is awkwardly removing his suit jacket. He folds it over one arm, his shirt a crisp white and rolled up at the cuffs. His tie has been loosened with reluctant precision.
And apparently, he’s your partner.
You glance down at the orange band, then at the child grinning up at you with a juice-stained chin. He seems proud that he’d managed to volunteer you for the three-legged race without your knowledge.
‘Really?’ you murmur, but Eli is already back to cheering. He calls out your name, claps his hands happily together, like you’re going to win something other than last place.
You refuse to disappoint him, though. Not on his first sports day at this school. You step forward, reluctant, just as the man does, your paths converging at the starting line. He holds up a matching orange band in his hand.
‘I think our kids made us teammates,’ you offer with what you hope passes as a friendly smile. There’s definitely hesitance behind it. Apprehension.
He seems to notice the nerves etched onto your face. The corners of his mouth twitch faintly.
‘Looks like it,’ he replies. ‘Aaron Hotchner,’ he adds, offering a handshake.
You tell him your name as you take his hand, noting the firmness of his grip – steady, confident, but not performative. Just… solid. Like everything else about him.
‘Nice to meet you,’ you say. ‘Sort of. You might wildly embarrass me, for all I know.’
A flicker of amusement crosses his face.
‘Or, I’ll probably embarrass you,’ you continue. ‘I trip over laundry baskets for sport.’
He hums something that might be a laugh. ‘Which kid’s yours?’
You gesture towards Eli, who is waving from beneath a crooked baseball cap and bouncing in place like he’s drank three too many Capri Suns. ‘Green hat, there – Elias. But he prefers Eli. Yours?’
‘Jack,’ he says, with a fondness that softens the sharp lies of his face. You glance over and see Jack, standing with his hands on his hips and taking his job as a sideline coach very seriously.
‘Happy for me to tie it?’ Aaron asks, gesturing to the orange bands.
You nod, extending your leg, and he kneels to fasten the fabric around your ankles in what you can only describe as an army-grade knot. He does it so efficiently that you half-suspect he learned it from a training manual. You roll your ankle lightly, testing it.
‘Not too tight?’ he asks, standing again.
You shake your head.
‘Ready?’ he adds.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be to publicly humiliate myself,’ you say, then lower your voice conspirationally. ‘Promise not to judge me if I eat dirt.’
He looks at the grass, then back at you. A hint of a smirk forms on his lips. ‘Only if you don’t judge me when I inevitably sprain something.’
You both step up to the line, ankle to ankle, your arms brushing slightly as you steady yourselves. It's an oddly intimate kind of proximity. Not quite strangers. Not quite comfortable either.
You place a hand on his forearm for balance. Pull it away quickly, like it startled you.
Because it kind of did.
He’s warm. Solid. And there’s a brief pause where you both seem to realize that this is, technically, your first physical contact with someone in longer than you’d care to admit.
You try to ignore the way your heart thumps too loudly for something as innocent as a children’s race.
‘Bound feet first?’ you ask.
He nods.
The PE teacher’s whistle cuts through the air, and suddenly you’re off – or trying to be.
It seems to work at first. A unified step. Then another.
Step, step – lurch.
Your third stride turns into a half-hop, your shoulder knocking hard into his arm. And suddenly you’re both careening sideways in a mess of limbs. He reaches instinctively for your waist, steadying you just long enough to shift his grip to your upper arm instead. His other arm flings out to balance you both, legs braced, anchoring you before you can go down in a heap.
‘Graceful,’ you mutter, cheeks flushed. ‘Sorry.’
‘Terrifyingly uncoordinated,’ he replies. There’s something amused in his voice. Something relaxed.
You’re both laughing by the time you find your footing again. With now-linked arms – because clearly the orange band isn’t enough to keep you from collapsing – you begin moving in an awkward by workable rhythm.
‘One, two. One two,’ Aaron counts under his breath, steady and even. His voice is low, grounding. You match his cadance, letting him lead slightly and to your surpise, it starts to click.
Jack and Eli have found each other and are screaming encouragement from the sidelines. Jack comes in with something like: ‘Use your core!’ which feels absurd coming from a seven year old. Eli takes the more primitive approach and yells ‘FASTER, FASTER!’ over and over.
You laugh until your stomach hurts, and so does Aaron, though his is a more quiet kind of laugh. Soft and surprised, like he forgot what it felt like to do so.
By the time you cross the finish line (second to last) you feel winded, but weirdly victorious. Your kids cheer like you’ve won a medal, and that alone is enough to make you laugh again.
Your arm falls away from Aaron’s as he unties the band from your ankles, just as Ei barrels into you with a breathless, sticky hug.
‘You didn’t come last!’ he celebrates.
‘High praise. Thanks,’ you tease, brushing some hair from your face and adjusting Eli’s cap. You look over at Aaron, who’s crouched to wipe mud from Jack’s cheek with that same softness on his face. It suits him.
‘Not bad for a first team effort,’ you say, smiling as your gazes meet.
He straightens, pushing up a sleeve that had fallen down his arm. ‘We survived,’ he agrees. A pause. Like he’s weighing something. ‘Jack thinks we’ve earned juice boxes for our performance.’
You raise a brow, mock-serious.
‘Well, if the children demand it…’
He smiles. A real one, not just polite. ‘I could get us some. If you’re not in a hurry.’
You glance toward Eli, now sitting beside Jack, already chattering about soccer and plotting their next activity like they’ve been friends forever.
You look back at Aaron, who’s waiting patiently, maybe a little unsure.
pairing: spencer reid x on/off gf!reader [no use of y/n]
genre: hurt/comfort (ig?? like 90% hurt, 10% comfort maybe)
summary: a miscommunication the morning before Rossi’s wedding leads to a night of tension and the first cracks start showing between you and spencer. the aftermath leaves spencer worried about your relationship.
cw: miscommunication. alcohol consumption. very brief kissing between a drunk/sober party (acknowledged to be wrong, sort of). reader talks about her mom and dad. reader wears a dress + makeup (makeup is only lightly referenced).
wc: 6.4k
a/n: part two babyyy you can find some of my thoughts at the end :) the beginning is a little back and forth i’m sorry, but i think it works and i like it!! the fact i managed to cut this down from 8.2k to 6.4k needs to be studied
── one month later | november
You hand the cab driver a crumpled note, then turn toward the house. The front door is propped open, and from the end of the drive you can already hear laughter and conversation. The gravel is loud under your heels as you walk to the door.
Rossi’s place is big but not showy. Ivy climbs the walls, leaves browning at the edges from the season. There are white flowers framing the entry, though you don’t know their name. Spencer would, you think. Light spills out from inside, a stark contrast to the heavy indigo sky behind.
You step onto the porch, then into the front hall. Derek is the first to see you.
‘Hell-llo, Pretty in Blue,’ he says, pulling you into a hug. ‘Look at you. Everyone’s about to forget they’re here for Rossi once you walk in.’
You laugh lightly. It comes out thin. ‘You’re exaggerating.’
‘Not even a little,’ he insists, stepping back to look at your dress again. His eyes flick over your shoulder, to the drive behind you. ‘Where’s your shadow? Thought I’d see you two attached at the hip tonight.’
You don’t get a chance to answer. Penelope comes through the door in a rush, gasping with enthusiasm. She places her hands on your shoulders to keep you in place.
‘Stunning!’ she exclaims, breathless. ‘No, wait—stunning isn’t enough. You look gorgeous. Radiant.’
You don’t feel radiant. You look down at your dress, which you hadn’t selected intentionally, just pulled from the closet when your original plan fell through. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, wondering if it was too much. It’s the same dress you wore to JJ’s wedding, three years ago now. Back then, Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you.
‘Thank you,’ you say to Penelope.
Derek shakes his head and says, ‘I think we’re underselling it, honestly. The whole place is about to stop and stare, just you wait.’
‘You say that to all the girls.’
‘Only the pretty ones,’ Derek tells you with a grin.
Penelope loops her arm through yours before you can protest. She smells of cotton candy, and her hair tickles your cheek because she always leans in too close when talking to people.
‘I’ve picked out the perfect seats for us. We’ll have the best view of Rossi during his vows,’ she tells you, ushering you into the dining room, which has been stripped of its usual shape. The long table has been moved outside to make a bar, and now chairs are lined in neat rows with more white flowers tied at the ends.
Penelope guides you to a row near the front. She goes in first, makes Derek sit next, then you. She points to the final seat and informs you that it’s reserved for Spencer. You look at it and nod, then adjust your dress and sit down.
‘Where is he, anyway?’ Derek asks, gesturing to the empty seat.
‘Running some last-minute errands,’ you say.
He hums. ‘Always trying to help others, isn't he?'
You nod in agreement with Derek’s words.
‘And how are you two doing?’ he continues. ‘Everything's good?’
If you say no, everything's not good, you know it’ll ruin the evening. There would be an instant shift. You can picture the crease deepening in Derek’s brow, a worried glance from Penelope, the inevitable question of why and since when? How chaotic things would become, you think, if you told the truth.
So instead, you say, ‘Yes, everything is perfectly fine,’ and cast your eyes to the front of the room.
The weekend after JJ voiced her opinions on your relationship, you and Spencer sat down to discuss what you wanted to do. It wasn’t a difficult conversation, actually.
JJ wasn’t going to tell anyone, but the fact that it had been said out loud meant the rest of the team were likely minutes away from figuring it out too – if they hadn’t already. You liked that this relationship was entirely yours for now, something private and untouched. You didn’t want the others analyzing it or offering their critiques. So, you decided to keep things as they were.
‘Okay, quiet for now,’ Spencer had said. ‘I don’t mind.’
The words left a sour taste in your mouth.
It’s a familiar pattern, his willingness to yield. He says that a lot – I don’t mind. It annoys you, sometimes, how his responses give the impression that he’s unhappy in some way, but whenever you push he insists that he’s completely content. Spencer always seems to carry this self-restraint everywhere that prevents him from sharing his true thoughts and feelings, and inadvertently makes you feel guilty for suggesting things.
Anyway, the conversation ended up being moot, because the team got confirmation of your relationship the following Wednesday.
You’d excused yourself at Glenn’s bar to take a phone call outside, and Spencer had accompanied you – which was conspicuous enough. The drunken man at the table beside the team's had been kicked out not even three minutes before, and Spencer didn’t want you out there alone. He placed himself strategically between you and the drunk, who was yelling at the curb a little way down the street, and acted as a wall of sorts.
The call lasted less than twenty minutes. When it ended, you’d stepped closer and pressed your face into Spencer’s shoulder. His shirt was cold, but his shape was steady. All long lines and gentle edges, tall in a way that made you feel sheltered. You sighed deeply against him, and followed that up with a tired sound.
‘Your dad?’ Spencer asked, though he already knew. You’d been delaying the call all week.
‘Mhm.’ You lifted your head and rubbed your eyes. ‘He says hi to the team, or something like that.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘The same, I guess. He’s pretty good at talking around the subject.’
‘And you?’ Spencer tilted his head, watching you with unflinching attention. ‘How are you with him?’
You pulled your arms around yourself, like the chill outside had finally caught up to you. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could make it easier for him. Sometimes I’m just angry. Which is stupid – it wasn’t even his fault. Mostly it’s just awkward. Neither of us like talking about her.’
‘It’s… not your job to make it easier, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know. But it feels like I’m the only one who sees him. Like if I don’t—If I stop calling, or I stop checking, he’ll just fold in on himself.’
Spencer thought he understood that feeling.
You let out a breath and watched it fog the air in front of you. ‘Is it really lame if I ask to go home early?’
‘No,’ he said instantly. ‘Not at all… Would you like me to come with you?’
You hesitated, then nodded. ‘Maybe. Yeah. If you don’t mind.’
Spencer nodded too.
Back inside, the bar smelled of spilled beer. Spencer stayed close behind you, his hand hovering near the small of your back as you moved through the crowd. People were elbowing each other on their way to get drinks. You didn’t need to look at each other, but you both understood it then. There was no way of leaving at the same time without sparking attention, so this was it. What you were to each other wasn’t really hidden anymore.
When you reached the table, Spencer spoke casually: ‘I’m going to take her home.’
The words landed without ripple. No one gave any sign of surprise. There was no teasing, no stares. Maybe JJ’s posture straightened, but the bar was crowded, so she could’ve just been moving to the side. There were only brief goodbyes, exchanged in the same rhythm as always. Ordinary.
Spencer helped you put your coat on, and you left together. Outside, he took your hand in his and his fingers were warm against yours. The air was cold enough to sting your cheeks and turn your lips blue, and you stepped closer without thinking. Spencer adjusted to match your pace.
You walked in a silence that was contemplative, not uncomfortable. You were trying to figure out what the team’s restraint meant. Spencer’s gaze remained fixed ahead when you looked at him.
The streetlights were cutting him into pieces – long shadows on the pavement, sharp lines at his collar, his profile caught in silver. And you thought, not for the first time, that he looked both impossibly close and impossibly far away.
You squeezed his hand, testing. He squeezed back, instantly, like a reflex.
Then again, the gestures always came easily. It was the rest – the words, the staying, the keeping – that never did.
Still, you walked back to yours together.
Spencer arrives at Rossi’s around twenty minutes behind you. He comes in through the kitchen and sets a bag on the counter. His hair is windblown, and his scarf is uneven at his neck. He looks rumpled, and unkempt, and vaguely like he hasn't slept in a few days.
He moves into the dining room, through a side door. He scans the rows, steps carefully around bunches of sweet peas, and takes a seat beside JJ. She greets him with a soft smile, and her hand rests briefly on his sleeve. It isn’t anything inappropriate, because Will is sitting on her other side.
Spencer unwinds his scarf slowly, trying not to let the fringe catch on the button of his blazer. He folds it once over itself and lays it across his lap. His fingers keep working at the frayed edge, keep tracing the embroidered pattern. JJ says something about how his tie matches the flowers, and his mouth almost moves into a smile but doesn’t quite get there.
You watch from across the room, then look at the empty chair next to you. Your stomach twists, sharp and sudden. It feels as though someone has done your dress up far too tight. It presses in against your ribs, and you smooth your palms down the fabric, over nothing, willing the feeling in your chest to loosen.
Beside you, Derek tilts his head. He’d been the first to smile the day after everyone got confirmation about you and Spencer. The first to suggest it might be a good thing. Now he glances between Spencer, stiff on the other side of the room, and you, his brow furrowed. His lips twitch like he wants to ask but isn’t sure that it’s the appropriate time.
You catch his look. ‘Everything is fine, I promise,’ you say beneath your breath, which makes everything sound not fine.
‘Then why—’ He gestures toward Spencer.
‘We just had a bit of a morning, that’s all.’
‘A morning?’ He pitches his voice soft so it doesn’t carry. ‘You’re sure? You can tell me.’
‘I’m sure.’
Derek looks between you two again, then leans back into his chair. You can feel his eyes on you, lingering.
You’ve been telling yourself all day that it was nothing, blown out of proportion in your mind. But now the interaction feels lodged under your skin, like a bruise that hadn’t looked so bad this morning and is blooming darker now, spreading in slow color.
You thought you’d be relieved when he finally walked in. Instead, you wish he hadn’t at all.
This “morning,” so to speak, had stared with cold coffee. Spencer was already awake and sat on the couch when you came into the living room, and he was facing the window with a faraway look in his eyes. His socks tapped restlessly against the floor. He didn’t notice you were in the room until your hand was resting on his shoulder.
There was a full mug of coffee in his hands, and when you took it from him the ceramic was cold, so you knew he hadn’t touched it once. You told him you could make a new cup, but he said no.
‘You’re sure?’
He nodded. Then, quietly: ‘Sorry, I’m such a mess.’ He let out a sigh. ‘I’m not sure how long I’m going to last later,’ he added.
‘At the wedding?’
‘Yeah. It’s going to be a lot of people... A lot of talking.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ you said. ‘Rossi throws a great party, and you like all his friends.’
‘They like me,’ he said. You weren’t sure if that was an entirely different thing. It wasn’t clear how that was a problem either.
He looked away then, toward the bookshelf.
Your gaze followed before you could stop it. The book was still there, exactly where it had been for five years. Spine pressed in amongst the others, but still unmistakable. You could pick it out instantly. You’d never attempted to move it, and neither had Spencer, despite all the years that had passed. A photo was tucked inside, you knew, and you’d been the one to place it in there with him.
You felt sick and looked away. Of course that’s where his head would go today. To her.
Spencer kept staring at the bookshelf, jaw tight, eyes moving back and forth. You turned sharply, carrying his mug into the kitchen. If he wanted to drift off into memories, then fine. You wouldn’t sit there and watch. You discarded the cold coffee in the sink and reached for the tin of grounds.
Spencer looked over at you from the couch. He said: ‘I told you I didn’t need a new cup.’
You didn’t turn around. ‘Yours was cold. It’ll take two minutes.’
‘I don’t need you to do that. I don’t need—’ His socks muffled the sound of his approaching footsteps. ‘I can manage making my own drinks. Just leave it.’
Something in the way he said it made your chest twist. It was unnecessarily sharp, and it stung.
You set the mug down with more force than you meant to. A piece of the rim chipped off.
‘Fine,’ you said. ‘I won’t help, then.’
You walked down the hall to his bathroom. The shower would at least drown everything out. You spent longer in there than necessary, letting the steam relax your shoulders.
When you came out, he was dressed already. There was a coat folded over his arm, and his tie wasn’t straight. He stood by the dresser, looking at the mirror like he hadn’t quite finished assembling himself.
‘Where are you going?’ you asked.
‘To run the errands.’
‘I thought we were doing those together.’
‘You still need to get ready,’ he replied. ‘It’ll be quicker if I go alone.’
You pressed your lips together. You could feel your pulse in your throat.
‘Fine.’
‘See you later,’ Spencer said.
He picked up his car keys from the nightstand. For a second, it looked like he might say something else, but then he only nodded. He left the bedroom, and you heard the front door close softly behind him.
You stood there, dripping on the carpet, towel heavy on your body.
The whole apartment was quiet. It suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else, and you decided that you didn’t want to sit around waiting in it.
You dried off, dressed fast, and went back to your own place to get ready instead.
You’re an hour into the reception now, and you’ve drunk enough champagne so that the tips of your fingers feel fuzzy. Spencer is sitting opposite you at a round table in Rossi’s garden. The seating plan was finalized in July, and you weren’t talking then, which is why he hasn’t been placed next to you. There’s a bouquet of flowers sitting on the center of the table, so you can’t see his face unless he leans back, which he doesn’t.
There’s a jazz trio playing something soft by the edge of the dance floor. Your cutlery scrapes awkwardly and loudly over the sound of the bass as you push a piece of cheesecake around your plate. You feel tipsy, and wonder if the others can tell.
Spencer is angled toward Will. He nods along to discussions of Henry’s science fair, and what they’re planning on getting him for Christmas. He hasn’t touched his food or drink in twenty minutes. He keeps finding new objects to focus on – candles, the stem of his glass, people’s faces as they partake in lines of conversation that don't involve you.
He doesn’t know what he would say if you were to try and talk to him. Something ordinary, probably, but he knows it would come out wrong.
You tilt your champagne flute to watch the bubbles rise and break. The fuzz in your fingers has moved to your chest now. You glance at Spencer through blurred flower petals. When he does look, just once, he forces his eyes away immediately. It feels intentional.
The legs of your chair grate against the flagstones as you stand. Spencer continues to look away; he doesn’t flinch or shift at the sound.
The reception bar is nothing more than the dining table draped in white linen and staffed by a bored-looking twenty-one-year-old kid from the catering company. You down the remnants of your champagne and hand him your empty glass, which he fills wordlessly.
You’re aware, as you take the fresh flute of champagne, that you’re being watched. He’s a newer agent that you’ve seen in passing at the Bureau – younger than you, not by much, and confident in an easy way. He’s not your type at all, but he has an okay smile and his eyes are on you, which is more than Spencer has given all evening. Those eyes drag from your face to your exposed collarbone, and then down to the blue of your dress. You feel immediately smug.
‘Well,’ says the agent, ‘this wedding just got interesting.’
The phrase when life gives you lemons comes to mind.
You arch a brow, but don’t offer a smile. ‘That so?’
‘Absolutely. You look… incredible. That dress—’ He looks you over again, slower. He lifts a hand, and you worry that he’s going to reach out and touch the fabric, but he just pushes his hair back instead. ‘It’s criminal, honestly.’
Ha. Criminal. Very clever. You laugh at how unfunny the joke is, but he takes it as encouragement.
Men have approached you like this before. They all used the same rehearsed lines and practiced charm. Sometimes, when you and Spencer are taking a break, you answer because it’s amusing; you enjoy seeing how they navigate small talk. Sometimes you ignore them. Tonight you want to be noticed.
The agent is still talking. He says something nice, but forgettable. You take long sips of your champagne and hope it will blur the edges between right and wrong.
‘You know,’ he’s saying, and the smell of his aftershave is starting to overwhelm you, ‘they should give out awards at these things. “Best dressed,” “best smile.” You’d win both.’
You don’t know how to respond to that, because it’s completely stupid. You settle with: ‘That’s sweet of you.’
The agent is about to volley back with another empty line, but a shadow lengthens across the bar and cuts him off. You know who it is, because suddenly your stomach twists the same way it did when he walked past you at the ceremony without so much as a word.
Spencer stands behind your shoulder, and his jaw looks tighter than it was earlier.
‘Everything alright here?’ he asks.
The agent straightens, surprised. ‘Yeah, fine,’ he says casually. He gestures toward you. ‘We were just talking.’
Spencer is not particularly authoritative, but when he says, ‘Right,’ the agent knows he’s being given no room to continue. Spencer’s hand brushes the rim of your champagne glass before lifting it from your grip and setting it on the bar. ‘No more for you tonight. Come on,’ he says gently. His hand hovers near your shoulder blades, not touching, but still guiding.
‘Hey—’ the agent starts, but Spencer ignores him. He leads you insistently away from the bar, back through the clusters of guests and the scattering of chairs. His pace is quick, and you have to focus all your attention on keeping up with him.
Spencer’s pulse is running almost as fast as yours. He can smell the alcohol on your breath when he turns to look at you. A syrupy saxophone line is playing out of place behind your interaction, and the evening sky looks like it’s bleeding into the corners of the garden. The grass feels uneven beneath your feet, but you feel unsteady for a different reason.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ you say.
Spencer doesn’t respond. His fingers flex at his sides and his brows drawer together as he looks at his feet.
‘Really?’ you prompt. ‘You’re going to drag me away and not even talk to me?’
‘I don’t actually know what I’m supposed to say.’
You think sorry is a good place to start.
‘Then why pull me away from him?’
‘You don’t even like guys like him,’ Spencer murmurs. It doesn’t really answer your question. ‘I bet you would’ve danced with him, if he’d asked.’
‘Maybe,’ you say, although you wouldn't have. ‘It’s not like you would’ve cared.’
Spencer looks at your face. His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just studies you, quiet and intent, until you shift under the weight of it.
‘You’ve had a lot to drink,’ he observes.
You scoff, though the sound is weaker than you intend. The words that come out are bitter. ‘Not like I had anything better to do. I was being ignored all evening, you see.’
Spencer exhales. ‘I wasn’t ignoring you.’
‘Really? Because it felt like you were.’
‘I was—’ he falters, glancing back toward the tables. ‘I was trying not to make things worse.’
‘By pretending I don’t exist?’ Your chest feels tight. You want to relieve the tension there by laughing in his face. ‘A truly great plan, Spence.’
Spencer’s voice stays low. ‘I wasn’t pretending. I was giving you space, like you wanted.’
You don’t remember asking for space. You want to know where he got that impression from.
‘Space,’ you repeat instead. ‘Right. Is that what you call refusing to look at me across the fucking table?’
Spencer flinches at the word. People pass near you on their way to the bar or the dance floor and he moves to shield you from view, hoping no one overhears your conversation.
The air feels heavy. The champagne is sitting warm in your chest. Spencer feels that everyone at the wedding is laughing too loudly.
‘You looked like you didn’t want me near you,’ Spencer says, almost to himself.
‘And you didn’t think to ask?’
His gaze lifts to your face at that. You don’t move, though your fingers curl around the empty air where your glass used to be. He looks like he wants to answer, but Rossi interrupts.
‘You know, the party is over there,’ Rossi gestures to the dance floor. It’s slowly filling with people, the jazz trio launching into something more upbeat, but equally out of place. ‘We were thinking of calling all the couples to the dance floor.’
Spencer straightens immediately. You glance at him, waiting. He looks like he doesn’t know what to say.
You smile lightheartedly and press your palm to your forehead. ‘I don’t think we’re really… I think the champagne has gotten to my head. We’ll be a nightmare on the dance floor.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rossi chuckles. ‘You wouldn’t be the first. There is always inside, if you want some quiet.’
Spencer gives a small nod, polite, like he’s filed the suggestion away. Rossi squeezes his shoulder once, then disappears back toward the crowd.
Inside Rossi’s, it’s quiet in a way that feels jarring. The swell of the music has faded to a dull hum, and somehow, it’s colder here than it was outside. You trail Spencer through the hallway. Neither of you are speaking.
In the hall, Spencer hesitates, but you keep walking. You push open the door to the living room; the furniture looks unused, and it smells of fresh linens and lavender air freshener. Spencer eventually follows, sitting on the sofa, elbows on his knees, threading his fingers together.
You stay standing, leaning against the wall for support.
It feels strange, being here, away from all the noise. Like you’ve stepped out of your own life for a second.
‘I don’t like leaving in the middle of things,’ you say finally. ‘People will notice.’
‘Rossi told us to. It’s fine.’
‘I wasn’t—’ You pause, feeling hot from the alcohol. ‘I wasn’t flirting with him. Not really.’
Spencer nods. ‘I know.’
You press your fingertips to your temples, because an ache is starting to spread behind your eyes.
‘I was just angry, I guess… that you made me walk into the wedding alone. I just wanted someone to care about me; the conversation with the agent was just convienient.’
Spencer feels confused. His mind is fogging up and he pinches the bridge of his nose.
‘When?’ he says. ‘When did I make you walk in alone? I came back to my apartment and you were gone.’
‘You—you left first. I thought we were supposed to run the errands together and then you went off on your own. I assumed you didn't want me around. What was I supposed to do, sit there and wait for you like nothing happened?’
‘I never asked you to leave,’ he says. ‘You seemed tense. I thought you wanted time to cool off because you walked away from me in the kitchen. I didn’t mean for it to come across like that – me leaving you… But, yeah, I guess that’s what I did.’
The silence after is unbearable. You press your palms to your eyes and then suddenly you’re crying. You didn’t even feel the tears coming. You don't know if it's the alcohol, or the argument, or the fact that you're tired that's making them spill.
Spencer stands and steps closer, carefully. He reaches out, brushing his hand against your cheek. His touch is gentle and deliberate, and when he pulls his hand back mascara has smudged onto his fingers.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, quiet. ‘About this morning. I didn’t mean to—’
You shake your head. ‘I didn’t mean to either.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘Maybe… maybe you should sit down. Just for a minute. You’ve had a lot to drink, and…’
You shake your head again, harder this time. You swipe at your face with the heel of your hand. Your throat feels tight, clogged.
‘I don’t want to sit. I just want to go home.’
Spencer blinks, like he hadn’t expected the words to be so simple, so final. He glances toward the window where the muffled laughter from outside leaks through the glass, then back at you.
‘Okay,’ he says, steady but subdued. ‘Then let’s go home.’
There’s no argument, no pushback. Just his quiet agreement. He tracks down his scarf in the hall and guides you gently toward the door.
Spencer drives you home next. He says home but actually drives you back to his. The car ride is quiet. Your fingers curl and uncurl in the fabric of your dress, and he has to stop at one point because you think you might be sick but aren’t.
At his, you kick off your shoes and go straight to his bed. You don’t remove your dress, and it crinkles loudly against his bed sheets. Spencer lies down on his side beside you.
‘Did I ruin the whole evening?’ you ask.
Spencer tilts his head. He reaches out to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. ‘No. Everyone was having a great time,’ he says.
‘For you, I mean.’
‘No. You know I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be going anyway. It’s… kind of nice to get away from all that.’
‘That really doesn’t make me feel any less terrible,’ you murmur.
He shifts closer, letting his hand find yours on top of the sheets. ‘It’s fine. Honestly. You didn’t ruin anything.’
His arm slides around you then, curling around your waist and bringing you closer. Your tears are still wet on your cheeks. You cried for most of the car ride. You were exhausted and overwhelmed, and letting it all out felt like the only thing you could do.
You’re still crying now. You sniff and shudder and curse at yourself quietly.
‘You’re okay,’ Spencer tells you. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, then across your cheekbones. He can taste the salt as his lips press against the tear trails.
You turn your head to find his lips properly. The faint tang of champagne hits his tongue and he briefly wonders how you could enjoy drinking it. Your kiss is messy and uneven, lips parting and pressing with impatience.
Spencer lets the first press linger longer than the rest. His hand is on your hip and his tongue is in your mouth and he considers letting it continue because intimacy has worked to fix things before. But then, drunk, you miss his lips completely, catching his chin instead. He pulls back.
‘We should stop,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Alright.’
‘I just don’t think that I feel particularly… um—we shouldn’t kiss when you’re drunk.’
You shrug like it’s nothing. ‘It’s fine. You don’t want to kiss me.’
Spencer fidgets. His hand draws idle circles on your hip. ‘It’s—No. Not right now.’
You tilt your head and let your gaze fall somewhere between the ceiling and the empty space behind him. Your fingers brush against the fabric of his blazer.
From nowhere, your voice comes out small and brittle: ‘Do you think I’m like her?’
‘Who?’
‘My mother.’
Spencer thinks this is a strange thing to bring up after making out. He presumes that most people don’t think about their parents when kissing, but he has only ever kissed three people in the past – including you – so he cannot say for sure.
He frowns slightly. It’s probably just the alcohol talking.
‘I’ve never met her,’ Spencer says slowly.
‘Yeah, but I’ve told you about her.’
Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.
You’ve shifted on to your back now. Your eyes are tracing the cracks in his wall. ‘Maybe it’s genetic,’ you say. ‘Like, I think I’m wired to ruin everything. I messed up tonight. And this morning. And now.’
Your voice is soft and distant, even to yourself, and Spencer gets the impression that you’re not fully there beside him.
‘I don’t know how to hold on to people,' you whisper absently. You press your palms into your eyes, because more tears are coming. You want to stop them. You want to block out the sadness, and the sound of your voice, and Spencer breathing beside you. ‘I’m always pushing people away. Even the ones who want to say.’
Spencer presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder and whispers, ‘I’m sure you’re not like her.’
It doesn’t sound convincing. It also doesn’t sound like a definitive contradiction which makes you think yes, I’m exactly like her after all.
You roll onto your side, away from him, pulling the blanket with you until it’s tight around your shoulders. Your eyes stay open in the dark, fixed on the wall, even as the last of your tears dries sticky on your skin.
The light from the street outside washes through the window in a muted, bluish haze. The walls look softer in the glow; the whole room looks submerged. You feel small in it, like you’re sinking under something vast and weightless that you cannot name.
── three days later | november
Spencer enters his apartment with a fresh loaf of bread in one hand and his mail in the other. He looked through the envelopes on the stairs and concluded that none of them are of particular interest right now. The bread is placed in the kitchen, and the mail goes into a basket on his bookshelf for later.
Your go-bag is sitting on the couch, packed with freshly folded clothes. He stops when he sees it. In his chest, his heart jolts in an uneven rhythm. Spencer can hear drawers opening and closing in his bedroom.
He swallows hard and walks down the hall. He stands in the doorway, watching you pull things from his closet.
You sense his presence and glance over your shoulder. ‘Hey.’
‘Are you leaving?’ he asks abruptly.
He’s been bracing for this for the past few days – waiting for you to decide that you’re done again. The morning after the wedding, he’d honestly expected you to be gone before he woke. But you were still there, and you seemed marginally better.
You were still in your dress. The zipper was stiff, and the skirt had somehow tangled around your legs. He helped you wriggle out of it carefully, guiding your arms free of the straps. Your hair snagged on the beading at one point, and he thought you might cry again, but you didn’t.
You sat on the edge of the bed in your underwear, hands folded in your lap. He crouched in front of you and asked, ‘You okay?’ to which you had responded, ‘Surprisingly fine. I don’t feel hungover at all.'
He hadn’t been asking about the alcohol, but didn’t correct you.
Spencer had been marginally unsettled by what you had said the night before – everything about your mother. It had come out of nowhere, and now your words were lingering in his head like a misplaced puzzle piece. The timing of it and the heaviness of your voice all sought to make him nervous. JJ’s comment from the kitchenette had returned to him before he fell asleep that night: this is a difficult time of the year for her. She’s probably searching for something familiar, and he was left with a strange, uneasy sense that JJ was right.
Later, you showered. You came out with damp hair and one of his towels wrapped around you. That had relieved him slightly, because you looked softer. He thought about saying something that might settle the silence from the night before, but figured you were over it, so left it as it was.
The following days consisted of you moving quietly about his apartment, like you were afraid of making too much noise. He measured every word before speaking; he didn’t want the wrong one to send you into a spiral again.
You turn to look at Spencer now, with a pair of shoes dangling in one of your hands by the laces. Your brows furrow. ‘What? No. I’m not leaving.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Spencer lets out a small sigh and gestures vaguely toward the living room. ‘I just saw your go-bag out there. Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.’
‘Hotch called. We’ve got a new case. I was just trying to save us ten minutes.’
‘Oh,’ he says again, feeling lame. An embarrassed smile tugs at his lips. ‘Right. Of course.’
You place the shoes down on the bed. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. I wasn’t trying to.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I just… wasn’t sure what was going through your head. Or what you were doing.’
‘I told you. Just getting ready – that’s all.’
On the bed, you push his go-bag toward him. Spencer steps fully into the room to look at it.
‘I put all your favorite shirts in there,’ you say. ‘And some cardigans. You might want to check if I’ve missed anything.’
Spencer drags the bag a little closer and bends down to unzip it. He sees his shirts neatly folded, and his favorite grey cardigan tucked alongside them. There’s even an extra pair of socks – the thick kind he always forgets about, and then complains when his feet get cold.
He brushes his hand over the clothes and then looks up at you.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
You just nod in response.
It feels foolish, getting emotional over shirts, but the fact you’ve remembered something so trivial has floored him. His chest feels too small for his heart; your actions are both overwhelming and grounding. It’s nice, being known like that, and he feels instantly guilty for assuming the worst about you.
‘Were you really that worried I’d leave?’ you ask.
His fingers curl into the cardigan and he chews on his lip.
‘You’ve left before,’ he says, not unkindly. The words are plain, though they quiver at the edge. He hates himself for saying them out loud.
You stand there for a long moment and just look at him. The weight of it presses in, the number of times you’ve walked away and he’s just let you. You exhale through your nose and close the space between you.
‘Touché,’ you say lightly. ‘That’s not going to happen this time though.’
Spencer almost asks how can you be so sure?
You stop just in front of him, your fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve. He looks down at the contact, an unexpected gift, and then shifts his hand so your pinky hooks with his. You let out a disbelieving huff of air at the gesture, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips.
Your pinky curls around his in response.
It was a dumb tradition you invented once after a case – when the two of you had sat side by side in the jet, too wired to sleep and too drained to talk. You’d joked about pinky promises being the only unbreakable ones, something you always did with your dad. He’d gone along with it, awkward and amused, until it stuck.
The hook of your fingers now says everything.
‘I promise,’ you say softly, no hesitation. Not leaving.
Spencer exhales, almost a laugh. It breaks in the middle. He waits for you to ease the connection between your fingers before pulling his hand away.
You give him a genuine smile, stepping closer until your shoulder brushes his chest and your forehead rests lightly against his collarbone. For the first time in those three days, you lean into him without hesitation.
Spencer exhales into your hair. His arm comes around you instinctively and you let it happen. You can hear his heartbeat through his shirt. Spencer closes his eyes and relishes in the feeling for a moment.
‘We should go,’ you murmur after a while.
‘Yeah,’ Spencer says quietly, though he doesn’t move. ‘Just… one more minute.’
For that minute, you stay pressed together in the stillness.
Eventually, you both step back. You grab your coat and your shoes. He takes both your bag ad his to the door. He lets you go first, and then pulls it closed behind you.
a/n: pinky promises are actually the most intimate thing ever i don’t make the rules sorry. as kurt hummel from glee once said: the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets
the original draft of this part was sooo long (8k, sorry what??), so sorry about how long it took for this part to come out, cutting it down was a bitch. ummm what do i want to say? pls don't hate either of them they're a little confused but they've got the spirit!!! <3 some things are a little vague at the moment, but will get explained in later parts i promiseee. the writers' urge to explain every line and interaction in depth and detail so you can catch my nuances is strong but im witholding. i swearrr everything is happening for a specific reason though!!!
any and all interactions with this series are much appreciated thank you thank you!!
