Spencer is shot while on a case, and his emergency contact shows up to the hospital.
pairing: spencer reid x reader
genre: fluff i think, a little bit of hurt/comfort (spencer is hurt, reader comforts him)
content: established relationship, team doesn't know spencer has a partner, gn!reader i think, early seasons spencer in mind but could be read with any, hospital setting, not proofread
wc: 859
a/n: this has been in the drafts for a Hot Minute. i maybe wanted it to be longer but i also just want it to be Out There so. idk hopefully it's okay, let me know what u think :)
likes/reblogs are SO appreciated, asks/requests are open! :D
my masterlist!
You hurry down the halls of the hospital, practically sprinting, and trying desperately to remember what Agent Hotchner had said when you spoke to him on the phone. Was it two rights and then a left? Or a right and then two lefts? The pristine white walls of the hospital are disorienting, scrambling your already worried mind further.
Thankfully, your question is answered when he comes into view in the hallway.
"Agent Hotchner!" You call, your voice loud and a bit desperate in the empty halls. It echoes off the walls, emanating through the air before returning back to your ears.
He gives you a tight lipped smile, more of a grimace or a cringe than anything else. "He's resting," he says to you in greeting. "Lost a lot of blood, and needed a minor surgery to get the metal shards from the bullet removed from his shoulder. Awake now, but still a little bit drugged up."
"Can I see him?" You ask quickly, already trying to peer past him into the hospital room. You can hear the sounds of various machines beeping, and the quiet conversations between team members.
"Of course," he says, his expression morphing into something that some might call sympathetic. On Hotch, it simply looks slightly less stoic than usual. "He's visiting with the team."
You hurry past him into the hospital room, dropping your coat and bag onto a nearby chair before taking up residence on the edge of Spencer's bed. The team exchange baffled looks, surprised by the sudden presence of this stranger.
Spencer's honey colored eyes, however, immediately brighten a bit when you sit down, a dopey little smile spreading across his cheeks.
"Hi, brave boy," you whisper, reaching up to move a lock of hair off of Spencer's forehead. His glasses aren't present, likely removed for the surgery or in the scuffle of getting to the hospital, and you make a mental note to ask the nurse where they put them. "How are you feeling?"
"Better now," Spencer murmurs back, reaching out to take your free hand. Your fingers lace together with his like they were made to fit into yours, like the mold for your hands were created with one another in mind. You rub a careful thumb over the line of his knuckles.
"You scared the shit out of me, you know," you mutter, not even bothering to hide your annoyance.
Spencer, at least, has the decency to look guilty. "I know," he says quietly, the shame evident in his voice. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," you shoot back, raising an eyebrow. "Did you get shot on purpose?"
Spencer smiles at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "No. But I could've been more careful."
"Well, now you know for next time," you chastise him gently, bringing his hand up to your mouth to press a careful kiss against the back of it. You're cautious with your movements, making sure not to jostle his shoulder.
Someone clears their throat, and you look over your shoulder, seeing the rest of the team looking on at the interaction with clear bewilderment. Morgan is the first to speak up. "You've been holding out on us, kid."
Spencer's smile turns sheepish, a blush beginning to dust his cheeks, and he squeezes your hand once. "No, I haven't," he protests. "It's just... uh... it's never come up."
You let out a light little laugh, and give the team a wave with your free hand. "Um, hi," you smile. "I'm Spencer's partner. I wish we could have met under... better circumstances?"
There's a round of greetings, introductions, and amused looks, mixed with a fair amount of confusion. It's obvious that the team hadn't expected Spencer to have a partner, least of all someone like you.
Agent Hotchner pokes his head into the room, still with the same stoic expression that you're starting to become familiar with. "Visiting hours are over," he states plainly. "Nurse will be in soon to check vitals. You can stay," he says, addressing you, "since you're Reid's emergency contact."
Prentiss looks at Hotch with barely concealed confusion. "You knew about Reid's partner?"
"Yes," Hotch says, looking unimpressed.
"And you didn't think to tell us?" JJ cuts in.
"It wasn't your business," Hotch says, cocking an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. "Whether or not Reid wants to share his personal life with you is at his discretion."
A nurse bustles in, beginning to chat to Spencer about pain levels and medications, and Hotch beckons for the team to follow him out of the room. They do as they're told indignantly, and you can hear them berating him for his silence about you from the hallway. You stifle a giggle.
Spencer's gaze is soft when you look back at him, and you can feel your heart melting slightly. You give him a smile in return, your lips turned down at the corners, still shy in front of him despite months of dating.
"Thank you for coming," he murmurs, squeezing your hand again.
"I'll always show up for you," you whisper, squeezing his hand back.
Spencer is infatuated with his new neighbor, who, he soon realizes, is a terrible baker.
pairing: spencer reid x neighbor!reader
genre: fluff
content: fem!reader, reader is a bit loud and out there, minor house fire, baking, glasses!spencer, mutual pining, eventual kissing
wc: 3.3k
a/n: been working on this between finals. reader is definitely a bit more reflective of me in this one but i'm actually pretty good at baking. my roommate was baking today and this was all i could think about
requests/asks are open!
my masterlist!!
Spencer's a busy guy, really. He doesn't spend too much time at home, at the one bedroom apartment that's covered wall to wall with bookshelves and papers. He likes his apartment well enough, and relishes in the afternoons that he's able to kick back and relax on his couch with a cup of coffee and some science theory book that's dog eared and creased on the corners. It doesn't happen too often, though; he's too busy running from city to city, from case to case, never slowing down.
Which is why he doesn't know what to do with himself, when he gets shot in the leg. He can get around his apartment just fine, but that's about it. Garcia and Morgan had kindly brought him some groceries, and he can cook himself a decent meal. He has plenty of books from the library, and a dozen academic journal articles in the works.
Even so, Spencer is... bored.
He's gotten used to the chase, to the hustle and bustle of the office, and he finds himself unable to focus on writing without the constant stream of profiler observations in the back of his mind.
It's somehow more exhausting than traveling for work. At least then he has something to distract himself, something to-
There's a knock on his door.
Spencer glances over to the front door, a sturdy, paneled piece of wood, with a little peephole. He's not expecting anyone, or else he would have maybe showered, or tried to make himself more presentable.
He picks up his cane, hobbling over to the door, opening it.
You're on the other side, scratching your arm absentmindedly, but you immediately brighten when he opens the door.
"Hi!" You grin, crossing one ankle over the other. "Um, sorry to bother you. I wasn't sure if you were home, you're usually not, but, um, your light was on. So I kind of figured..." You trail off for a second, staring into space.
Spencer takes this moment to study you. You're lovely, really, with bright eyes and a contagious smile, shifting your weight from foot to foot like you can't sit still. You've stopped scratching your arm, but you've switched to twisting a bracelet around your wrist, around, and around, and around. Your voice is soft and melodic, and granted, he hasn't seen very many people in the past few weeks. But he's immediately captivated.
"Oh, um, I live in 204." you tell him, your face scrunching up in a smile.
A neighbor, he muses. That makes a lot more sense. More sense than this beautiful girl just showing up at his apartment for no reason, anyway.
You look at him expectantly, like you're waiting for him to say something. "Oh," Spencer manages, offering a small smile. "Um, I live... here."
"That you do," you laugh, and Spencer's breath catches in his throat. He wants to bottle the sound, to play it as white noise, to turn it into liquid and drown in it. All he can do is stare.
"Oh!" You say, snapping your fingers. "I was wondering if you had a couple of eggs I could borrow." You pause, tilting your head. "Well, not borrow, I suppose. I won't be giving them back. To have. I'm making cookies, and I didn't realize that I'm short two, and now the dough is halfway made and I don't have the time to run to the store, and-"
Spencer wonders how you have the breath in your lungs to talk for this long. He's a little bit impressed, but also entirely bewildered.
"Yeah," he says softly, cutting you off. "I've got some you can have. Um, come in?"
He pushes the door open slightly wider, and you step into his apartment, looking around.
"Goddamn, you have a lot of books," you blurt, followed by a big smile. "Not that that's a bad thing, of course. I think it's cool."
Spencer gives you a hesitant smile. He's fascinated by you, sure, by your easy smiles and constant motion, but Spencer Reid is not one to let his guard down easily.
He pokes around in his fridge until he finds the eggs, and grabs two of them out of the carton. Spencer turns to find you studying the books lining his shelves, your hands clasped behind your back, uncharacteristically quiet for the few minutes that he's known you.
He comes up next to you, his cane clicking quietly on the hardwood floor. "I've got the eggs," he says softly, holding them out.
You smile at him again, but it's softer this time, shyer. "Thank you," you tell him, taking the eggs gently, and it's so earnest that his heart aches. "You've got good taste, by the way." You gesture to the books. "A bit eclectic, but... good."
Spencer doesn't know what to think. "Yeah," he says, intelligently. "I guess I have a lot of different tastes."
"Mm," you hum softly. "That can be a good thing."
You stare at the books for another couple of seconds, and then it's like an invisible finger has reached out and popped the bubble around the two of you. You shake your head, like you're getting rid of a thought, and offer him the same bright smile.
"Okay, I gotta get back to the dough. Thank you, though!" And with that, you've breezed out of his apartment, leaving him to wonder if you were ever really there.
It's about twenty minutes later that he realizes he didn't get your name.
---
Spencer is reading up on glucocorticoids for the dozenth time the next day, when the fire alarm goes off. He's snapped out of his academic haze, and he realizes he can smell something burning in the air. He winces, immediately reaching for a pair of headphones to cover his ears. He sticks a post it note into the book, setting it aside, and hurries to investigate.
There's smoke billowing out from under the door of apartment 204, and Spencer feels his heart drop. He bolts down the hallway, pausing outside the door to feel if there's heat seeping through. When the door is decidedly cool, he pounds on it, calling out. "Hey!"
You open the door, oven mitts over your hands and a crazed look in your eye. You have flour smudged across your face, and a similar streak on your shirt. "It's fine!" You assure him quickly. "It's fine. Nothing is on fire, the cookies are just..." You look helplessly towards the oven. "...burning."
"Well, get them out of the oven," Spencer retorts, hurrying into your apartment without being invited inside. He can hear sirens in the distance, the fire department rapidly approaching.
"Well, I would," you huff. "But I maybe accidentally dumped all of the cookies into the oven while I was trying to take the tray out, and now they're in the bottom of the oven, which is very hot, and they're burning."
"I noticed," Spencer mutters, waving his hand in front of his face. His glasses have clouded up from the smoke, and he takes them off and tucks them in the breast pocket of his button-up.
He leans closer to the oven to look, and is rewarded by a lungful of smoke. Spencer coughs, covering his mouth and nose with his elbow. "You haven't even turned the oven off," he tells you, his tone a little harsher than he intended.
"I was going to!" You protest. "But then you knocked on the door, and-"
You break off into a little fit of coughs, and Spencer gives you a little glare, mumbling something about fire safety and the hazards of smoke. He clicks the oven off, and takes you by the elbow, steering you out of the apartment. "We gotta go."
"But the cookies-" you start, and Spencer fixes you with a look.
"Are burnt," he finishes. "Unsalvageable. All you're doing by staying here is putting more smoke into your lungs, which leads to debris buildup in your airway and asphyxiation. Not to mention decreased blood flow, which can cause angina and stroke, plus all the carbon monoxide is sure to make you sick."
The hurt expression on your face has shifted, replaced with surprise. "You- how do you know all of that?"
"I know a lot of things," Spencer mutters, tugging insistently on your elbow. "We're getting out. Now."
There's no room in his tone for argument, and you sigh, letting him lead you out of your apartment, down the stairs and out onto the street. Sirens wail, and a fire engine comes into sight, lights blazing. It takes Spencer longer than it should for him to realize he's still holding onto your elbow, and he lets go as the firefighters come over to talk to the two of you. He lets you take the reigns, leaning back against the wall.
You recount the story loudly and animatedly, waving your arms wildly and making a few explosion sound effects that Spencer thinks were not necessary. They are, however, horribly endearing, and Spencer finds himself sporting the same amused expression as the firefighters.
By the time the whole debacle is over, Spencer has wasted an entire afternoon standing around with you on the edge of the curb next to his apartment building. Usually, he'd be annoyed.
This time, he can't quite find it in him to care.
---
There's a box of cookies delivered to his door that evening, with a little card. It says, "Thanks for the help. Here's some cookies- I didn't make these ones, don't worry."
And it's signed with your name.
Spencer turns your name over and over in his mind, tracing the letters with a fingertip into the fabric of his pants. He's not even quite aware that he's doing it, completely caught up in the book that he's reading. But it nags in his subconscious, ever present.
He hangs the little card on his fridge with a magnet.
---
The third interaction he has with you is in the coffee shop on the corner. You're sitting with your friends, giggling about god knows what, and the light is coming through the window just right to make your eyes shine. Spencer is sure he's never seen a more beautiful sight.
The two of you aren't friends, per se. Spencer wonders for a brief moment if he should say hello, greet you or something, but he doesn't think you're quite at that stage of your relationship. You're just neighbors, after all.
Spencer orders his coffee, making his way to the other end of the counter to wait for it. You're completely engrossed in your conversation with your friends, not even looking up from the discussion.
"No, he looked at me, and he was kind of mad that I was still in the apartment while the cookies were burning, and I swear I swooned," you're saying. Spencer doesn't really mean to eavesdrop, but your voice is quite loud, and- are you talking about him?
"What, and then he dragged you out of the apartment?" Your friend asks, sounding amused.
"Yeah," you sigh dramatically. "I had to deal with the firefighters. I was gonna thank him, but he was gone when I was done." You sound wistful, almost, your tone softer.
"Listen to her," another one of your friends snickers. "She's smitten."
"Am not!" You protest, your tone defensive. Spencer's heart sinks. "He was just... there. And he's pretty, sure, but that doesn't mean-"
"Oh, she thinks he's pretty," your friend crows, laughing. "C'mon, babe, I haven't seen you talk this much about someone in ages, and you've barely talked to the guy."
You huff, sitting back in your seat and crossing your arms over your chest. "I don't have a crush on him."
Your friends both raise their eyebrows, leaning forward. "Yeah? We never said you had a crush on him," they tease. "Even though you definitely do."
"Hey, that's not-" you start, but your friends cut you off.
"Yeah, she definitely likes him," one of them giggles.
"Absolutely," the other one chimes in. "Even if someone doesn't want to admit it to herself."
"What's your Prince Charming look like, anyway?" The first one teases.
You sigh, but there's a smile pulling at your lips. "Tall," you say softly. "Kind of like, a tortured academic vibe. Seems like he knows a lot, but also clueless somehow."
"Big brown eyes and curly dark hair," you smile. "Like, a huge dork."
"Look how smiley she is," your friends giggle.
Before you can protest, the barista calls Spencer's name, and he startles to attention. He takes the coffee, thanking them, and turns around.
You're staring at him, mouth agape, cheeks slightly flushed. You give him a tiny wave.
Spencer can feel his own face start to heat up, and he gives you a nod of acknowledgement, a smile that comes out more like a grimace, and a little wave in return, before bolting out of the coffee shop.
There's two thoughts on his mind. First, that you like him. Second of all, what is he going to do about it?
---
Spencer has a plan. It's foolproof, really, and he internally congratulates himself for being so clever.
You're a terrible baker, as he's gathered. And he's... not the best, but certainly better than you, and besides, baking is just science, isn't it? He can hold his own in a kitchen.
He has ingredients for a solid batch of chocolate chip cookies, tucked away into the cupboards of his kitchen. Spencer pulls out a little sheet of paper, scribbling a note down to slip under your door in his chicken scratch handwriting.
Craving cookies. Could use an assistant. 8 pm, if you're interested. - 205.
Spencer is desperately hoping you're interested.
---
There's a knock on his door at 8:02. Spencer's pacing his kitchen, his hair rumpled from running his hands through it, and he quickly makes his way to the door, flinging it open.
"You came," he says, looking you up and down, his gaze flickering to your mouth for a moment.
"You invited me," you shoot back, raising your eyebrows in amusement.
"I did," Spencer agrees, leaning against the doorframe. "You still came, though."
"I did," you repeat, giving a little nod. You look pleased with yourself. "Are you going to let me in, or are we gonna stand in your doorway, or...?"
Spencer realizes he hasn't exactly invited you in, and hurries to rectify that. "Yeah, um, of course," he says, stepping out of the doorway and into his apartment. You follow him, your hands clasped in front of you, following him to the kitchen. You push your sleeves up, past your elbows, freeing your hands.
"Do you have a recipe, or are we winging this?" You grin, and Spencer realizes that it might have been a monumentally bad idea to invite you over to bake.
He blinks owlishly at you from behind his glasses. "Well, of course we're going to use a recipe," he says, affronted. You roll your eyes.
"Well, I usually don't, but okay," you mumble under your breath, setting about pulling bowls and ingredients out like you own the place. Spencer likes the look of you in his kitchen, moving about. It's domestic. Intimate in a way he wasn't expecting.
"Well, what happened last time you tried to bake without a recipe?" He teases, shooting you a slightly lopsided smile at you, before following your lead in rolling up his sleeves. You can't help but shoot a look at his exposed forearms that lasts maybe slightly too long.
"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, continuing to pull open drawers. "Where on earth do you keep your whisks?"
Spencer huffs out a soft laugh at your petulance, coming up behind you and placing a gentle hand on your waist. Your breath catches. He nudges you to the side, pulling open the drawer you were standing in front of, and pulling out the whisk.
"Yeah, yup, okay, thank you," you stutter out, your cheeks flushed from his hand placement. The corner of Spencer's mouth lifts.
The baking goes smoothly for about five minutes, in which you've managed to get eggs, sugar, brown sugar, and butter into a mixing bowl, and Spencer is whisking it together. You set a container of salt down next to the mixing bowl, peering over his shoulder.
"Damn, that looks a lot better than my dough," you mumble, your nose wrinkling. Spencer can't tell if you're impressed or embarrassed, or maybe annoyed at him for being better than you at baking.
"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you use a recipe," he retorts, shooting you a look that says I told you so.
You're still grumbling under your breath as you pull out the flour.
Spencer turns to look at you, and is greeted with a finger swiping across his cheek. He blinks, and then realizes you're holding the open bag of flour, a mischievous look on your face. He reaches up to touch his face, and surely enough, his fingertips come away stained with flour.
"You got flour on me," he deadpans.
"I did," you agree, letting out a giggle. "And I'm gonna do it again."
You flick more flour at him, getting it on his nose and his shirt, and he can't help but laugh, making a grab for the back of flour. Spencer grabs it from you, grabbing a handful to toss at you, and you shriek, giggling uncontrollably.
"Not fair," you laugh, trying to grab the bag back, and Spencer holds it high over your head. He's got a couple of inches on you.
"Is too fair," he shoots back, grinning. "You started it."
You jump, trying to grab onto the corner of the bag, but Spencer holds it just out of reach. You suddenly realize how close he is to you, his honey brown eyes sparkling with mirth.
You flush, backing away, your back to the counter. "Yeah, I suppose I did," you admit. "Sorry."
Spencer takes a step closer, boxing you in against the countertop, feeling especially brave. "You don't look very sorry," he murmurs.
You look up at him, your eyes wide. "You're... uh, very close to me," you whisper.
"I am," Spencer agrees. There's flecks of flour in your eyelashes, splayed out onto your cheeks like freckles. "Would you like me to move?"
You shake your head slowly, never taking your eyes off of his.
"I heard you talking in the coffee shop," he says softly. "You were talking about me, to your friends. You think I'm pretty."
You start to make a noise of protest, to explain it away, but he cuts you off with a gentle hand on your waist. His eyes bore into yours.
"Do you still think I'm pretty?" Spencer murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your lips.
That's all the invitation you need, and then your lips are on his, your arms coming up to wind around his neck. Your fingers slide into his hair, curling into the bits around the nape of his neck, and you've never been so happy to have been overheard in your life.
His tongue traces against your lower lip, making a soft, desperate, needy noise in the back of his throat. Spencer suddenly grips your hips, picking you up and setting you gently on the counter with surprising ease.
You make a surprised noise against his mouth, and he uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, sliding it just under your lip. One of his hands move to the small of your back, settling there, and the other to your thigh, holding you in place.
You lean back just a bit more, knocking into the salt, which spills all over the counter and into the cookie dough. Your lips disconnect from his with a wet pop, and Spencer stares down at the dough, his lips glistening with spit and slightly swollen.
You swear under your breath, shifting on the counter, moving to get off, but Spencer holds you in place.
"I'm sorry I ruined the dough," you whisper.
"S'okay," Spencer murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. "I didn't really care about the cookies."
You laugh, leaning back in, your lips finding his again.
It's safe to say that there were no cookies baked that evening.
