Discover Top Posts Tagged with #gideon!reader

for cryin’ out loud!

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem!gideon reader

summary: as the BAU rushes to finally close your case, you and spencer grow steadily closer — and then one call changes everything.

a/n: we are finally getting to the end!!!! i think there will be two more chapters after this and then we will officially close out the stalker arc of the gideon reader series :))) but ive been brainstorming future one shots and it's so much fun. like reader bringing spencer in as a guest speaker for her classes has been bouncing around in my head for months UGH. anyways i hope you all enjoy lol, you all deserve this for so patiently waiting through this slow burn

wc: 9.4k sorry this got way longer than it was supposed to be but i was having so much fun writing dialogue lol

warning(s): the usual fare — stalking, daddy issues, hurt/comfort. this part is surprisingly fluffy though for ONCE and a lil steam oops who said that

You sigh. “I miss the sun.”

Spencer doesn’t look up from his book. “It’s been two days.”

“You’re not counting the safehouse,” you complain.

“You got to go outside then.”

“Because we were trying to find out if my stalker had been there,” you say. “It wasn’t exactly an enjoyable excursion.”

“You got to leave,” he points out.

“To go to the BAU,” you say. “That barely counts.”

“You’re in here for your safety,” Spencer says. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“That you’ve somehow managed to catch my stalker already and my life gets to go back to normal.” You tilt your head to look over at him from where you’re laid out on the couch. “Don’t you miss the outdoors?”

“I could happily stay inside for months with nothing but books to keep me company,” Spencer says. “It’s just an added bonus that you’re here.”

“How sweet of you,” you hum. A beat passes before you admit, “I guess it’s a bonus that you’re here too. I would be going crazy on my own.”

Spencer smiles, his eyes flicking up from the page for a second to meet yours. “I’m glad I can help.”

It turns out that things go rather smoothly when you’re not trying to argue with Spencer. A day and a half has passed since you took refuge in Spencer’s apartment together, and it’s sunshine and rainbows compared to the way you treated him the first time around.

You can’t help it. Fighting with him used to feel good, righteous—it was only fair seeing as he replaced you in your father’s life. But then he just had to go and treat you with unconditional kindness and vow to keep you safe no matter what, and your cold heart had to go and melt.

It’s a dilemma you’ve been ignoring for the past week, but the noise is getting too loud for you to keep paying no mind.

Of course, that doesn’t mean you’re not going to keep trying. You’re most definitely going to keep trying. It’s kinda what you do.

You sigh as you look back at the ceiling fan. It makes you dizzy every time, the blades blurring as they spin round and round and round, but it’s better than being bored. It’s the only thing keeping you from death by heat stroke, seeing as Spencer has the worst AC in the world and you can’t even open the windows.

“Say all of this goes perfectly,” you say. “Mike is the one behind it all, Elle and JJ book him, he goes to jail forever and I never have to worry about it again. What’s the next step?”

“Well, that’s already a very long process,” Spencer says. “Once the unsub is arrested, they have to go through the entire legal system before they’re sentenced.”

“I know about due process,” you say wryly. “I’m talking about the next step for me.”

“Oh,” Spencer says. You hear him shut his book. “We’ll take you back to the BAU, you’d have to talk to a few people and sign some papers, but after that, you’re off the hook. Of course, since Gideon’s your dad, you’ll probably have to deal with a bit more pomp and circumstance. And if the press gets a hold of this—”

“Ugh,” you interrupt, grimacing at the thought. “Don’t say the news is gonna be reaching out to me.”

“It is an interesting story,” Spencer says. You tilt your head to glare at him and he clears his throat. “Objectively, I mean.”

“I don’t want to talk to any of them,” you say. You’ve given quotes before to some of the local education beat reporters, but going on air to millions of people about your intensely personal experience dealing with a stalker is a lot different than being the ‘media friendly teacher’ for your tiny hometown paper.

“And you don’t have to.” Spencer frowns then closes his book. “Actually, it’s better if you don’t. A disproportionate amount of female journalists, especially news anchors and reporters, are victims of stalking. It wouldn’t be a good idea to broadcast your image to millions of people right after we arrest your stalker.”

“Great.” Your voice only barely shakes. “Would you happen to know how I can get all my information permanently scrubbed off the Internet?”

“It’s a pretty difficult process,” he says. “Your information is everywhere. Websites, emails, messenger pages, data brokers—”

“I get it,” you interrupt, maybe a bit too sharp. It just feels like every time you manage to forget the true danger of your circumstances for even a moment, reality comes crashing back in. “I was just joking.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. “But there’s a reason people say that things live on the Internet forever.”

You let out a ragged sigh as you turn back to face the ceiling. You get dizzy almost immediately.

It’s not that you think you might get stalked again. It’s just… you’ve always been distantly aware of the truly sick crimes your father solved every day. He’s an FBI agent, a specialized profiler that you pull out for the nightmare cases no one else can solve.

Logically, that means that there are victims. Innocent people in the wrong place at the wrong time. They go to court, they tell their story to the news, they become activists for a better world.

It didn’t feel real to you for a long time, though. It was where your father disappeared off to, and you never saw your father.

Now, you’re hyperaware of the world your father has devoted his life to fixing. Now you know exactly how much danger your father put himself in every day—knowing he had a daughter and a wife at home.

Maybe he kept you at arms length for this very reason; to ensure you stayed out of the public eye. Maybe he truly thought this was the only way to protect you.

It just makes things more complicated, though. Now, the sympathy and the guilt and the fear is all mixed up with the hatred in one big, confusing ball of emotions. Everyone else in the whole world would consider your father a hero—what kind of person are you that you only care about yourself?

You let out another heavy sigh. You’re so tired of the complications any close proximity to your father seems to bring.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asks.

“Just peachy.”

“If you’re worried about the press, I’m almost certain JJ would help you deal with them. She’s our communications liaison, and she’s really good at her job.”

“I’m not,” you say. You’re only partially lying.

“Okay,” he says. He only partially believes you. “I was only asking because that’s the fourth time you’ve sighed like that.”

“When there’s nothing else to do but sigh, I sigh.”

“There’s plenty of things to do here.”

“I don’t want to play more board games, and I don’t want to watch more movies.”

“How do you feel about painting?”

You stare at him. “You paint?”

“Amateurly,” he says.

“You are not allowed to call yourself an amateur at anything,” you respond pointedly.

“If you saw anything I’ve ever painted, you would disagree,” Spencer says sheepishly. “It’s honestly kind of embarrassing.”

“Then why would you bring it up willingly?”

He shrugs. “Because I thought you might enjoy doing it. That’s all that really matters.”

Embarrassingly, you feel your cheeks heat. You want to hope he can’t tell, but you know it’s fruitless. Spencer notices absolutely everything, for better or for worse.

“Fine,” you say as you stand up, because you’re still going to try to hide it. “Where are your art supplies?”

Everywhere, it turns out. You help Spencer gather materials, scattered everywhere from his desk drawers to his closet. The only reason he manages to find anything is because of his eidetic memory.

There aren’t very many clear surfaces in his living room on account of the messy genius thing. You say you’re fine with using the breakfast bar, but Spencer insists on dragging a dormant card table out of the depths of his closet for you. You almost feel bad making him do it given his stick arms, but you end up fighting a smile the entire time.

You used to hate when he did things for you—but it turns out the constant reminders of how he actually liked helping you out were finally starting to sink in.

There’s more clutter than anything with all the materials laid out on this tiny card table. He has all acrylic paints, which you would be happy or sad about if you knew more about painting. You divide things up evenly while Spencer digs around in the drawers. Eventually, he takes out a stack of DVDs, all different editions of Bob Ross’s The Joy of Painting. Your eyebrows rise.

“You’re serious about this.”

“Not really,” he admits. “JJ bought me them for my birthday last year. I was doing some spring cleaning when I found them again and decided to give it a shot.”

“I’m guessing you liked it?”

Spencer smiles, toothy with the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and you feel the corners of your lips quirking at the sight. It’s almost instantaneous these days, your happiness mirroring his own.

“Surprisingly, yeah.” He puts the DVD into the player and takes his spot on the couch beside you. The card table is just small enough that your shoulders nearly touch, and you make it very clear that it doesn’t affect you in any way. Spencer has to hit a few buttons on the remote before he gets the right one, but he eventually gets through the loading screen and into the actual video.

“A lot of people are surprised any time I’m interested in anything that’s not just straight science,” he continues. Both of you work together to put all the colors on your paper plate makeshift palette as he talks. “But I have degrees in psychology and sociology. I’m working on a philosophy degree. The sciences and the humanities aren’t opposites, or rivals—they need each other. I’m a better scientist because I understand the thought processes behind any one decision being made. A good profiler knows the science and the psychology behind an unsub, not one or the other.”

“That’s impressive,” you say. “Men who aren’t half as smart as you have a difficult time admitting they don’t know everything. You do it on a daily basis.”

Spencer shrugs. “When I’m solving cases with the BAU, every action could be life or death. It doesn’t help anyone to hold up the process because of a misplaced ego.”

“I don’t think your ego is misplaced,” you admit. “You basically do know everything.”

He smiles, a small thing at the corner of his mouth. “You said it, not me.”

You laugh and his smile grows. You continue for the next few minutes in silence as you lay the foundation of your paintings, looking up every so often to see what the expert is doing. Neither of them look like much of anything, but Spencer’s is still better.

“What drew you to painting?” you ask. “It doesn’t seem like your usual hobby.”

“It’s not,” he agrees. Spencer mixes a bit of white into steel blue to make a more appealing sky as he thinks. “It’s not hyperbole to say my brain is always running. Pretty slowly, actually, because our brains only process information at ten bits per second, but still relevant. I’m constantly thinking, night and day, 24 hours, seven days a week. About the number of active serial killers in Virginia and population in South Korea, and what percentage of the country is stalked every year, and the population of Korea again because four babies are born every second, so it’s definitely gone up in that time, and—”

He meets your eyes and he stops talking. A beat passes, then muted panic sets in—you start forward, eyes wide with a hand raised in an apology you’re convinced is too late.

“You don’t need to stop,” you say. “I— if you’re stopping on my account, you don’t need to.”

Spencer’s eyes widen an equal amount. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” you say. “We’re in your apartment. I don’t have any right to dictate what you do.”

“Of course you do,” Spencer says. “You’re not a guest. For the time being, you’re living here. That means you can treat it like your own home, and you can treat me like a roommate. Including asking me to stop if I’m doing something that annoys you.”

Your face heats yet again, and you shift in your seat as you try to think of the right thing to say. It’s a bit hard to focus with him sitting so close to you, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his skin. He’s an appropriate distance away despite the proximity, but his knee brushes yours every once in a while, when he adjusts his spot on the couch.

You’re hyperaware of every touching atom between the two of you. You doubt it’s even crossed Spencer’s mind.

“Well, I like it,” you finally say, emphasized with an overcorrected brush stroke “I mean, I— I don’t mind it. It’s cool. Learning new things is cool.”

You cringe inwardly. That’s the best you can come up with?

Spencer apparently thinks the exact same thing, but in the wrong direction—that you’re struggling for the right lie to placate him.

“You don’t have to feel bad about it.”

“I don’t!” you exclaim, huffing a frustrated sigh at your inability to properly express your thoughts. “I don’t feel bad because I’m not annoyed. I genuinely like listening to you talk. It’s interesting. A- and you have a nice voice.”

You go silent after, your mind telling you it’s well past the time to stop rambling. You hold your breath as you continue painting. There’s a line you’ve been trying very hard not to cross, and it feels like you just went sprinting across it.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asks. “Did you hit your head?”

“When would I have had time to hit my head?” you ask. “We’ve spent every second together for, like, a month.”

“It’s actually only been three weeks, two days, twelve hours, and thirty-four minutes,” he corrects. “And in that time, you’ve slept in a different room and used the bathroom at different times. And we spent a decent amount of time apart when we went back to the office.”

“Do you have exact numbers for all those?”

“Of course I do.” Spencer’s brows scrunch ever so slightly, like he’s solving a particularly difficult equation in his head. “I held back because I didn’t think you would care.”

“From now on, you don’t have to hold back,” you say. “If we’re talking, and you know a fun fact that I might be interested in, or— or even if I’m not interested in it, you can say it. I don’t want you to hold back on my account.”

Spencer tilts his head to look at you, and he smiles. There’s a genuine spark of happiness in his eyes that causes fireworks to explode inside you. You try to be as casual about it as possible—logically, a certain amount of tenderness is expected between two people that have spent this much time in close proximity. It’s not a sign of deeper feelings. Even more logically, you’re taking the path of least resistance by reducing arguments. That’s how Spencer would see it, anyways.

“Thank you,” Spencer finally says. It’s mostly normal, but there’s a new lightness to the words. Shame bites at you, making your own smile waver—your comments made him hide parts of himself. “What I was saying earlier was that my brain gets a little quieter when I’m painting. It’s nice.”

“I’m glad you found some sort of escape,” you say. “And I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Bob Ross explains how to paint the snow onto your trees. A beat passes as you both follow along—your shaky brush strokes are messier than Spencer’s adept hand. A credit to your point that he will never truly be an amateur at anything.

“And I’m— I’m sorry for how I treated you in the past.” You bite your lip as you try to clean up the edges of your pine tree. The paint is still wet, so it smears more than anything—you go from decent lines to blurred lines. “I had no right to take my anger at my dad out on you. You were nothing but kind to me. I should’ve been an adult about it.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything for a while. You glance over at him to see his brows furrowed yet again, this time as if deep in thought. His trees are perfectly dusted with snow.

“You said something a while ago.” You blink when he suddenly speaks, and look back over at him. “You gave up on attending an Ivy League school so you could live closer to your father, and get the chance to see him more.”

You don’t know why you’re surprised he remembers. Spencer remembers everything.

“Yeah.”

“Where did you get into?”

You sigh. You can’t remember the last time you talked about this. It’s just another one of your poor decisions made in a moment of teenage rebellion.

“Columbia.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise. “And you went to George Mason instead?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s not all about my dad. I couldn’t afford Columbia, and George Mason gave me a full ride.”

He looks at you for a good, long moment. You doubted you would get away with the lie for long, but you did think it would last a little longer than five seconds.

“You graduated four years ago,” he says. “You graduated a year early, so three years before that, you were applying to universities. Seven years ago, entry level FBI agents were making around $40,000. Triple that for how much Gideon was making then. Your mother is a psychologist, putting her around $90,000. That’s more than enough to pay around $35,000 a year for tuition and still live very comfortably.”

You hum, because you’re not going to fact check him. You don’t really feel like having this conversation, though—you were having a perfectly fine time breaching the surface level of kindness. Leave it to Spencer to bring it up, though.

“They didn’t want to pay for my college,” you say, “and I didn’t want to go into hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I’d never pay that off teaching.”

“That’s not it.” A beat passes. “Why did you refuse their help?”

Some miniscule part of you starts panicking. He’s a prodder, a very accurate prodder aided by professional level profiling and his five degrees (with a sixth in progress, you can hear him add.)

“Because I was a stupid teenager.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So stupid that you got into Columbia.”

You scoff, then pick up the remote to pause the DVD. You’re done trying to make your painting look good. You twist the remote in your hand for a moment, feeling the weight of the plastic. You feel his eyes on you all the while.

“They were so proud of me for getting into an Ivy,” you recall. “I’d been driving myself crazy applying to colleges, but that acceptance letter made it all feel worth it. They basically paraded me around every social event they got invited to to brag. “You shake your head with a wry chuckle. “For once, when my dad said he would take off work to spend some time with me, he actually did. He got a week off when another senior agent could cover him, and we just spent it together and talked. Lunch dates, dinner parties, movie nights—it was one of the best weeks of my life.”

“Of course, my mother insisted on throwing a graduation party to celebrate,” you say with a slight smile. “I didn’t complain, but I was already starting to have doubts. Every single person they introduced me to in the Ivy League academia circle was just… the exact opposite of the kind of person I wanted to be.”

You sigh again, attempting to roll out some of the tension in your shoulders. It doesn’t work. “The party was nice enough. My mom threw it for the sake of establishing me as a name to look out for, a name to remember, but it was a fine time. Dad pulled me aside halfway through the party. He told me he was proud of me. He was so sorry for everything he missed, but he was so proud of the woman I was becoming. He swore I would love Columbia, cross his heart and hope to die.”

Spencer’s been watching you this whole time, a steady presence at your side. You swallow the lump in your throat. Sharing a bed felt less vulnerable than this.

“That was when I told him I wasn’t going to Columbia. I was staying local and going to George Mason.” You wring your hands together. It hits you that the last time you talked about this was…

Of course. (God, what are the odds?) You shake those thoughts away and continue.

“I didn’t want to go to an Ivy League and become another pretentious academic snob. I wanted to be a public school teacher and help kids like me, and it felt like the best way to do that was to go to a large public college. Of course,” you tilt your head, “I wanted to be closer to my dad too. The week of unfettered attention he gave me was everything I’d been deprived of for years, and I wanted more.”

“That couldn’t have been easy.” Spencer’s voice is the only level thing about any of this. He feels like a third party you’re pleading your case to—that you weren’t just a spoiled kid who threw away the life-changing chances she stumbled upon. “Opening up to your father like that. I bet he felt more like a stranger.”

You nod, a bit numb. “A stranger I was determined to please, but only kept messing up with.”

“What did he say?” Spencer asks.

“He was… upset. He tried to hide it, but for a profiler, he wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions around me.” You sit back against the couch and take a deep breath, then let it out. “I noticed, obviously. We were interrupted before we could have a true argument, but things just… weren’t the same after that. I told my dad I wanted to be in his life more, and he was upset. That’s the heart of it.”

“I’m sure that’s not what he meant,” Spencer says quietly.

“I’m sure it is,” you retort. “I know it’s difficult balancing this job. I’m proof enough of that. But if he wasn’t going to be able to love his child more than his job, then my parents never should have had me.”

He says your name, a bit stronger than before. You know Spencer thinks you’re a flight risk, and this isn’t really helping your case. It’s the truth.

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I think that’s the least of our problems, Spence. Don’t you?”

“You say that about all your problems.”

You shrug. “Maybe that’s telling you something, then.”

“You don’t seem upset about where you ended up,” Spencer says, an attempt at bringing the conversation back into safer territory.

“I’m not,” you say, and you’re not lying. You genuinely believe teaching is what you were put on this planet to do, and you much prefer helping everyday kids find their potential than be another resource to a rich kid who will never worry about anything in their life.

“There’s clearly something still weighing on you, though.”

“More of your profiling?”

“I’ve only really been around you when something is weighing on you,” Spencer says. “It’s easy for me to tell.”

Naturally. He notices and remembers every single thing you do and say. He probably already knows you better than you know yourself—or at least he’ll try to convince you of it.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about that night since it happened,” you say. “I think a part of him thought if he could be a good dad for a week, then he wouldn’t have to be a dad at all for a majority of the year. I would go off to Columbia, and he’d see me on holidays and a few days every break and he’d get all the bragging rights of a successful daughter without the burden of raising one. He could pull off the balancing act of being an incredible agent and a loving father. Well,” you tilt your head, “he wouldn’t have to admit that he didn’t want to do the balancing act.” You pause. “That he regretted having me.”

Spencer, to your surprise, doesn’t say anything. He’s still looking at you, brows furrowed in concern and dark doe eyes breaking your resolve, but he doesn’t say anything. When he does, it’s a lot simpler than you were expecting.

“I’m so sorry.”

You trail your brush through a few different colors, lazily mixing them to give yourself something to do.

“You don’t have to be,” you say casually. “I’m past blaming you for all my issues.”

“I’m not apologizing,” he says. “I’m commiserating.”

You let out a dry laugh, but he continues.

“I know what it’s like to feel as if you’re never enough. Half the reason I have all these degrees is because I was convinced if I read enough, if I studied enough, I could figure out how to cure my mom.” He shakes his head. “I had to put her in a psychiatric hospital when I was eighteen because I couldn’t keep taking care of her. I felt so, so guilty about it that I put everything I had into my studies. I wrote letters to her every day. Even now, there’s always a part of me that wonders if I just worked a little harder, if I could have figured it all out.”

You feel his gaze on you, and you force yourself to meet it. It’s the least you can do.

“I know what it’s like to feel as if you’re never enough,” he repeats. “But you are. And so am I. But if you keep going on like this, wondering about what could have been or digging up the past or telling yourself that it might be better if you were never even born, then you will never allow yourself to be happy. Suffering isn’t noble. You deserve so much more than being miserable for all eternity because you think it’s all you’re worth.”

“Any idea how to stop being so miserable?” you ask lightly.

“I’m not a licensed therapist,” he says.

“That hasn’t stopped you before.”

Spencer sighs. He allows silence to pass for another few seconds before he answers.

“When all of this is over, I think you should have a conversation with your dad.”

You groan, and Spencer holds up his hand.

“I mean it,” he says. “You need to tell him everything you’ve told me. It might seem obvious to you, but maybe Gideon hasn’t thought about it from your perspective.”

“He’s a profiler,” you say wryly. “Shouldn’t that be the one thing he’s good at?”

“He spends more time in the minds of criminals than his own,” Spencer says softly. “I think he just needs a nudge in the right direction.”

“So your advice is to talk to my dad,” you say.

“And all the other nice things I said,” Spencer responds. You huff a laugh and shake your head.

“You’re getting better at making jokes.”

“I’ve always been hilarious,” he says. “I have multiple joke books memorized.”

“Just because you know how the chicken crossed the road doesn’t mean you’re funny.”

“That’s not fair!” Spencer complains. “The team laughs at my jokes all the time. Well— sometimes they’re laughing at me, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t worry,” you muse. “When we’re out of this, I’ll make sure they all know not to mess with you.”

“And how are you going to pull that off?”

You shrug. “You were scared of me when you first met me. I’m sure I can leverage that into some mutual respect.”

“I was not scared of you.”

“Really?” you ask wryly. “I remember the stairwell like it was yesterday.”

“And I remember the second time we were in the stairwell,” he says.

“When I was seconds away from a breakdown?”

“When I helped you,” he says. “And when I very clearly wasn’t scared of you.”

You smile despite yourself. “Do you want my help or not?”

“I’m just saying I don’t think I’ll need it,” he says. “And I was not scared of you.”

“You were.” You clear your throat and imitate his stammered cadence from the second time you met. “‘I don’t really want to annoy you while we’re stuck together in an undisclosed location. I don’t know what you’re capable of.’”

Spencer frowns. “Are you trying to imitate me?”

“Not trying,” you remark, “succeeding.”

“That’s ridiculous! That does not sound like me at all!”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“Now you sound like Morgan.”

You smile as you pick the remote back up and turn Bob Ross on again. Spencer accepts the change of subject with another shake of his head, and he cleans off his paint brush as you move to the foreground. You have to add in a tiny little house, and you’ve already messed up the perspective.

Spencer’s words have time to settle over you as you paint, though. He’s always so kind to you—so honest in a way that tends to make you feel much, much better than before. You don’t know how he does it; how he’s lived such an unforgiving life, and yet he’s able to forgive you for everything.

“Thank you,” you say in the silence. “...For the talk. It helps. It always helps.”

You sense his smile in his words. He lightly knocks his knee into yours, an acknowledgement of your words before he speaks.

“I’ll always be there for you,” he says. “For— for as long as you’ll have me.”

It warms you from the inside out, from head to toe. You wonder if his coworkers know he’s so casually romantic. You wonder if Spencer knows

You continue painting side by side, shoulders brushing or knees touching or eyes meeting every so often with the soothing voice of Bob Ross guiding you through it all.

You’re going to get through this, and you’re going to have Spencer by your side.

The thought makes you smile uncontrollably.

-

Later, Spencer is going through some of his records to figure out a good soundtrack for the night while you rifle through his kitchen. Your paintings are drying on the coffee table, and it’s very obvious which one is Spencer’s and which one is yours. You’re craving something sweet, but unfortunately you’re locked inside, leaving you no choice but to bake.

“Where is your stand mixer?” you call, deep in the depths of his kitchen cabinets.

“I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have one?” you repeat incredulously. “Do you have a hand mixer, at least?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t bake. It would be an inefficient use of my limited kitchen space to have tools I don’t use.”

“Great,” you sigh. “If I get tired of mixing, I’m making you do it.”

“Why would I be better than you if I don’t bake?”

“It’s not about being better,” you say, “it’s about making it up to me.”

“Well, what are you making?”

“Chocolate chip cookies,” you say. “I don’t have my cookbook with me, and you don’t have any—”

“I know five different chocolate chip cookie recipes,” Spencer interrupts. “I could write them down for you if you want.”

You bite back a small smile. That’s such a Spencer thing to say—he doesn’t bake, but he has multiple recipes memorized, probably from reading them once years ago. A memory like that had to be a burden—but what you wouldn’t give to remember your lesson plans after writing them the first time.

You stand up from your squatted position on the floor, digging through his corner cabinet, to look at him in the living room. “I was just going to use the one on the back of the chocolate chip bag.”

“Make that four that I know,” he says sheepishly. This time, your smile escapes.

“Write down your favorite one, and I’ll make it.”

Spencer’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“‘Course,” you say. “Assuming you’ve got all the ingredients around here.”

“I have all-purpose flour, baking soda, salt, butter, sugar, brown sugar, and three eggs,” he counts off. “And one fourth of a bag of chocolate chips, which should be around 3 ounces.”

“That’ll get you pretty much anywhere,” you say. “What do I have to pre-heat the oven to?”

“375.”

You do just that, then you pause and look back at Spencer with a smile.

“How would you like to help me make them instead?”

His eyes widen a bit. “Me?”

“Who else is there?”

“I just said I don’t bake.”

You shrug. “Chocolate chip cookies are easy. You’ve already got the recipe down, which is half the battle. Besides, baking is a science. It can’t be that hard for someone like you.”

“...Fine,” Spencer says. “But only because you’re asking me.”

You smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You put him to work grabbing the rest of the ingredients as you find a big enough bowl to mix everything in. There’s barely enough space for the two of you in his tiny kitchen, but you make it work.

“Make sure you take the butter out now,” you say. “It has to be soft to cream it together with the sugar.

Spencer nods, and you feel him glance at you. “Do you bake a lot?”

You shrug. “On occasion. I lived in a house with four other girls my last year of college, and I ended up baking whenever I was stressed.” You smile at the memory. “We had a lot of pastries during finals season.”

“Baking is good for stress relief,” Spencer agrees. “It reduces cortisol, which is the stress hormone. It falls under the realm of ‘mindful meditation.’” He tilts his head. “It also positively impacts your sleep schedule. Maybe I should have been asking you to make cookies every night.”

You huff a laugh. “Just hand me the baking soda, pretty boy.”

He smiles as he holds it out, and your fingers brush when you take it from him. “That’s Morgan’s thing, you know. Calling me pretty boy.”

“Seeing as I also have eyes, he doesn’t get to claim it.”

You see his smile grow out of your peripherals. “You really think I’m pretty?”

“Like I said,” you bite back your own growing smile, “I have eyes.”

“I think you’re pretty too,” Spencer says, and your heart skips a beat. You end up spilling a bit of flour on the counter, and you know it’s fruitless to hope he doesn’t notice. “I have since I met you.”

“That’s a little concerning,” you say. “Seeing as I was yelling at both you and my dad nonstop the first two times we met.”

Spencer frowns. “I’ve been told I have a thing for women who are mean to me.”

“Really?” you laugh. “Who else?”

“...Elle,” he admits. “And JJ, for a while. My feelings only stuck around for a few months with each of them, but…” Spencer sighs. “It was pretty obvious to the whole BAU.”

You think back to Elle’s words, that they were making bets on you and Spencer based off of what happened with Lila Archer. How she didn’t finish her sentence at the end of your conversation, but you were pretty sure she was going to say Reid’s pretty easy to like.

It’s true. You came in expecting to hate Spencer Reid for the rest of your life, and here you are three weeks later baking cookies together in his kitchen. No wonder he’s such a good agent.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like being surrounded by profilers,” you say. “It’s probably impossible to hide any kind of secret.”

“You’re better off not even trying,” he agrees. “But because I’m the baby of the team, they tease me about everything—especially Morgan.” Spencer chuckles and shakes his head. “He bugged me about asking Elle out every single day for two months straight last year.”

“Did you break?”

“No,” he says. “But only because I realized I didn’t actually have romantic feelings for her; I was idolizing her more than anything. We had a really good talk after a rough case and figured everything out. Things have been normal since then.”

“And JJ?”

“We went to a Redskins game together, she brought Garcia with her, and absolutely nothing else happened.” He tilts his head. “Gideon was the one who gave me the tickets, actually. He encouraged me to ask her to go with me.”

“Wow,” you say. “My dad has been more involved with your dating life than mine.”

Spencer is silent for a second, but he still hands you the softened butter when he notices you looking at it. Eventually, he speaks.

“Do you know that they talk about us, too?”

You nearly drop the butter right onto the counter. You clear your throat as you recover and start creaming them together with a spatula. It’s been a while since you’ve done this by hand, but you’ll make do.

“Elle mentioned something about it,” you say casually. “I mostly took it as a joke.”

“It probably was,” he says after a moment. “Like I said, they enjoy teasing me. Unfortunately, you’re included by extension.”

“It’s fine,” you say. At least you have something to focus on for the next five minutes. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Good,” Spencer says. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” you say immediately. “Far from it, Spencer. You’re the reason I’ve gotten through all this.”

“...Good,” he repeats. “Anything I can do to help.”

You smile inwardly. He knows everything, and yet you don’t think he knows half of how much he’s helped you.

You mostly continue on in silence, save for the occasional ask for ingredients that Spencer is closer to. He only has one tray in his entire kitchen, so you’ve resigned yourself to a slower process.

As you roll the dough into little balls, you glance over at Spencer.

“Do you want to start on a second batch?”

His eyebrows rise. “You trust me with it?”

“You just watched me do everything, and you have an eidetic memory,” you say. “I think you’ll manage.”

He chuckles a bit, then nods and retrieves a clean bowl.

“You can’t make fun of me if they’re bad, though,” he adds.

“I would never,” you drawl. You take a second to push the baking soda, baking powder and salt over to him. “I purposefully halved the recipe so you could make one. Didn’t you notice I was putting in half of all the ingredients?”

“I was a little distracted recounting my dating history to you,” Spencer says wryly, and you laugh.

“Which you did of your own free will,” you say. “Besides, isn’t this whole case about digging up my dating history?”

He goes silent at that, and you sigh. Leave it to you to ruin the rapport you’d finally been able to build.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says quickly. “I just don’t like thinking about that guy. How he used you and your trust.”

“Spence,” you sigh.

“I know,” he says. “But it’s not fair that he just got to wake up one day and decide to make your life a living hell.”

You stare at your rows of unevenly shaped dough. Spencer also doesn’t have a cookie scoop.

“No,” you say. “It’s not. But that’s why selfless people like you are here.”

Spencer smiles, close-lipped but genuinely happy. He reaches over and squeezes your hand.

“I’m not as selfless as you think.”

You shake your head. “You are. Every single thing you’ve done since I’ve met you has only been to help me, even though I was making your life hell. You got someone who was intent on hating you to like you in three weeks because you’ve been so nice to me.” You huff a laugh. “It’s like a fairytale where the prince beats the evil queen by being her friend.”

“In that simile, you would be an evil princess,” he points out. “We’re the same age.”

“I’m glad you didn’t dispute the evil part,” you say.

Spencer actually blushes. It’s ridiculously endearing. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah,” you smile. “Besides, you just got cookie dough all over your hands so you could make me feel better. That’s pretty selfless.”

He looks down at his hands, brows furrowing when he realizes you’re telling the truth.

“Oh, great,” he sighs. He immediately starts trying to pick the bigger pieces off, grimacing the whole time. You laugh and push the flour over to him, but you use just a bit too much force, and it tips over.

Sending flour everywhere.

Including Spencer.

You don’t even know what to say, at first. Your eyes widen, your jaw drops, and a laugh escapes—you slam a hand over your mouth to cover it.

The carnage isn’t pretty: the front of Spencer’s plaid button-up is covered in flour. It looks like it snowed on the floorboards. You even managed to hit yourself, because you feel powdery freckles on your cheeks. There’s a pile on the counter streaming out of the flour bag as well.

Spencer’s eyes are wide as he looks around his mess of a kitchen, mind likely working overtime as he calculates how long it’s going to take to clean up, and what kind of supplies work best for flour, and how to get stains out of your clothing—and then he smiles.

It’s slow, like he’s out of the haze of disbelief on the right side of the bed, but he smiles at you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, but for some reason, you can’t stop laughing. It’s so stupid. You’ve been trying your best to be as nice to Spencer as he is to you, but then you spill some flour and you expect him to— what, snap at you?

Spencer is a problem solver. He doesn’t get caught up in the small things like you do, doesn’t assume the worst of everyone like you do. He’s seen some of humanity’s worst, but he’s also seen some deeply broken people—people that could have turned out different if they had gotten just a little bit more affection.

He smiles, and laughs to himself.

“You have little flour freckles.”

You laugh breathlessly, and Spencer’s eyes gleam. You take a step closer without fully realizing it.

“Spence,” you say.

He says your name just as softly, and it spreads warmth all through your body. It’s unconscious as you edge ever closer—his eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second. All you have to do is move forward, close your eyes, press your lips to his—

And then Spencer’s phone rings, and it’s like you come back into yourself—you both do. You suck in a sharp breath as you step back, and Spencer looks so unsure, so off-balance it’s almost laughable as he takes his phone out.

“Hey, Gideon,” he rasps. You feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin.

You almost kissed him. If the phone didn’t ring, you would have kissed him. Your palms are impossibly clammy.

It keeps repeating in your mind over and over: if the phone didn’t ring, you would have kissed him. The realization hits like a bucket of freezing cold water.

“You have good news?”

Those are about the only words that could have taken over your attention, and you think Spencer knows it by how he emphasizes those words. You turn back around to face him and nod for him to keep going.

“You’re sure?” he asks, and you faintly hear your father’s voice over the phone. “Yes. She’s standing next to me.”

Spencer glances over at you, and you pull yourself together with what you hope is a convincing smile. I didn’t just almost kiss you. Unless you wanted to kiss me too, in which case I certainly did, and I would like to do it again.

Your dad’s tinny voice again—and then Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’re sure?” he asks, fighting a smile. A few more seconds and he’s full on grinning. “That’s great news. I’ll tell her right away.” One more beat. “See you soon.”

Spencer shuts his phone and looks at you. You raise your eyebrows and tilt your head forward.

“Well?” It comes out breathier than you intend. “What’s got you smiling like that?”

“You’re free,” he says. You’ve never seen him smile this wide. “Elle and JJ found Michael Stevens at a rental under a fake name in the middle of Manassas. They questioned him, and he confessed to stalking you. They found a camera in his room with the same pictures Gideon received, and he had a hard drive full of information about you.”

Your eyes widen. You dare to smile. “You’re serious?”

Spencer nods as he says your name. “You’re free. It’s over.”

“It’s really over?”

He nods again. It takes another few seconds for it to sink in. It’s over. You don’t have to live your life in fear anymore.

You grin ear to ear and hug Spencer, letting out a cheer as he embraces you.

“It’s over!” you yell, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. You don’t care. You’re free to take up space again, to stop making yourself as small as possible in the name of your own safety. You cheer again, and Spencer laughs as he pulls you closer.

You separate enough to look at each other, and he looks at you with such care in his eyes it almost hurts. Spencer has been by your side through this whole nightmare—he’s taken everything you’ve thrown at him with the appropriate level of complaint and thrown back boundless amounts of kindness in return.

You wouldn’t have survived this on your own, or with a man less kind. Spencer Reid is a very special person.

For a moment, the world stops as you can do nothing but look at each other—revel in his presence. You know exactly what you want, but—

“You should probably pack,” Spencer says softly. It shatters whatever illusion you’d dreamed up in an instance. “They’ll want to come by tonight.”

“Right,” you say. It comes out much fainter than you want, but you step away from him. You look down at the mess of flour you made and open your mouth, but Spencer beats you to it.

“I’ll clean it,” he says. “I mean it.”

You nod shakily and take a few more steps back. The more distance you put between the two of you, the more you can think. Eventually, you muster up the strength to turn and leave.

When you close the door behind you, you want to bash your head against it.

What is wrong with you?

You were going to kiss him. If he wanted to kiss you, he would have kissed you. But he didn’t.

You funnel all your frustration into packing. You’ve kept your clothes confined to one corner in the name of respect—it’s Spencer’s room after all—but you’re being especially rough as you fold them. You’ll have plenty of time to iron back at home.

You stop just as you shove a folded pile in your duffle bag. Your fingers curl into the fabric as you try to make sense of the thousands of thoughts racing through your mind.

That’s not what matters. What matters is that the case is over. You’re safe—free. Soon, you’ll be back home, back at work, back to normal.

Back to being alone.

That thought stands out from all the others, blaring like a siren. You don’t want to be alone again.

A knock on the door jolts you out of it. You blink a few dozen times then go and open it.

Spencer’s standing there, looking uncertain. He starts the same way you did when he sees you, and he clears his throat.

“I— uh, I need a new shirt,” he says. “This one has flour all over it.”

“Right,” you say wryly. “What idiot did that to you?”

“It wasn’t an idiot, actually,” Spencer says. “She was a very lovely woman. She made cookies for me.”

You feel your skin heat and glance away. “I made dough.”

“The oven’s still preheated,” he says. “If you want to finish them, you can. It’s going to take a few hours for Gideon and the team to come by, anyways.”

“Oh,” you say. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to pack,” he explains. “Unless you want to be extra prepared, but I— I don’t think you have to be. I doubt your dad will rush you.”

“Okay,” you repeat. “I’ll… get to unpacking then.”

You smile, but you feel off-balance. Right now, you’re at the precipice—a romantic prisoner’s dilemma. You can follow through with it, or you can ignore it. If Spencer likes you, you can figure out what the next step is. If Spencer doesn’t like you, then the only way forward is to take this to your grave. You wouldn’t be able to take the humiliation of a rejection.

Spencer smiles back—it feels just as unsure. “Okay. I’ll start cleaning up.”

You nod, and he closes the door. You exhale deeply and put the back of your hand against your forehead. You’re burning up, of course.

God, what is wrong with you? You knew the only answer would be staying quiet. There’s absolutely no logical reason for Spencer Reid to have romantic feelings for you. He’s nice to you because of his job—he cares about you because he’s incredibly good at his job.

He’s been working his hardest to keep you safe and calm in the face of a nightmare, and he never wavered even when you treated him like shit. The absolute last thing Spencer probably wants right now is an unexpected, unwarranted confession.

Except it probably wouldn’t be unexpected. He’s probably known this whole time, and he’s just been placating you—the way an adult acts with a child when they talk about their imaginary friend.

Spencer is a profiler, for Christ’s sake. He just told you that he can’t hide anything from his coworkers—how could you possibly think you could hide something from him?

You have to take this to your grave.

Then it hits you. You nearly did take it to your grave. This whole time, your life has been in danger no matter where you are. You think back to the pictures your dad showed you that day—how someone had been watching you for months and knew your whole routine, your whole life.

What are you supposed to do after this? Just go back to life like normal? Be a teacher again and go to the same coffee shop every morning and balance your checkbook and go back to being alone?

It strikes like lightning once more. You don’t want to be alone again.

You’ve spent your whole life roiling in resentment, believing in the virtue of misery and that you were getting back at your dad by hating yourself more than he ever could.

Suffering isn’t noble, you recall. The words settle on your tongue uneasily as you mouth them.

(You have to at least try.)

You ignore the doubt rising in your throat, ignore your heart hammering in your chest as you march to the door. The metal doorknob is cold beneath your heated skin as you twist it, ready to confront Spencer—

But when you open the door, Spencer’s standing there once again, poised to knock. He looks just as shocked as you.

The argument you prepared dissipates from your mind. You open your mouth and nothing comes out. But this time, you don’t hesitate. You take his head in your hands and kiss him.

For one terrifying moment, Spencer pulls away. His eyes are wide as saucers, pupils dilated in the dim light of his apartment. Through the impulsive, romance-addled haze of your brain, you worry the cynical voice was right—he was just placating you.

You barely hear yourself stammering out a mortified apology before he cuts you off with an even more desperate kiss than the first.

It takes a second for your brain to process: Spencer kisses you back.

He kisses with surprising force, hands falling to your waist as he guides you back into your room. His room, actually. It’s only been two days, but the line is already blurring in your mind. You shift so he’s against the side of the bed, and push a little closer so he’s forced to sit down. Spencer drags you down with him for the length of one kiss, but he pulls away, breathlessly saying your name.

“We can’t do this. I— I’m a federal agent.”

“FBI agents are allowed to date people,” you say wryly. Your arms remain looped around his shoulders, your hands lingering on his back. You can feel his quick heartbeat.

“I’m supposed to be protecting you,” he says.

“You did,” you say. “The case is over.”

Spencer opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You edge close so you can press your forehead to his.

“Do you like me?” you ask softly.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “A lot.”

“Do you like kissing me?”

“A lot,” he repeats.

You close your eyes and kiss him again. Spencer reciprocates, his hands tightening just so around your waist. You pull away after a heated moment and look right at him.

“Then just keep kissing me, and we’ll figure the rest out later.”

Spencer doesn’t get to respond. He captures your lips right as you finish, your argument apparently convincing enough in the moment. He practically pulls you onto his lap, and you can feel him hardening against you. You smile into his kisses—it’s nice to know you have that effect on him.

You guide his hands to the zipper of your jeans, and his hands pause right above.

“You’re sure—”

“Yes,” you breathe. You barely get the words out before he’s kissing you again. Maybe it’s stupid and naive and you’ll regret it the second it’s over, but in this moment, you’ve never been more sure of anything. In this moment, you think you’re in love with Spencer Reid, and you think you’re finally free to figure out what that means.

He unzips your jeans and helps you out of them. The cool air of his bedroom is welcome relief to the aching heat between your thighs. You unbutton Spencer’s flourless shirt then he helps you out of your blouse. You trail a finger across his jawline, then past his throat and down his chest. He helps you out of your blouse, fumbling with every button as he tries to undo them without breaking the kiss. His slender fingers feather over your skin as he pulls down your bra straps, and he peppers up your shoulder and along your collarbone as you get the rest of it off.

“You’re sure?” you get the urge to ask.

Spencer presses his lips to the hollow of your neck, hands lingering on your waist.

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“You’re really sure,” you repeat. You cringe inwardly, but you can’t help it. Flat-out rejection would be bad, but you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he regrets this.

Spencer pulls away and looks you right in the eye. His messy brown hair is more curly than straight after almost three weeks of not straightening it. His dark eyes are magnetic. His lips are slightly swollen from kissing you so hard.

“You are the most incredible woman I’ve ever met,” Spencer says. “You’ve gone through so much of your life on your own, and I want nothing more than to put an end to that. If you’ll have me.”

Your whole face softens. Every part of you has felt so jagged and sharp and flawed for so much of your life, unlovable by anyone who knows what’s good for them. Spencer sees you for who you are.

You don’t know if anyone ever has.

“I want that more than anything,” you whisper.

“Then you have me,” he says, simple as that.

#gideon!reader

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#gideon!reader