𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐄𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲
Spencer Reid x doctor!reader
wc: 1.9k
summary: when an injured FBI agent arrives, a routine trip to the ER becomes a meeting neither he nor his doctor can quite forget.
masterlist
You knew House was punishing you. You had made a mistake on the last round of tests, and now you had to cover his clinic hours, fill out paperwork, and basically be his bitch until he decided you'd suffered enough.
You hated him a little on days like this.
“Where’s House?”
“In his office.”
“And why are you here?”
“I’m being nice,” you replied to your boss, forcing a smile.
Cuddy didn’t buy it, but she also knew that whatever House did with his team—and whatever you were willing to do for him—was none of her business.
“I need your help. I have an injured FBI agent, and I want someone from the team to take care of him.”
You nodded and set the patient file back down on the nurses’ station counter, following the sound of her heels down the hallway.
Why would an FBI agent be at the hospital?
And more importantly, why wasn’t he being treated by an ER doctor?
“Why am I the one treating him?”
“Because he’s a federal agent.”
“And?”
“The hospital already has enough legal problems without adding the Department of Justice to the list.”
The two of you reached the emergency room doors faster than you expected. Inside, the usual chaos of the department echoed through the halls.
“Besides, I’m short-staffed in the ER and overloaded with doctors in the clinic.”
You let out a resigned sigh before pushing the door open with your shoulder.
You followed your boss to one of the beds, where a young man sat waiting with a blood-soaked compress pressed against his temple. Blood had made its way down to the collar of his shirt, though his calm expression suggested the injury looked much worse than it actually was.
“Agent, this is the doctor who’ll be treating you.”
Even through what was undoubtedly a painful experience, he was polite enough to thank Cuddy.
You took the intake sheet and glanced at the name written across it.
Spencer Walter Reid.
“What does everyone call you? Spencer or Walter?”
“Spencer,” he answered.
“Spencer,” you repeated.
You introduced yourself with the same kindness he had shown, and watched him smile awkwardly.
“We should take a look at you, okay?”
Reid lifted the compress slightly so you could inspect the wound. Once you had seen it, you asked him what had happened.
“A suspect tried to run. There was a struggle. I hit my head against the frame of a metal door.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“Dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No, no, and no.”
You pulled a penlight from your lab coat pocket and checked his pupils.
“Follow my finger.”
He obeyed without complaint.
“Headache?”
“A little.”
“That’s generally expected when someone splits their head open.”
The agent appeared to seriously consider your observation before nodding.
You stepped closer to inspect the injury. Carefully, you brushed aside a few strands of hair stuck together by dried blood.
“You’re going to need stitches.”
“How many?”
“Five at minimum. No more than seven. Does that worry you?”
“No. I’m curious,” he replied with a small smile.
You asked a nurse for a suture kit and began cleaning the wound. The gauze turned red almost immediately.
“Was it at least worth it?”
“Sorry?”
“Did you catch the bad guy?” you clarified.
In situations like these, you usually tried to keep the patient talking to distract them from the pain they were about to feel.
“Huh, yeah. Right after he shoved me, my partner got him. But the blood pouring out of my head didn’t leave much room for celebrating.”
“Scalp wounds bleed a lot,” you commented when you noticed he was still watching you carefully as you prepared the supplies. “It looks worse than it is.”
“I know. Approximately five percent of cardiac output goes to the head while at rest.”
You looked up.
“Did you Google that on the way here?”
“I read it in a medical textbook years ago.”
You had to admit that answer caught you off guard, and suddenly he became twice as interesting as he had been moments before.
“So you’re a smart guy.”
“I wouldn’t... put it that way. I just like learning.”
“Learning what? Medicine?”
“Anything, really.”
A shy smile appeared on Reid’s face.
You were already holding the lidocaine injection, along with an apology written all over your expression.
“This is going to hurt a little, okay? Just a tiny pinch.”
Spencer nodded.
You began injecting around the wound, and felt guilty every time you heard him exhale sharply from the discomfort.
When you were finished, about a minute later, you studied him to make sure he was alright.
“We’ll wait for it to kick in. Barely hurt at all, right?”
Even though both of you knew you were lying, he agreed anyway, and you rewarded him with a smile.
Something about him made you want to speak the way you were now—not condescendingly, but gently.
“So what do you study if you want to end up chasing criminals?”
“There are a lot of career paths that fit the profile. It depends on your specialty.”
“What did you study?”
“Psychology. Sociology. And a few other things.”
You were threading the needle when you glanced over.
“‘A few other things’?”
“I have several PhDs.”
Now you looked up completely.
“Several?”
“Three.”
“That is not a normal number of PhDs,” you joked, and apparently he found it funny.
By then, you had moved to stand beside him.
“I need you to stay still.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Good. Try to keep that up for the next five minutes.”
He turned out to be an exceptionally obedient patient.
Over the next several minutes, you could barely hear him breathe. Unlike when you administered the anesthetic, he showed no signs of discomfort.
A while later, you tied off the final stitch and examined the wound.
“You’re going to have a scar,” you remarked casually.
You finished cleaning the area and placed fresh gauze over it, hoping he might have a slightly less miserable day. As much as anyone who had just received stitches could.
You stepped back in front of him before continuing.
“As general instructions, keep the wound clean and dry for the next twenty-four hours. After that, you can wash it with water and mild soap, but no scratching your head.”
“Understood.”
“And I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t hit your head again.”
Your patient laughed softly.
“That usually depends on other people.”
“Then try surrounding yourself with less violent people.”
You grabbed a sheet of paper and started writing down instructions.
“If you experience dizziness, blurred vision, vomiting, severe headaches, or any unusual symptoms, come back to the ER immediately.”
“Understood.”
“It’ll hurt once the anesthetic wears off,” you added. “Tylenol should help. And you’ll need to come back in about seven to ten days to have the stitches removed.”
The man’s expression shifted slightly.
“That might be a problem.”
“Why?”
“I’m only passing through New Jersey.”
You frowned without realizing it.
“You don’t work here?”
“No. My unit is based in Quantico.”
You nodded slowly.
“Well, then you don’t have to come back to this hospital specifically. Any doctor can remove the stitches. A clinic, a hospital, even your primary care physician back in Virginia.”
“That makes things much easier.”
“Although I would appreciate it if you didn’t decide to remove them yourself.”
A look somewhere between confusion and disbelief crossed his face.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“You’d be surprised how many people do.”
He smiled again.
The curve of his lips was small, but enough to soften the seriousness of his features.
Now that you had time to really look at him, you noticed he had very nice eyes.
There was something strangely pleasant about him—something you couldn’t quite identify.
Maybe it was the attentiveness with which he listened, or how sincere he seemed every time he spoke.
Whatever it was, you found yourself holding his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“Can I do anything else for you, Spencer?”
“No. You’ve already done more than enough. Thank you, really.”
You gathered the empty wrappers and bloodstained gauze from the tray.
“I hope you feel better soon. I’m sorry you had to go through this.”
A gentle expression appeared on his face.
“Oh, it wasn’t your fault. It was very kind of you to help me.”
You looked down briefly, unable to stop a small smile.
“I’m just doing my job.”
At that exact moment, your pager vibrated in your pocket with its familiar beep.
A case.
When you looked up one last time, you found Reid watching you with curiosity.
“Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Agent.”
“You too, Doctor.”
You left the cubicle and hurried down the hallway. The constant sounds of monitors, phones, and conversations blended together around you as you checked the pager message.
By the time you reached the Diagnostics Department, House was already leaning against his desk, tossing a ball in one hand.
“Why did you take so long?”
He didn’t even bother looking up.
“I was working. Doing your job, actually.”
Foreman laughed from the conference table.
“She’s got a point.”
“Nobody asked you,” House shot back.
You dropped the file onto the table harder than necessary and collapsed into a chair.
“Cuddy sent me to treat an FBI agent.”
“And did he survive?” House asked.
“He only needed a few stitches in his head.”
“What a tragedy.”
You shook your head as you opened the folder.
“Besides, he was probably the cutest guy I’ve seen in months.”
The room fell silent for a second.
Foreman raised an eyebrow.
“Wow.”
Cameron looked up from the lab results she had been reviewing.
“That cute?”
“Maybe not conventionally attractive. But he was to me.”
Chase pointed at himself.
“And what about me?”
All three of them stared at him.
“What about you?” Foreman asked.
“Well, if we’re going to start ranking people...”
“Don’t do this,” Cameron said, hiding a smile.
“I’m just saying, I find it offensive that I had to find out this way.”
“Poor Chase,” Foreman commented. “You’ve just been replaced by an ER patient.”
“I wasn’t even competing,” Chase defended himself.
“And you still lost,” House added, finally joining in.
Chase shot them an offended look.
“You’re all terrible people.”
“We know,” the blue-eyed doctor replied.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
“I don’t even know why I told you that.”
“Because you’re in love,” House said.
“I am not in love.”
“Have you forgotten his name already?”
You opened your mouth to answer.
And stopped.
Spencer.
You remembered his name far too well.
House smirked triumphantly.
“Uh-huh.”
“Shut up.”
You picked up the new case file and tried to focus on the test results in front of you.
But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept drifting back to hazel eyes, a shy smile, and a federal agent who was far too intelligent for his own good.
You wondered if he had already left.
And, without meaning to, you also wondered if you would ever see him again.
