a/n: i hope you enjoy :)) more fluff! also, REBLOG! if you enjoyed this, reblogging it helps other people see it !
You’re running late, terribly late, and it’s raining.
You knew that biking was a bad idea. While it’s only September, rainy season has come early. Normally, you like the rain. There’s something tranquil about sitting inside while it trickles down the windows, the chill of the air reminding you to take it easy. This is different, though. The wind is biting and cold, and the sky is darkened by the thick layer of clouds overhead. It feels like you haven’t seen the sun in years, despite the memory of a crisp, balmy summer fresh in your mind. You blink against the downpour, trying to avoid being hit by a car on your commute to work. Knowing your boss, worker’s comp won’t exactly cover your medical expenses. Luckily, it’s barely five in the morning, and there are as few cars on the streets of Quantico as there are bikes, meaning none. As your tires squeal against the wet pavement, you’re distinctly aware of the fact that you should really just suck it up and buy a car.
You started picking up morning shifts three weeks ago, after Sandy had her baby and told you she couldn’t come in early anymore. They aren’t that bad; despite how busy it gets, you know how to handle a rush. Your good regulars make it worth it, with kind smiles and polite tips. In their absence, you rely on a heard-earned tolerance to men yelling at you for making their coffee wrong. Between your afternoon classes and your new schedule, it works.
There’s a little magic, in the mornings. You enjoy the brief moments of solitude you manage to coax out of sunrise, before customers come in and ask for complicated cappuccinos and pastries that are out of stock. But this morning is totally void of the small happinesses you seek, and disappointment is already sour on your tongue.
By the time you round the final corner and spot the storefront, there's already a customer waiting outside. Fuck. You hop off your bike a few feet away and unclip your helmet, trying not to appear too flustered as you fish your keys out of your pocket.
“Sorry about the wait,” You call out, walking your bike towards the storefront and pressing your phone into your side. The man straightens, spooked by your presence, and it’s only when he looks up from his watch that you realize who it is.
Your favorite regular.
You try really, really hard not to play favorites. You’re terrible at remembering names, and the whole pseudo-relationship between barista and coffee drinker is a notoriously confusing one. Typically, you offer most of your customers an obligatory smile, and you remember their orders. A mom in a green SUV comes in every Thursday to order an iced chai latte, and she’ll gush to you about her daughter’s soccer games. There’s a prosecutor at the courthouse down the road who tips you double if you remember to sprinkle cinnamon on his coffee without being asked; when you told him you’re in law school, he winked and told you that you'd make a great lawyer. A gaggle of teenage boys come in on Friday afternoons and order the caffeinated equivalent of milkshakes, and you watch them resist the urge to order coffee cake along with it. Occasionally, you’ll silently use your employee discount. Your boss doesn’t catch on, and in your quest to quit caffeine you don’t use the coupon much anyways. In your own way, you know them, and they know nothing about you.
But how can’t you play favorites?
His name is Spencer, and he’s a cop, albeit the strangest cop you know. The gun on his belt, which thoroughly frightened you the first time you noticed it, sticks out like a sore thumb against his usual sweet, timid demeanor. He orders the same thing every time—one cream, two sugars—but you can never predict when he's going to come in, or how long he'll stay. He usually brings a book or three and perches at the bar, reading them quickly and offering you a genuine goodbye when he leaves. Every one of your coworkers has a crush on him, for obviously nerdy reasons, and you refuse to blame them for this. You’re usually not the one to pour his coffee, but you notice when he’s there and mourn when he’s not. He’s incessantly likable, and you desperately want to know him.
Now, looking at him, he's taller up close. His hair, which is either slicked back intentionally or with the dampness of rain, is tucked behind glasses. You stammer, cheeks flushing with heat as you realize you’ve been staring.
“Oh. Hey, Spencer. My bad.”
"No worries. I’m pretty early.” He says, sneaking another glance at his watch. It’s on the inside of his wrist, and you suppress a smile as you push the door open, gesturing to let him know he can follow you inside. The sound of water dripping on the tile floor is a sad refrain, but you don't mind hearing it as he watches you hang up your raincoat.
“How long have you been waiting? I’m the one who's late."
He's seated at the bar, now, and seems preoccupied with drying off the messenger bag he carries with him everywhere. You’re tying your apron at your waist, ignoring the reality that the coffee is nowhere near ready, when he meets your eye.
“Six hundred sixty seven seconds, and counting. But it’s no trouble, really. I like the rain.” The frown on his face as he rakes his fingers through his mussed hair tells another story about his distaste for rain, but you don’t call him on it. Instead of attempting mental long division to figure out how long he was outside, you busy yourself in flicking the coffee machines on, refilling the ice bin, then leaning on the edge of the counter.
“The usual?”
He nods, a crooked smile playing on his lips, and you start pulling an espresso shot for his drink. It should be peculiar, to be alone with him, but it feels almost natural. He tells you about the origins of concentrated coffee as opposed to diluted mixtures, and his voice carries over the whir of the espresso machine. After stirring in sugar, you watch the creamer bloom across the top of the latte, handing it to him with a smile.
“Thanks.”
He tries it, a familiar grin spreading across his face. You try not to get your hopes up. In the past, he usually opens a book and you resume your tasks. Instead, he meets your eye, an unreadable glimmer in his eye.
“You know, I try to recreate this at home. The coffee. It never comes out right.”
You shrug, wiping at the counter absentmindedly. To be frank, the coffee isn’t that great, and you’re not sure you’re the best barista. Still, you smile.
“It’s just practice. I’m sure if you keep at it you’ll make something you like.”
The bewildered look on his face tells you that he is good at most things on the first try, which on anyone else is aggravating but on Spencer, endearing. You laugh as he sips the drink again, shaking his head.
“It’s just not the same as when you make it. I think I’ll stick with it.”
It’s totally impersonal. It’s just small talk. Yet you cannot quell the spark of excitement and pride in your chest at his compliment. You flush, averting your eyes, but before the silence can linger you pose a question.
“How did you know that? About the espresso?”
He takes a long pause before he responds, a little sheepish.
“I read a lot,” He says, and you get the feeling that he is leaving something out. Instead of prying, you rest your elbows on the counter and cradle your head in your hands.
“Like, literature? I was an English major, in school. Do you have a favorite?”
His face lights up, and you make a mental note to somehow, someday see that expression again.
“Yeah, actually. The Sign of Four, by—“
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I read it in my sophomore year.” You interject, hoping that your enthusiasm for British crime literature isn’t too contagious, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to do the opposite of mind—he jumps into a discussion of the book’s themes and characters, and how it’s his favorite of all stories involving Sherlock Holmes.
As he speaks, pausing every few sentences to confirm you’re following, you watch. Even as you poke around the cash register, nodding to let him know you’re listening, you watch through your periphery. His voice feels like something warm, something to cling to, and it wraps around you as you make your way through the morning’s tasks. Miraculously, both you and Spencer remain uninterrupted, the typical morning rush replaced with sweet solitude. It’s a few more minutes before he reaches the end of his train of thought, hands gesticulating wildly and expression bright.
“I mean, between juxtaposition of the obvious portrayal of wealth and opulence and the social commentary on class and imperialism, I think it’s a perfect story. Truly.” He pauses to catch his breath, fiddling with the empty cup in his hands, and reddens.
“Sorry. I got a little carried away.”
“No, don’t say that. I like listening to you.”
You mean it. Maybe that’s what scares you—the way the words slip out of your mouth, a quick aside as you count dollar bills. You freeze, trying to keep your cool as you watch him redden.
You mention your favorite book, and of course he’s read it. It’s easy, this back and forth, and he sprinkles facts and statistics into the conversation like cinnamon, a welcome addition in anything sweet. It’s remarkable, how much he knows, how easily he works abstract conversations into the mundane. It should feel academic, philosophical, and while you’re a fan of both you’ve never been this innately interested in either.
Eventually, the moment has to end. A very frazzled yet relieved woman enters the shop and orders a triple-shot-double-caramel upside down latte, which you resist the urge to tell her doesn’t exist. Spencer carefully extracts a book from his bag, leafing through it ridiculously quickly as more customers trickle in.
“Thank God you’re here. It’s busy.”
Anthony, your coworker and arguable best friend, emerges from the back room just as the lobby begins to feel like a can of sardines. You’re handing out croissants and americanos as quickly as you can, but the laundry list of orders shortens only marginally. When you look back towards the seat at the bar, your heart falls. He’s gone, but he’s left a book behind.
Later, when things have calmed down and you have a spare moment, you take the book into your hands. It’s bruised, battered beyond belief, and you catch a glimpse of annotations inside. It’s a copy of The Hounds of Baskervilles. You grin into the empty lounge, a slight pep in your step as you return to the register.
Spencer Reid is many things, but he is not often late.
JJ and Derek notice first, his desk empty and coffee mug untouched even as the minutes tick past nine o’clock. Sure, maybe the metro was delayed, or his car wouldn’t start. There are hundreds of plausible explanations for his absence, and JJ desperately wants to believe them over the more grisly reasons for his absence.
“Where’s Reid?”
Hotch emerges from his office around nine thirty, case file in hand and appearing only slightly perturbed. JJ shrugs, trying to dilute the panic in her chest as the group grows more and more tense.
“Is he okay?”
“I should call him.”
Derek and JJ speak at the same time, their voices overlapping as they both reach for their phones. JJ dials him quickly, and Morgan crosses his arms over his chest. This is very strange; very out of character, and at worst very concerning.
“Voicemail.”
It’s remarkable. A team with every crime statistic at their fingertips ignores the odds in favor of a quickly advancing panic.
“He could just be—“
Emily seems calm, offering a suggestion from her desk. Derek shoots her a look—in other circumstances she’d object, but she falls silent in favor of joining the group in silently worrying, trying to avert their eyes from the bullpen’s entrance.
The elevator dings, and each head turns as if it’s on a synchronized swivel.
Spencer’s inside, looking a little drenched in rain but wearing a shit-eating grin like a badge of honor. He stumbles towards his desk, his face falling once he spots Derek’s expression.
“Where have you been?”
JJ is the first to ask, lightly punching him in the arm. He rubs the spot absently as he sets his satchel down, smoothing his sweater as the grin from before returns.
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pairing: spencer reid x reader
word count: 2kish
warnings: none
a/n: hiiiii sorry for the hiccup earlier but im here! hope u enjoy more from these two dorks and if you do, REBLOG it helps me out tremendously
—
It’s a chilly October morning when he surprises you.
The past month has been…typical. Spencer comes in more often, now, popping in quickly to exchange a book and pick up a drink. You don’t always see him; you aren’t always up front, at the register. You aren’t always alone, either, and the breakfast rush isn’t the best setting for long, deep discussions. These circumstances; missed opportunities and ‘finally’s and distance, all add to the feeling that there is something to share between you. Something to look forward to.
It’s a Tuesday morning, and you’ve just turned on the neon ‘open’ sign when you catch sight of him. He’s let his hair grow out a little, brown locks curling around his collar, and it suits him. Your eyes drift down to his hands, and to your surprise he’s holding a miniature pumpkin.
“Is that a pumpkin?” You call out, immediately regretting the obvious ‘yes’ answer that he’s going to give you. After he reaches the front and sinks into his usual seat, he nods.
“Sort of. It’s actually a gourd, just a small variety called Jack Be Little.”
Of course he knows. You smile in spite of yourself, shaking off how endearing the sight is. He sets the pumpkin—gourd—down on the bar, giving it a light pat before turning back to you.
“Any relation to the rhyme? Isn’t that a Christmas thing?”
He considers it for a moment, sitting at the bar.
“I don’t think so. This variety originated in 1989, so I think it’s more likely in reference to the carving tradition. Good catch, though.”
You nod, lacing your fingers together as you listen.
“Did you just pick that up? It’s a little early in the season for street vendors.”
“It’s for my desk. At Quantico. I, uh, love Halloween, and I wanted to bring some extra decorations in.”
“Are you going to name them?”
It’s a rare sight, but confusion flashes across Spencer’s face. He narrows his eyes as he laughs, glancing between you and the pumpkin.
“Name them?”
“Do you not name your Jack O’Lanterns?” You ask, incredulous. With anyone else, you’d feel embarrassed. Spencer doesn’t seem perturbed, instead he nods, cataloging your response and looking down at the pumpkin.
“No, not usually. She does look like an Ada, though.”
You laugh, your hand flying to your mouth to cover the sound.
“Like Ada Lovelace?”
His eyes light up at your recognition and he nods exuberantly. The moment passes and your eyes fall on Ada, and how easily she fits in. Your eyes drift across the store. You insisted that Twilight Time decorate for October, even when the owner, Tyler, objected.
“We’re trying to keep a consistent, clean image. I don’t think twinkle lights will help.”
Tyler. Sweet, sweet Tyler—he got you this job, and never let you forget that you owed him. A venture capitalist turned reluctant business owner, he was a constant pain in the ass.
“I just think something cozy will help people feel welcomed. If they stick around they’ll buy more. Just a few little bats? I won’t even put out any candy.”
You lied. There are more than a few bats tacked to the ceiling, a candy bowl at each counter and three long strings of yellow twinkle lights hung around the walls. Autumn is your favorite season, and you refuse to let it pass absently. Spencer seems to enjoy the decor, too, following your gaze towards the cauldron of coffee creamer.
“When did you guys fly in?”
He shrugs, telling you a little too quickly that the team arrived at home the evening before. You take the hint and leave him be. He’s always been hesitant to discuss his work—you only figured out that he’s an FBI agent by process of elimination, and subsequently felt a little foolish for believing that he was just a very bookish and underdressed cop—so you leave him be. After Googling him, you figure out that his line of work makes for less than pleasant morning conversations.
“Can I try something new today?”
You pause. He’s never done this before, not in any of the time you’ve known him and presumably not before. It shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, but it catches you off guard.
“If that’s too complicated or bothersome you don’t have to, I just—“
“Spence. I’d be honored. What’s the occasion?”
You have to cut him off. The look of panic and regret on his face after you falter is one you aren’t fond of seeing, and luckily it fades once you agree. You’re a little nervous, which makes you feel ridiculous. You know how to make coffee. It’s still to consider what to make.
“Uh, there isn’t one.” He scratches behind his ear, flushed with either embarrassment or the cold. You nod, picking up a cup.
“Do you want to stick with the fall theme?” You mumble, peeking behind you to inventory the ingredients you have in stock. While Spencer definitely has a sweet tooth, he doesn’t strike you as the pumpkin spice latte type. When you look towards him again, his whole face is alight with excitement.
“Yes! I love fall, actually. I don’t usually get to celebrate Halloween, though.”
Sadness peaks in your chest. He deserves a good Halloween. You write his name on the edge of the cup, scribbling a smiley face after the ‘r’.
“You like cinnamon?” He nods, and you crack a Cheshire Cat smile. You know just the drink to make, and hopefully he’ll enjoy it. It keeps you busy for a few minutes, but before long you’ve added an espresso shot to a chai latte and dusted cinnamon over top. The perfect fall drink, in your humble opinion.
“Here. It’s called a dirty chai. Coffee and chai with cream.”
You hand it to him, mourning the loss of the warm cup after he takes it. Your hands are cold; this entire building runs chilly, and the owner refuses to do anything about it. Spencer probably has statistics on the dangers of space heaters, but in the moment they’re all you want. He smiles down at the cinnamon, and looks up excitedly.
“Chai means tea in three languages. Originally, chai was called masala chai, meaning ‘spiced tea’, but they’re interchangeable in the English lexicon. I’ve never tried it.” He takes a sip and you watch, a little nervous. His eyes widen and you worry that it might be too bitter, or have too much of a kick, but he smiles and your fears wash away.
“This is incredible.”
You exhale, a hand over your heart in half-feigned relief. A tiny voice in your head reprimands you for this. You remake drinks day in and day out. You’ve learned that when a customer doesn’t like a drink, it’s not personal. In fact, it’s the opposite—plenty of people are very good at finding the worst qualities in anything, including coffee. You shake the feeling off. So what if you care that Spencer likes what you make?
“I’ve never considered putting cinnamon and coffee together. It works.” He sips at the drink again, and pride swells in your chest. You’ve done well.
“I put cinnamon in my coffee, too. I’m glad you like it.”
He seems to consider this, letting the cup rest against his cheek as a smile spreads across his face. It’s a contagious smile, one you’re committed to replicating, and you feel your cheeks heat as you share it.
“Have you read anything lately?”
You ask, just to see him pull a book out his satchel and hand it to you. It’s Foucault, specifically The Order of Things. You shake the memory of your philosophy classes away, smiling.
“Linguistics, huh? I’m sure that comes in handy with the job.”
He nods, and launches into an explanation of how the collective view of research and science influences….well, science and you watch, enthralled. In essence, he’s arguing about the nature of argument, and while some of the specifics are lost on you you’re happy that he lingers to talk. You can even pepper in questions, “What about experts?” and “Isn’t some discourse had just for the sake of discourse?” He falters at this, and you grin wickedly at the chance to defend your point.
“Like, I can argue with you about something, and not really believe in it all that much. It’s just for the sake of argument. A new perspective.”
You get the sense that Spencer does not often argue in things he doesn’t believe in. You savor these moments, the low course of laughter and animated discussion before his phone buzzes. You wave him off with a smile, and hope he comes back soon. His book is tucked safely in your backpack, where you’ll whisk it home and return it to a growing stack of…extracurricular material.
Later, in a break room thousands of miles away, he pokes around in a mug cabinet. For some reason, there’s a half-used bottle of oregano and a container of cream of tartar. Too focused to contemplate the reasoning behind their presence, he reaches into the back, emerging victorious with a bottle of probably expired cinnamon.
