summary: Your Uncle Rossi didn’t tell you there was going to be a handsome genius with an unending amount of facts about everything at the dinner he was hosting for his coworkers. And you really wish he would have, because you probably would’ve chosen to wear something more…appealing.
word count: 3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (see about section below) but nothing too crazy and its not a kink thing i promise.
about: my idea is that this takes place sometime around season 3, as my headcannon for reader is to be fairly young, probably 18 or 19, so in my head i feel most comfortable with a 24/25 year old spencer. i also had glasses reid in mind while watching this because he’s just so cute and i know 18/19 year old me couldn’t get enough of him lol
You moved in with your rich uncle David Rossi a few months after turning 15. It was a strange thing, as you abruptly lost your parents, and you moved states away to live with your rich godfather who the last time you saw was five years ago at your older brother’s graduation. You barely knew the guy, you knew nothing of Virginia, and honestly, it was weird.
It was strange being in a four bedroom mansion with a man you barely knew, albeit are related to, in a new state with people you didn’t know. For the first few years he was home all day every day, but last year, your Uncle Dave returned to the FBI in the unit he founded: the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
He was much busier now. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for weeks on end. But you were older now, out of high school and working on a journalism degree at an online university. You warmed up to your uncle over the years, after all, he’s been all you’ve known as a parental figure for the last five years. And as much as you thought you wouldn’t in the beginning, you’ve come to love him.
_____
You got back home at around 8:00pm. You had a test that had to be taken with a proctor today, and ended up meeting some friends for dinner afterwards. You were a bit intimidated to walk into the house. Your Uncle Dave had warned you that he was hosting a dinner party for his team tonight at 7:00, so you knew there was a dining room full of professional FBI agents waiting for you to walk through in your flannel pajama pants and super old grey Doctor Who hoodie with paint stains on it.
But you had to go inside, surely FBI agents weren’t judgemental, and if they were, well, whoops. You take a deep breath before opening the front door, a loud suction sound echoing as you closed it from the weight of the giant door that leads into the giant house. You hear the banter of the team quiet as you enter. It was almost silent, but there was one voice that continued on.
You heard a voice deeper and more sharp speak over the other, the words “Reid.” filling the dining room, hushing the other voice.
Your uncle had mentioned Reid multiple times over the last year since he returned to the FBI. He described him as a genius, but you weren’t so sure. I mean, of course he was probably incredibly smart to be in the FBI, but you were sure your uncle and the rest of the team were just as smart as him, people were likely just impressed by him because he’s the youngest on the team.
You hear your uncle’s voice echo from the dining room. “Y/N? Is that you?”
You blink, almost wishing he didn’t acknowledge you. “Yeah,” you respond.
“Why don’t you come in here, I want to introduce you to the team,” he says.
You knew he wasn’t going to let you leave the corridor without stopping by. You take your hair out of the bun you have it in. At least if you’re going to be introduced to FBI agents your hair could look good.
You walk into the dining room. At the long table you see a tall man in a black suit and tie with dark hair. His face looks serious, but his eyes greet you. “Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief,” Rossi introduces him as.
“Hotch is fine,” the man echoes, giving a polite nod.
“Derek Morgan,” your attention shifts as your uncle continues around the table. The man sitting beside Hotch is tall as well, muscular, and bald. But he pulls it off well. He leans back comfortably in his chair, one arm draped over the back of it. Unlike Hotch's stern professionalism, he looks completely at ease. His sleeves are rolled up slightly, his tie loosened just enough to suggest that dinner parties aren't something he takes particularly seriously.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, smiling.
"You too,” you say, smiling back.
There's something immediately easy about him, the kind of person who could probably hold a conversation with anyone.
"Derek thinks he's charming," a woman across the table says.
Morgan points at her.
"Ya think?"
Your uncle shakes his head. “That’s Emily Prentiss,” he says, the woman who spoke smiles. She has dark hair that looks like it always does what she wants it to do. She looks effortlessly put together.
“Hi,” she says. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
You blink. "My name's come up?"
Emily glances toward Rossi. "Occasionally."
Your uncle looks mildly offended. "I don't talk about her that much."
"No," Morgan agrees. "Mostly just things like, 'My niece is using all my expensive paint supplies,' or 'My niece left seventeen coffee mugs in the living room.'"
"It was like four,” you say.
"Jennifer Jareau, JJ," your uncle continues.
The blonde woman beside Emily offers a warm smile. She seems kind immediately. Not fake nice. Actually nice.
"It's good to meet you," she smiles.
"You too."
Then your uncle gestures farther down the table. "Penelope Garcia."
The woman lights up."At last!" You blink. Garcia points at you dramatically. "The mysterious niece."
"There is nothing mysterious about me,” you giggle.
"Honey, that’s exactly what a mysterious person would say," she says.
You laugh.
Garcia beams like she's accomplished something. She looks exactly like the kind of person who fills every room she walks into. Bright colors. Bright smile. Bright personality. Everything about her feels larger than life.
"It's nice to meet you," she says.
"You too."
"Also, I love the pajama pants," she says, her voice so genuine, almost like she’s envious of them.
You glance down.
"You're the only one."
"Nonsense. Confidence is sexy."
“Watch it,” your uncle says. He’s been very overprotective of you since you moved in. A little too overprotective in your opinion, but he didn’t want to hear it.
He gestures to the last person at the table. “And of course, Dr. Spencer Reid.”
Your attention drifts toward the youngest man at the table. Spencer Reid. The genius. The rambler. The one your uncle complains about, albeit affectionately.
He's quieter now that the attention is on him. A little awkward. A little more than a little awkward when she gives a small wave.
His eyes flick toward you before quickly looking away again.
Then back.
Then away.
And that's when you notice him looking at your hoodie.
Not your face.
Your hoodie.
Specifically the faded blue police box printed across the front.
His eyes widen. "...Is that a first edition Bad Wolf Tour hoodie?"
You blink. There is absolutely no chance anyone should know that.
"What?" you say, shocked.
"The stitching," he points. "The original merchandise run had different lettering than the later reproductions."
The entire room goes silent. You stare at him. Spencer stares at you.
"You know that?" you finally ask him.
Spencer looks confused. "Of course."
You immediately turn toward your uncle. "Why have you never told me the FBI hired cool people?"
Morgan nearly chokes on his drink. The thought of someone referring to Spencer Reid as cool was asinine.
Spencer visibly brightens. "You watch Doctor Who?"
You laugh. "Watch it? I own a sonic screwdriver."
Garcia gasps. "No."
"Yes," you say, smiling.
"No," she says in the same tone.
"Yes."
Spencer pushes his glasses up. "You own which one?"
You pause, then smile. "The Fourth Doctor's."
Spencer immediately points. "Best one."
"Exactly,” you say
"Exactly."
Garcia slams a hand onto the table. "OH MY GOD."
Emily starts laughing. "There's three of them."
Morgan looks horrified.
"There are three of them," JJ agrees.
Rossi looks deeply exhausted, like he regrets inviting you, but of course, in a humorous way. Rossi takes a seat next to Hotch, leaving an open seat between him and Spencer, and across from Garcia.
“Please can she stay,” Garcia says, facing your uncle and motioning to the chair in front of her.
He blinks and looks at you. “It’s up to you,” he says.
Garcie looks at you, putting her hands together in a fist and doing a begging motion.
You smile, and pull out the chair. “For a little while,” you say.
Maybe twenty minutes later Spencer is explaining the history of Gallifreyan language structures while you and Garcia are actively participating. Not pretending to participate, actually participating.
Which is apparently a completely new experience for Spencer. Most people tune him out after about three minutes. You ask follow-up questions. He answers them. Then you answer one of his. Then Garcia’s.
Then suddenly you're discussing science fiction literature, paradoxes, alternate timelines, and whether the Weeping Angels or the Silence are more terrifying.
The rest of the table slowly stops paying you guys any attention altogether.
Eventually Morgan stands. "I'm going outside."
"Same," Emily follows.
Then Rossi and Hotch.
JJ lasts another five minutes before quietly escaping too.
Nobody ele announces it. They just leave one by one. Until only you, Spencer, and Garcia remain.
"So wait,” Garcia looks at you. "You actually collect stuff?"
You grin, "Want to see?"
Garcia is already standing.
You lead them around the house and upstairs to your room. You linger on the doorknob before opening it, turning to face them. “Now, when Uncle Dave told me he was inviting you guys over I specifically asked for him to leave my room out if he did a tour. So you two should feel extra special.”
You open the door, and you watch as Spencer’s eyes widen and Garcia’s face all but explodes.
A shelf spans one wall: books, action figures, collectibles, replica props, years worth of obsessive collecting fills the shelves.
Spencer walks closer. His eyes land on a rare figure. Then another. Then another. "You have the discontinued Face of Boe set," he states.
"Still in the box," you brag.
"They only made twelve thousand," he says.
You smirk. “I know.”
"You know,” he says, in awe. Spencer looks genuinely impressed. Which somehow feels better than it should.
“Can I touch?” Penelope asks, looking at you wide-eyed.
“As long as you don’t break,” you smile.
Garcia is already holding a collectible and taking pictures. "You are officially my favorite Rossi."
“Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser,” you joke.
_____
Downstairs, the rest of the team is sitting on the patio chatting and listening to faint excited yelling coming from the second floor.
Morgan glances up. "Should we be worried?"
Rossi takes a long sip of wine, "No."
"Really?" Morgan says?
"About what?" Rossi asks.
There’s a pause.
"...Maybe Reid?" Morgan says sternly.
Emily nearly chokes on her drink. "What?"
Rossi looks up.
Morgan is staring toward the second floor. "You heard me."
"You think Reid is a threat?" JJ asks, sounding amused.
Morgan shrugs. "Normally? No."
A loud burst of laughter echoes faintly from upstairs. Garcia's unmistakable voice follows. Then Spencer's. Then yours.
Morgan points upward. "Tonight? Maybe."
Rossi's eyes narrow slightly. The sound of Spencer laughing isn't unusual. The sound of Spencer laughing repeatedly is. Emily notices the expression immediately.
"Oh no," JJ says looking at Rossi.
"What?" Rossi asks.
"You just profiled something."
"I didn't profile anything."
"You absolutely profiled something," Emily says, staring at Rossi.
Hotch quietly takes a sip of his drink. "He's profiling it right now," he says.
"I am sitting on my patio," Rossi states.
"You've got the look," Hotch says
"What look?" Dave is starting to get annoyed.
"The look you get when you're about to tell us something nobody wants to hear,” JJ says.
Rossi looks toward the second floor again. The house falls quiet for a moment. Then another round of excited voices drifts downstairs. Spencer's voice, Your voice. Spencer's again. A pause. Your laugh. Rossi’s stomach drops.
Morgan grins. Rossi slowly turns toward him. “No,” he says.”
“No?” Morgan repeats.
Emily is trying not to smile. “You know,” she says, “now that I think about it…”
“Don’t,” Hotch says, trying to let the situation dissolve.
"She did sit next to him."
"Emily." Hotch says with a warning tone.
"And she's the only person I've ever met who voluntarily asked follow-up questions during one of Reid's monologues," Emily continues.
"Emily." Hotch scolds her this time.
"Several follow-up questions," Morgan adds.
"She was looking at him a lot,” JJ joins in.
"You think so too?" Rossi asks.
"I'm just making observations,” she says.
"You're all making observations with no proof to back them up.” Rossi says, trying to lie to himself.
Upstairs another burst of laughter rings through the house.
Emily winces. "Yeah, that's not helping."
"No," Morgan agrees. "It's really not."
Rossi's jaw tightens. It isn't that Spencer is a bad guy. If anything, that's the problem. Spencer is brilliant, kind, a little awkward, and completely incapable of manipulating anyone. If Rossi had to pick someone on the team to trust with his life, Spencer would make the list.
That doesn't mean he wants him anywhere near his niece.
Those are entirely different things.
"You guys are overthinking this," Hotch says.
"They're just talking,” Rossi says, siding with Hotch.
"They've been talking for almost an hour,” JJ adds.
"They have a shared interest. And Garcia is there"
Morgan snorts. "A shared interest."That's how it starts."
"Unfortunately, he's right,” Emily says, siding with Morgan.
Rossi looks horrified. "You're all insane."
"Maybe," Emily says. "But if I walked upstairs right now and asked Garcia who Y/N has spent the entire night talking to, who do you think she'd say?"
Rossi doesn't answer. Because he already knows the answer. And he hates it. A lot.
Hotch finally sets down his glass. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."
Rossi relaxes slightly.
Then Hotch continues. "Yet…"
The relaxation immediately disappears. Rossi stands. The entire team watches him.
"Where are you going?" JJ asks.
"Checking on them." Rossi says.
Emily grins. "Checking on them,” she mocks.
"Yes."
"See? He hates it." Morgan laughs
"I do not hate it."
"You absolutely hate it."
Rossi pauses. "I have to believe it to hate it. And I don’t believe it."
That only makes everyone laugh harder as he heads back into the house, already preparing himself for whatever he's about to walk into upstairs.
_____
"Yeah, well Dave is kind of a loser," you joke.
The sound of someone in the doorway clearing their throat fills the room.
All three of you jump. Your uncle stands there with a glass of wine in one hand. "You invite people into your room and immediately start slandering me?" He says, a joking tone.
"You walked into my room uninvited,” you say.
"It's my house,” he states.
"It's my room,” you argue.
"It's my house."
"It's my room."
Garcia points between the two of you. "This is exactly how I imagined your relationship."
"You imagined our relationship?" you ask.
"Frequently,” she says.
Spencer laughs quietly. You immediately glance toward him. His hand flies up to cover his mouth like he hadn't meant to laugh out loud.
Which somehow makes it even cuter.
Not that you're thinking that.
At all.
Definitely not.
Your uncle notices. Because of course he does. He's a profiler. And unfortunately a good profiler. His eyes narrow slightly.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing,” he says.
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"It was a nothing face."
"It was absolutely not."
Rossi points toward Spencer. "You."
Spencer freezes. "What?"
"Stop encouraging her."
Spencer looks genuinely confused. "I haven't done anything."
"Exactly."
Emily appears behind Rossi. One look into the room and she immediately starts laughing. Morgan's head appears over Emily's shoulder.
Somehow your entire room has become a spectator sport.
Garcia immediately points. "Everybody out."
"You don't have authority here," Morgan says.
"I have passion."
"That's not the same thing."
"It should be."
While the argument continues, Spencer wanders toward your bookshelf. His attention lands on a worn hardcover sticking out from the shelf. His expression changes immediately.
"You have this?" He says in awe.
You glance over. "Oh, yeah I do."
The book. A first-edition collection of Isaac Asimov stories. You'd spent nearly a year hunting it down online.
"It took forever to find."
Spencer carefully pulls it from the shelf like he's handling a museum artifact. He holds it in front of him and looks toward you with puppy dog eyes.
Your heart does an annoying little thing.
"You've read it?” He asks, voice so delicate.
You snort. "I own it."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"Of course I've read it."
His eyes light up. And suddenly the rest of the room disappears again.
You spend the next ten minutes debating science fiction authors. Garcia contributes enthusiastically despite admitting she's only read half of them. Emily eventually drags Morgan back downstairs.
Until only Rossi remains leaning against the doorway.
Watching.
Spencer doesn't notice. He's too busy explaining why certain science fiction writers accidentally predicted modern technology. You don't notice either. You're too busy listening.
Actually listening.
Not politely waiting for him to finish. Not pretending to understand.
Listening. Asking questions. Arguing back Engaging.
Rossi watches the interaction for another minute. Then quietly smiles to himself. Because in the year he's worked with Spencer Reid, he's seen people react to him in one of three ways.
Confusion. Intimidation. Or boredom.
He's never seen someone look at Spencer like he's the most interesting person in the room. And judging by the way Spencer keeps glancing at you when he talks, he's never seen Spencer look at someone like that either.
Rossi takes a sip of wine. Then immediately decides this is absolutely not becoming his problem tonight. Unfortunately, he knows it's already too late. But maybe, in the morning, he can decide to forbid you from ever seeing the boy genius again.
Or he can at least try…
_____
Read Part 2 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: to any of my fans (joking tone, but on a real note i know most of you guys follow me for the Spencer Reid A-Z Series) i promise i will be posting more parts to that soon. but i also have a ton (over 100) recommendations in my inbox, and some of them i would really like to try to do, so i will be posting some one shots as well for a while. my inbox has some pretty old recommendations (as early as 2023) and i am aware that people often tend to fall in and out of being into fanfics and stuff, so i will likely not write from any specific requests from anything more than a year ago (2025). but please feel free to send me requests, either for my A-Z series or just for one shots and i will try my hardest to be much more timely about them for at least the next few months while i’m on summer break!
This is Part 30 of my Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Series, however it can also be read on it's own
summary: After you get kidnapped, Spencer calls on the BAU to help find you. By doing that, he learns a part of your life that you had hidden indescribably well, that even a team of FBI profilers, minus your uncle David Rossi, could've guessed.
word count: 11.2k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), kidnapping, violence, physical assault, blood, vomiting blood, regular vomiting, trauma, dead parents, murder mentions, references to past grief counseling, tobias hankel mentions, drug mentions (dilaudid), references to drug cravings, emotional distress, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, probably some other stuff too
_____
– Your POV –
It was a perfectly normal Saturday morning. You were driving to Spencer’s apartment on the same route you’ve driven so many times before. Spencer would probably know the exact number. You should ask him.
The sun was shining, traffic was light, and you were humming along to the random song on the radio.
Then your car started acting weird.
The engine sputtered. The temperature gauge shot up. You frowned, pulling over to the side of the road. You popped the hood, trying to see what was going on.
Before you could even get a good look, you heard gravel crunch behind your car. You turned around just as a man stepped out of a truck.
“Need some help?” he asked.
Before you could answer, everything went black.
_____
– Spencer’s POV –
She was 15 minutes late.
I check my phone. Nothing. Not a single call or text. She always calls when she was running late or in traffic.
I try calling her. It rings three times, then goes straight to voicemail.
That’s weird…
I try again. This time it doesn’t even ring, I’m just met with her voicemail.
Something is wrong.
I can feel my heart in my throat. And in my wrists. And in my temples. Everywhere. I stand up from the couch and pace the living room, my phone still clutched in my hands hard enough that my knuckles turn white. I feel like I’m going to pass out.
I go back to the couch and sit down. My knee shakes, I can’t stop it.
I call Rossi. He answers after an acceptable number of rings, no voicemail from him.
“Hey,” I say as soon as he answers. “Is Y/N still at home?”
“No? She told me she was going to your apartment,” Rossi replies, his voice calm. I wish I could be calm.
“She should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.”
“Is she in traffic?”
“S-she would’ve called. She always calls. S-something is wrong.”
It’s impossible for him to not have heard the tremors in my speech.
“Reid, slow down,” he says, trying to calm me. I appreciate the effort, but it doesn’t work. My brain is already sending the smell of old wood to my nose and the sound of Russian roulette cylinders clicking against my head to my ears.
I interrupt him before he can finish what he was going to say.
“Her phone is going straight to voicemail, Rossi. That’s weird. I’m going to look for her.”
“Alright, I’ll try to call her too.” His voice is a little more worried, but nothing that I am feeling. “Be safe, kid.”
Kid.
She liked it when Rossi called me ‘Kid.’
I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my ears. The drive along her usual route felt endless. Every red light made my knee bounce harder. Every car that looked vaguely like hers made my head jerk. Every stop sign made my heart sit heavy in my throat. Every mile without seeing her made my stomach feel tighter.
And it all dropped and stilled when I saw her car on the side of the road.
The door was open, all her stuff was still inside. Her keys, her bag, everything.
I slammed on the breaks and jumped out of my car, not even pulling off the road. I cross the street with my phone already to my ear, ringing Rossi.
“Dave, her car,” I spit into the phone.
“What?”
“It… It’s on the side of the road. She’s not in it. All her stuff…her keys…”
My voice cracked on the last word. I was shaking. I could feel it in my hands, my legs, my chest, everything. I started pacing back and forth beside her car, one hand in my hair, pulling at it without realizing.
Rossi’s voice came through the phone, tense this time. “Call Hotch and the rest of the team. I’m heading to the BAU right now. Take pictures of the car and get here as soon as possible.”
“O-Okay,” I say and hang up. This didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.
I took a few quick pictures of her car, my hands shaking still, probably causing terrible quality. I hurriedly get back in my car and drive as fast as I could without putting anyone in immediate danger. I was following traffic laws, but my mind was spiraling.
What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if–
I remember Rossi told me to call Hotch.
“Hotchner,” he answers, sounding the same as always.
“Hotch,” I swallow hard enough he could probably hear it. “I can’t find Y/N.”
“What happened?” His voice still sounds the same, but there is the smallest glint of concern, meaning he’s really concerned.
“Her…car. And her stuff…But…no her. Help.”
That was not a cohesive sentence.
My voice was shaking so badly. I could barely get the words out. I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to keep my mind occupied.
“I’ll call everyone in. You get here and be safe please. You sound a mess,” he says sternly. He was right, but I wanted, no needed to help.
“No!” I rebut. “I can help. Let me help.”
“Okay. You call Morgan and have him call Garcia. I’ll call JJ and Prentiss.”
That’s better than nothing. At least I’m not being completely useless. I compose myself the best I can, which isn’t very well, then call Morgan.
“What’s up, kid?” He answers, his voice calm.
“Morgan, something happened to Y/N.”
“What?” The calm is gone.
“She’s gone. All her stuff is still in her car.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“C-can you call Garcia?”
“Calling.”
I don’t even remember pulling into the BAU parking lot or going inside. All I know is now I’m sitting with the whole team at the briefing table and Rossi is standing above us holding a case file he brought.
The conference room is quieter than usual. Everyone is looking at me or Rossi. Mostly at me. Probably because I look a mess, and Rossi just looks tense. I truly admire his composure. My knee wont stop bouncing. It’s bouncing high enough it hits the table every few times. I know everyone notices.
Rossi cleaners his throat, standing in front of the evidence board. He looks surprisingly put together, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his jaw and the way his grip on the file is just a little too tight.
He clears his throat. “You guys are about to learn a lot about me,” Rossi says, his voice heavy and serious. “And a lot about Y/N.” He looks directly at me. “Stuff not even you know.
I swallow hard. I’m nervous. Because Rossi sounds serious. And this is scary.
My girlfriend is gone.
Rossi opens the file and holds up a photo of a house. “Three years ago, Y/N’s parents, or my brother and his wife, were murdered inside their house in New York. The man who did it, Dennis James, was caught at the scene and immediately arrested. Y/N and Logan came to live with me.”
The room is silent for a moment before Morgan finally speaks.
“Y/N’s parents were murdered?” His voice is low,
Even I didn’t know that.
“Yes, they were,” Rossi continues. “I always suspected a second attacker. My brother was an Elite Army Ranger who would not have been easily subdued by James. This needs to be the first thing we look into.”
“Has anyone checked on Logan?” JJ asks.
“We sent a plane to Spokane, he should be here around 1:30.”
“Good,” Hotch says, leaning forward. “Walk us through the timeline, Dave.”
“Y/N left my house this morning at about 7:45 to go to Spencer’s. Around 8:45, Spencer found her car abandoned on the side of the road. She’d only made it about a quarter of the way there. The door was open and her bag, wallet, and keys were still inside. Reid says there was no obvious signs of a struggle, but we’re gonna get forensics on it.”
“And her phone?” Morgan asks.
“S-straight to voicemail,” I answer, my voice cracking. “She always calls if she’s late. Always.”
Emily looks at me sympathetically. She doesn’t say anything.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know about her parents,” Garcia says quietly. I wonder if she sees herself. I know her parents passed when she was younger.
“You couldn’t have,” Rossi replies, voice steady. “She doesn’t talk about it. None of us really do, but now we have to.”
Hotch looks to the case file in Rossi’s hands. “What do we know about the original case?”
Rossi flips to another page in the file. “Dennis James was arrested at the scene. He confessed and said he did it alone and that was that. But the way my brother was killed…it never set right with me. He was a Ranger. James was a nobody with a petty crime record. I always suspected there was another person, but since James confessed, there wasn’t much more I could do.”
Morgan leans forward, his jaw clenched. “And now that second person is coming after Y/N three years later?”
“It looks that way,” Rossi says. “I let myself believe I was wrong. Garcia, can you start digging into James’s life in prison? Find everything.”
“On it,” Garcia says, standing up quickly. “I’ll find everything, I promise.”
The way Garcia looks at me when she leaves makes my throat thick. The way everyone looks at me makes me wish I was anywhere else. I can barely sit still. She’s been gone for an hour. What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she–
“Reid!”
Hotch’s stern voice jolts me to attention.
“Yes, Sir?” I answer.
“I need your head in this,” Hotch says seriously.
“I know,” I say, voice shaky. “I’m trying.”
I do know. And I am trying. I’m just not succeeding.
Hotch nods at me anyways, ‘I’m trying’ being a good enough answer for him. He stands up and looks around the table quickly.
“Alright,” he starts. “We’re working this as a standard abduction. Garcia is already looking into Dennis James. JJ, I need you to coordinate with local PD and find out if there’s any traffic cam footage from the area. Prentiss, I want you to run geographic profiling–”
I look at him weird. I always do geo profiling. His eyes meet mine, but he just continues talking.
“Rossi, stay here and start building the profile. Pull all you can on the original case.”
“Gotcha,” Rossi says, putting the photos and documents back into the file in his hands.
“Morgan and I are going to go to the scene. Reid, you’re coming with us, is that okay?”
Why was he asking? I nod anyway.
The drive back to her car feels endless. I do not want to go back there. I replay Hotch’s words in my head over and over again.
I need your head in this.
I know he does. More importantly, I know she does. It’s just hard. I keep getting distracted. I keep drumming my fingers against my thigh, trying to burn off the nervous energy. It’s not working. Nothing is working. I can’t stop thinking.
What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s–
“Reid,” Morgan says loudly to get my attention. He’s looking at me through the rearview mirror. He surely can tell that my head is not in this. “We need you with us, man.”
“I’m here,” I say, voice shaking.
I lie.
We pull up to the side of the road. Her car is still there. Her door is still open. Her bag is still on the passenger seat. Her keys are still in the ignition.
It looks like she just stepped out.
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
Hotch and Morgan get out of the car first. I just sit in the back, staring. Thinking. Tapping my fingers. Bouncing my knee. Preparing.
I’ve already been here. I’ve already seen this. There’s no direct sign of a struggle. No weapon, no blood, nothing that suggests she’s… everything points to her having left the scene ali–
I need to get out of this car.
I have to force my legs to move. They feel heavy. Too heavy. Everything feels heavy. My legs, my eyes, my heart, my voice… It’s all so much.
I approach her car. I just stand there. Staring.
The crime scene techs are already processing it. I just stand there. Staring.
Morgan is talking to one of the techs. I just stand there. Staring.
For a long, long time.
Hotch finally approaches me from behind. He comes up and stands directly to my side.
“Do you need to leave?” He asks.
“No,” I say quickly. “I can help.”
But I’m not helping. I’m just standing there. I’m just staring. I should be looking for something, anything, I know I should. But my head and my body are just…stuck.
“I know you’re worried, but you could be helping somewhere. I need you to try to be objective. Please.” Hotch’s voice is calm, but firm. I hate that he’s talking to me like this. Not because I think he’s being rude, he actually is being rather nice considering I’m just standing here doing absolutely nothing, but I just hate that this situation exists at all.
And I hate that I don’t know what to call it other than a ‘situation.’
“Go look for something. Anything,” Hotch tells me.
I nod and force myself to move. I walk around her car a few times, trying to see it as a crime scene instead of her car.
The hood is popped, but not open, almost like she was in the process of opening it when she was–
I open the hood. I look over the inside.
The radiator hose.
It’s cut. Not torn, cut. Cleanly. Like with a knife. Meaning this wasn’t a spur of the moment abduction. It wasn’t someone waiting for an opportunity. It was someone who had created one.
“I think I’ve got something,” I call out to Hotch. My voice is surprisingly more put together than it has been all morning. Hotch and Morgan both come over to me. “The radiator hose, it’s cut.”
“That’s a clean cut,” Morgan says. “He sabotaged the car.”
I keep walking around the car, I notice the tire tracks in the gravel. I look to Morgan who is following me to my left.
“There are two different sizes of tire tracks, but they’re spaced out like they’re from one vehicle,” I tell him.
“Like someone was driving on a spare?” Morgan asks.
“No… I’m thinking more like a heavy duty commercial vehicle.”
I pull out my phone to call Garcia. She doesn’t give one of her quirky greetings. I don’t know how to feel about that. But now is not the time to think about that.
“What? What can I do?” She says when she answers the phone.
“Garcia, I need you to compile a list of drivers of commercial vehicles with alternating tire sizing. Think dump trucks, semi trucks, anything multi-axle,” I tell her.
“On it…453 names.”
“Okay now cross reference those with Dennis James.”
“57.”
“That’s still too many…” I say.
I pull the phone away from my face for a moment. “Can we get a measurement of these tire tracks?” I call out.
One of the crime scene techs comes over and measures. I hover over him, reading the numbers out loud as he takes them, both for myself and for Garcia.
“The front tire is…about 15 inches wide,” I say, tip-toeing to get the best view possible. “The back is…about 22.5 inches.”
“Okay,” Garcia says, a little confused and drawn out. “What do you want me to do with that?”
“I…I don’t know. Can you figure out commercial vehicles with tires that size?”
“I’ll do my very best.”
She hangs up. I slide my phone back into my pocket and stare at the tire tracks again.
My eyes go to her car. I stare at it. I’ve seen it so many times. In her driveway the night we met, at the park we took a walk at the first time we hung out just the two of us, when we used to sneak around and get morning coffee or lunch, the Christmas party, every Sunday dinner, in her driveway when I picked her up for the time we went to the Smithsonian, in the parking lot of my apartment, I’ve seen her car a lot. And I never thought that it would be a focal point of a crime scene.
What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s dead?
The possibility of her being dead hits me harder than anything I’ve ever felt. My stomach twists so violently I double over.
No.
That isn’t possible.
My breathing turns shallow. I press a hand over my mouth in an attempt to steady myself, but my fingers are shaking too much to do anything.
I stagger away from her car, only making it a few feet before everything in my stomach is in a pool on the gravel. I drop to my knees to stop it from splattering everywhere. Another wave comes out. I hear footsteps, but my vision is tunneled.
I can only tell it’s Morgan because of his voice.
“Reid,” he says, his voice thick with concern.
I feel a hand rest softly between my shoulderblades as I cough, trying to catch my breath.
“Give him a second,” I hear Hotch say as he approaches me as well.
I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed.
“I-” I cough again. “I’m okay.”
“No,” Hotch says sternly, but quietly. “You are not.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m more embarrassed than sorry, but my brain isn’t working well enough right now to explain that.
“For what?” Morgan asks, shaking his head at me.
I gesture toward the mess in the gravel.
“Kid, you’ve been running on adrenaline for two hours,” Morgan says.
Hotch crouches down in front of me. His voice is incredibly soft, even for him. “What happened?”
I swallow hard, my mouth still tasting disgustingly like vomit.
“He planned it,” I say, looking up at Hotch. “He would’ve had to have done this at Rossi’s house.” I look back to her car. “He…he watched her.”
I can feel tears coming. I stop talking before I embarrass myself more. I stare at the tire tracks. Hotch thinks for a moment, Morgan just stares.
“I have everything I need from you today,” He says sternly.
“I can keep hel-”
“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “I need you functioning.”
“I can function,” I say, taking Morgan’s hand he offered, helping me to stand.
“You just threw up beside a crime scene,” Morgan points out.
“I think I’m aware of that,” I snap. I don’t mean to.
Morgan keeps his voice calm. He pats my shoulder. “I think you need a break.”
“I don’t want a break," I answered quickly. I can’t have a break.
“We’re taking you back,” Morgan insists.
“No!. I can’t. Please.” I’m fighting tears now. I know they can tell. I wish they couldn’t.
Morgan and Hotch exchange a glance. I don’t like it. I don’t like when I’m the center of attention. I shouldn’t be the center of attention now. It should be Y/N. I’m just distracting Hotch and Morgan from getting anywhere. I open my mouth to say something, probably to protest again, but Hotch beats me to speaking.
“Reid.” His voice is stern. I don’t like it. I don’t like it.
I don’t like this.
“I-I can’t go home,” I stutter through a tear falling down my cheek. “I can’t…I can’t sit somewhere and wait. If you guys make me leave I’ll just think…about where she is…or if she’s hurt…or if she’s…” I lower my voice as low as I can. “dead.”
I hate that I just said that. I hate that I even have to think it. I hate everything that is happening right now. I wish I could be more help. I wish I knew how to be more help.
“What can you do?” Hotch asks.
“What?”
“If I let you stay,” he continues. “What can you do?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. I don’t know what I can do. I’m not thinking straight. I don’t know what I can do.
I stare down at the gravel for a long moment.
“T-the files,” I finally say. Hotch waits for me to continue. “T-the original case files. If I could just… If I could read then maybe…” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “S-sorry, my brain is–” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll stay out of everyone’s way. I just…” I look directly into Hotch’s eyes. “Please don’t make me leave.”
I could swear Hotch’s expression softens, something that I’ve seen maybe three times in the four years I’ve known him.
“You’re not staying in the field,” He says sternly. I almost argue. “We’ll bring you back to the BAU.”
Relief floods through me. I can feel it in my body. “Thank you,” I say.
“If you show any signs that you are pushing yourself too far I am pulling you,” Hotch finishes.
“Yes, Sir.”
Morgan steps beside me, guiding me toward the SUV.
“Come on, Kid,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I don’t argue this time.
I don’t have anything left to argue with.
The drive from the scene back to the BAU is almost silent. Morgan drives, Hotch is in the passenger seat, and I’m alone in the back. Nobody turns on the radio. Nobody talks. The only sounds are the tires against the pavement, and Hotch’s phone when JJ and Emily call with an update.
I stare out the window. Everything outside keeps moving. People are walking dogs, someone is mowing their lawn, a little kid is riding a bike down the sidewalk. It’s all a reminder that the world didn’t stop.
But it should have.
My phone is still in my hand. Or, in my hand again. I’m not sure. I don’t remember picking it back up. I unlock it anyway. Her contact is still open. I stare at her picture for a long time. It’s a picture of her I took at a coffee shop before we were even dating. She’s looking up at the camera with two cups, one hers and one mine, in her hand. She’s smiling. I love her smile.
I press call. It goes straight to voicemail. Again.
I don’t leave a message. I don’t even know what I’d say.
‘Please answer.’ ‘Please be alive.” “Please don't be going through what I went through.”
Neither seem particularly helpful.
“You good, Kid?” Morgan asks me through the rearview mirror.
No.
“I’m fine.”
They let me lie.
Hotch’s phone rings again. He answers it immediately.
“Hotchner.”
There’s a pause while the person speaks. I try my hardest to listen to either side of the conversation, but Hotch’s broken responses make no sense when I don’t have the information.
Morgan looks at him as soon as he hangs up the phone, waiting for an explanation.
“She narrowed the commercial vehicles from 57 down to 11,” Hotch explains.
11. That’s progress.
I clear my throat before I speak. I know if I hadn’t the bubble in my throat that is the only thing keeping me from crying would cause a weird sound.
“D-did they find any blood?” I ask quietly. So quietly.
“No.” Hotch says, looking back over the seat at me.
I nod.
No blood. No blood is good.
My brain tries to reassure me. No blood means she could still be physically unharmed. But trauma doesn't always leave blood. My left arm aches where the needle used to stab. I rub the spot through my sleeve before I even realize I'm doing it.
Morgan notices. He doesn't say anything. He just looks away. I'm grateful.
People can survive being kidnapped. People survive kidnappings all the time. Statistically–
I stop myself from thinking that.
Statistics don’t matter when it’s someone you love.
_____
–Your POV–
The first thing you notice is the pain. Not in your head, in your wrists. Whatever is tying your hands isn’t fabric or rope. It’s…plastic. Ribbed plastic. And it’s thin.
Zip ties.
Every instinct tells you to move, to rub at whatever hurts, to free your hands. You have to force yourself to stay still. It’s hard.
It’s quiet in here. All you hear is your own breathing. Slow, uneven, too loud. The air smells…wrong. Not like outside, but not quite inside either. It feels…damp. Like old wood and dust, but wet, and there’s a lingering smell of something metallic underneath it all.
Your eyelids are impossibly heavy. It takes too much energy to open them. But you do. You want to see where you’re at. It’s blurry at first. You blink rapidly to clear your vision. It only works a little.
The walls are unfinished wood, some are warped, leaving thin slivers of daylight between them. They’re almost black near the floor, like they’ve been soaking up moisture for years.
It smells old, like damp lumber and dust that has been sitting undisturbed for years. The concrete beneath your feet is cracked in several places. One corner of the room has a shallow puddle where water must’ve leaked in recently.
You look up. The ceiling is low enough that anyone above 6 feet could probably touch it without stretching. A single lightbulb hangs down from a frayed cord. It sways just barely. Just enough to make shadows crawl across the walls.
There are no windows on the wall. The only exterior light is shined through the gaps in the wooden walls. You catch the faintest strips of daylight through some, others reveal nothing but more wood.
Maybe another room?
The only furniture is the chair you’re tied to and an old workbench shoved against the opposite wall. Its surface is covered in what has to be years of scratches. There’s a small pile of rusty nails, a broken coffee mug sits near the back of the surface, there is a tipped over motor oil bottle that leaked til empty, and a chain falls over the front and onto the ground.
You stare at the workbench longer than you probably should. Even if your hands weren’t tied, you couldn’t reach it.
The walls themselves don’t look insulated. Just plywood over framing. Like a shed, or a detached garage, or maybe a barn?
Somewhere nearby, water drips steadily.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound is driving you insane.
The room feels cold despite it being warm outside. It’s not air conditioned, just concrete holding onto the cool temperature from overnight. The cold seeps through your jeans where they press against the metal chair.
You shift.
The chair scrapes loudly across the concrete. The sound echoes much longer than it feels like it should. Your breath catches, you exhale slowly and quietly, as if the chair didn’t alert whoever was nearby that you were awake.
Your heart begins to pound. Your breathing starts coming too fast.
In.
Out,
In,
Out.
Your vision starts to blur around the edges.
Spencer.
Spencer always counts.
1.
2.
3.
4.
No, not like that. Count your breathing.
Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It doesn’t make a difference.
You hear a sound so faint you almost convince yourself you imagined it. You hold your breath, hoping you did. But there it is again.
Footsteps.
Every muscle in your body locks.
The footsteps are slow. Not rushed or running, whoever it is, they’re in absolutely no hurry.
You can feel your heartbeat in your head. You swallow hard.
Think.
Come on.
THINK!
Maybe if he thinks you’re still unconscious…
You let your head fall forward, your chin nearly hitting your chest. You close your eyes and slow your breathing. You put all your focus into not moving.
Stay perfectly still, and maybe he’ll leave.
The footsteps grow louder. And closer. Each one echoes through the concrete floor beneath your feet.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
He’s getting closer.
And closer.
You curl your fingers against the zip ties that are digging into the skin of your wrists. You fight every instinct to look in front of you.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. The silence that follows stretches for ages. You start to wonder if he’s just standing there waiting on a sound from you. Or maybe he left. You’re too scared to look up and check.
You hear a metallic rattle. Then a click. Then a heavy clunk. Then the sound of creaking hinges and a wave of warm air filling the cold room.
The door opened.
You hear the footsteps getting closer. Slow. Agonizingly slow.
Your breath threatens to speed up again.
No.
Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Control your breathing.
The footsteps stop. Whoever it is, they’re standing right in front of you. You can smell him. He smells like sweat. And diesel fuel. And like old cigarette smoke.
You squeeze your eyes tighter.
Please, just go away.
His shadow blocks the light that’s casting on you from the bulb.
“You can stop pretending.”
Your heart almost stops.
The voice is calm, almost conversational.
“I know you’re awake.”
You don’t move. You stay perfectly still. You keep your eyes squeezed shut.
Maybe if you don’t look at him he’ll lea–
SMACK!
A sharp crack explodes across your cheek. Your head snaps sideways, mouth opening. The pain is instant, hot and stinging. Before you can stop yourself, a gasp tears through your throat.
“There you are,” he says, voice almost warm. Like he’d been waiting for that.
You slowly lift your head, meeting your eyes with his.
“I don’t like being ignored,” he says, crouching until you’re eye level.
Your cheek throbs. You swallow hard, but refuse to look away from him.
He studies your face for a long moment before he reaches out. You brace yourself to be hit again, but instead, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You’d almost rather him have hit you.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he smiles.
_____
–Spencer’s POV–
I’m gripping the edge of the conference room table as Rossi finishes explaining the details of her childhood. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the same spot on the table. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, I don’t really know. Time doesn’t feel real.
Hotch walks into the conference room carrying another file. “We have more information,” he says.
Everyone looks up at him. Garcia is behind him with a stack of papers. “I pulled what I could from her school records,” she says quietly.
Quietly.
That scares me. Because Penelope Garcia is almost never quiet.
“This is counseling information from her school in Virginia,” Garcia says, handing them to me.
I know why I got handed them. I read 20,000 words per minute. Of course I’m going to be handed the paperwork.
But the FBI Academy doesn’t prepare you to have to read through your girlfriend's counseling notes from the months after her parents died while she was missing.
I don’t think anywhere could prepare you for that.
I take the papers, but I just sit them on the table in front of me. I can feel everyone staring at me. Waiting. Waiting for me to start reading, to share any notable information I find. But I can't. I don't want to read them. It feels…wrong.
If she wanted me to know about this, she would’ve told me. I feel like I’m abusing her trust looking into her life like this. This is a major breach of privacy.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. Everyone looks at me, all confused. I can feel tears coming. I don’t want to cry in front of everyone again. “I-I can’t.”
“Do you need to go home?” Hotch asks me.
“No!” I protest. “I just…it feels wrong looking into her life like this…”
Everyone just stares at me. I know they’re trying to sympathize, but no one knows what I’m feeling right now. Not a single one of them. Not even Rossi. Because Rossi at least knew about her parents being murdered. I didn’t even know that. And now they expect me to dig into the entire history of my girlfriend’s life since then? It feels wrong. I feel like I’m violating her.
Everyone else gets assigned new tasks or sent back to the one they were working on. I stay at the table, sitting completely still, doing absolutely nothing. Morgan is the last one other than me in the conference room. I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he walks over to me.
“Hey, Kid,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I look at him. “I know you feel weird doing this…”
“If she wanted me to know she would’ve told me,” I interrupt.
“I know,” he says. “But if you don’t look into her past…” He locks his eyes with mine. His face looks serious. “Then she might not get a future.”
He pats my shoulder twice then turns and walks out of the room.
He’s right.
I open the file. I stare at the first page for almost a full minute before I force myself to turn it. The paper feels heavier than it should.
Maybe because I know once I read this, I can never forget it.
Guardian. It means Dave.
I already hate this. But I keep looking through the files. I have to.
Session One:
Question: How are you sleeping?
Answer: Fine.
Observation: Student appears significantly sleep deprived. Guardian reports frequent nightmares.
Question: How are you feeling today?
Answer: Tired.
Observation: Student pauses for approximately 20 seconds before answering.
She couldn't even hear someone say "parents." I close my eyes.
God.
I flip to the next page and force myself to keep going.
Teacher Report: Student has spoken fewer than twenty words during school hours since enrollment.
Twenty.
Twenty words.
My eyes go back to the sentence. I read it again.
Twenty words.
I can't make it make sense. She narrates everything. She reads books out loud. She hums when she studies. She thanks cashiers twice because she's worried she didn't say it loud enough the first time.
Twenty words.
The thought physically hurts.
Session Two:
Question: Have you made any friends yet?
Answer: No.
Question: Would you like to?
Answer: Maybe.
I smile. Just a little. Then immediately feel guilty for smiling.
Question: Do you miss your old friends?
Answer: I stopped answering the phone.
Question: Why?
Answer: Because they'd ask what happened.
Question: And?
Answer: I didn't have anything to say.
I put the papers down, unable to breathe for a second.
I picture her at 15 years old sitting next to her phone and watching it ring. Because saying the words out loud would've made them real.
I wipe at my eyes. I don't remember starting to cry.
I laugh. Not because it's funny. It's small and pathetic, actually. But because she still eats cereal. All the time.
My chest tightens. I remember making fun of her for eating cereal for dinner a few times. I didn't know. I had absolutely no idea. She laughed at the joke. Her laugh seemed genuine.
I hope she knows I never would've made fun of her if I knew.
I feel like I have to force myself from getting sick again.
Session Three:
Question: Teachers mentioned you played piano.
Answer: Used to.
I furrow my eyebrows.
Piano?
Question: Why did you stop?
Observation: Student became tearful. Session paused.
Answer: Mom taught me.
I didn't know she played piano. I wonder if she can.
Session Four:
Question: You played varsity basketball as a freshman?
Basketball? What?
Answer: Yeah.
Question: Why didn't you try out here?
Answer: Dad always practiced with me.
I actually have to cover my mouth.
Basketball?
Piano?
She never told me. Not once.
I thought I knew everything about her. But I don't even know her favorite sport. Well, what used to be her favorite sport.
It stopped being her favorite sport the day her dad died.
I don't even realize I've stopped reading again until a tear lands directly in the middle of the page. I wipe it away carefully, like somehow preserving the paper matters.
Session Five:
Question: Can we talk about the funeral?
Observation: Student immediately became distressed. Hyperventilation observed. Session paused approximately six minutes.
Question: Why didn't you go inside?
Answer: Because if I walked inside then it meant they were really dead.
I lean forward until my forehead hits the table. I can't stop crying. She didn't skip their funeral because she didn't care. She skipped it because she loved them too much.
I don't know how long I stay like that. Eventually I make myself keep reading. Because Morgan was right. If I don't...
The final page is a discharge summary.
I barely make it halfway through before one sentence catches my attention.
Student has begun maintaining a daily planner to reduce anxiety and establish a sense of control over unpredictable events.
The planner.
It was never because she liked organization, it was because her entire life fell apart on a random Wednesday, and she wanted to make sure nothing ever surprised her again.
It all makes sense. The color coding, the schedules, why she hates being late, why she plans everything...I always just thought it was how she, when actually, it was how she coped.
I slowly close the folder.
The girl I fell in love with didn't exist before she was 15. She built herself completely from scratch, but somehow she still became the kindest person I've ever known.
I press both of my hands to my eyes so hard that my vision goes white.
Please let us find her. Because I need to tell her that I love her. I love every version of her.
Even the 15 year old girl who couldn't speak more than 20 words a day.
I don’t realize everyone else has come back until someone quietly pulls the folder from beneath my hands. I don’t know how long I was just sitting there. I look up to see who’s there.
Rossi.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just glances at the file name and then back to me, knowingly.
“You okay, Kid?” He asks gently.
No.
The room has gone strangely quiet. I can tell everyone else is pretending not to listen. Which is fair, I guess.
Rossi pulls out the chair beside me and sits down, refusing to let me get away with just sitting here quietly and destroying myself with my own mind. The folder sits on the table between us. He looks at me, just waiting on me to answer.
“I always thought…” My voice cracks so badly I have to stop talking and regain my composure. I can’t look at Dave, so instead, I stare down at my hands. “I j-just thought she liked organizing things.”
Tears fall from my eyes. I don’t have the energy to stop them anymore. My voice is thick and nasally. There is no hiding it.
“I made fun of her for it,” I continued. “I used to tease her for having three calendars. I thought she was just o-over prepared.”
Rossi keeps looking at me. His eyes are glassy too.
If he starts crying I am going to lose it.
Everyone is staring at me now. I’m probably speaking loudly. It’s hard to control the volume of your voice when you are this emotional. There’s some tie to your autonomic nervous system there, but I’m too sad to think about it. Which is scary.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know that she played basketball, or the piano, or that she…she skipped the funeral,” I choke on my words. “I-I’m a terrible boyfriend.”
“No, you are not,” Rossi says, wrapping an arm around me.
“I am,” I wail. “I didn’t even know how her parents died…I…I thought I knew her…”
“You do,” he corrects.
“I keep thinking,” I say quieter now, regaining the smallest bit of dignity. “if she had just told me…”
“Would you have loved her more?” Rossi asks.
“N-no, I don’t think I would necessarily love her more…”
“Would you have just hurt for her sooner?"
I nod reluctantly. Because that’s exactly what I was trying to say. But hearing it be said out loud made it seem selfish in a way.
I would’ve loved every version of her.
“Dave,” Hotch says from the back of the room. We both look. “We’ve got Logan.”
_____
–Logan’s POV–
This guy’s office is smaller than I expected. The BAU is huge. I’ve been here a few times, mostly just visiting my uncle, but I’ve never been in the head of the team’s office. For the #1 agent in one of the most prestigious units of the FBI, I expected it to be bigger.
Instead, it feels contained. Everything has a place. There’s a dark wooden desk separating us. He sits in a leather office chair in front of a built-in bookshelf lined with binders and case files. There’s no decorations, aside from a photograph of a little boy, likely his son, near the corner of his desk. There’s a landline phone and a neat stack of paperwork, along with a name plate with Aaron Hotchner engraved in gold lettering.
I sit in one of the visitor chairs with my elbows against my knees. I don’t want to be here, but I know I need to be.
“I’m sorry we’re having to speak under these circumstances,” Agent Hotchner says to me.
He’s stern, professional, almost like a military parent. I would know.
“Me too,” I say, giving a half smile.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, “but anything you remember could help us find your sister.”
I swallow, “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”
He nods, a pleased look peeks out through his face. “Good. Tell me about her,” he opens the folder sitting in front of him.
I almost laughed. Not because it’s funny, but because where do you even start with a question like that?
“She’s…” I start, then have to stop and think. I realize I have no idea how to describe my sister. “She’s stubborn.”
“How so?” He asks, writing something down.
“If she decides she’s doing something, she’s doing it,” I say.
“Even as a child?”
“Oh, especially as a child.”
“So what was she like growing up?”
“Happy. She was loud, just always talking,” I smile. “About everything. Dad used to joke that she narrated her own life.” My smile leaves. He notices.
“When did that change?”
“After our parents died.”
He nods again, writing. ‘Did your parents ever mention anyone threatening them?”
“No.”
“Any problems at work?”
“Dad was army, everyone was a problem at work.”
“Outside of work?”
I think for a moment. “N-no? I don’t think so.”
“Did either of your parents ever insinuate that someone was following your family?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“Was there anyone who paid special attention to your sister during that time?”
“She had this b-boyfriend who was kind of a dick, b-but they only dated a few months I don’t think–”
“This man would’ve been older. Around your parents' age.”
“I don’t remember anyone, no.”
“No one at all?”
I think. Hard. I try putting myself back into that time, but I can’t think of anything.
“Wait…Actually…”
______
–Your POV–
creepy old man alert. there is nothing physical aside from some face grabbing and mentions of hitting, but it’s mostly just weird ‘ur hot, fuck me im 40’ vibes
There’s nothing in this world that can prepare you for how intense pain can be. It’s not an umbrella term for anything that hurts. There are layers to it.
Pain is the sharpness in your ribs every time you breathe in too deeply. Pain is the throb behind your left eye. It’s the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. It's the burning in your throat every time you swallow.
Pain is your body’s way of keeping a record.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The dripping that was driving you insane just a few hours ago has become your best friend. You focus on it, because focusing on it means you aren’t focusing on the fact that every time you breathe it feels like something inside your chest is scraping against something that it shouldn’t be scraping against.
You have at least one broken rib, you’re sure of it. Maybe more. Your vision blurs every few minutes, and it’s only worse when you move your head. Your eye is swelling shut, you imagine it is the deepest color purple. You look to your left out of your right eye to the pool of blood that you threw up.
That’s the part that worries you most.
Worried, not scared. You won’t let yourself be scared. Your father always said fear made people sloppy. You didn’t want to be made sloppy.
“You’re quieter than I imagined.”
You look up at him without lifting your head. “Should I be screaming?”
Your voice is snarky. He seems to like that. You don’t like that he likes that.
He walks up closer to you, taking your chin in his hands. You think about biting his thumb, but you figure you’ll let him talk first.
“You’re very beautiful.”
You roll your eyes up at him. “Thanks,” you say sarcastically. You purposely cough up blood and spit it at him. He laughs.
Ew.
“I know a lot about you.”
The way he says it makes something cold settle in your chest. You don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the silence. In fact, he almost seems to be enjoying it.
“I know you hate mushrooms. You always pick them off your pizza.”
Your stomach drops. You feel all the blood leave your face, but you stay silent.
“I know you order the same coffee almost every morning.”
You shake your head at him, in an attempt to call his bluff.
He tilts your face up to look at him. The movement sends a shooting pain through your skull. You wince slightly. He runs a thumb over your lips, pressing onto the hole you bit in your bottom one earlier after he kicked you.
The salt from his thumb stings through your lip. You could bite his thumb off. If you wanted to.
But you think you have a better chance of survival if you hold off on that.
“A medium iced vanilla latte, right?”
You don’t say anything. You can’t. None of this is public information. None of this is something someone could guess that correctly. He’s watching your face carefully, looking for every reaction.
“I know you don’t often sleep in your own room anymore. Thinking of leaving ol’ Dave on his own after he took you in?”
You glare at him.
“I know you sleep on the left side of the bed when you’re at Spencer’s apar–”
“Stop.” I demand. Your voice comes out harsher than you expect it to.
He does stop though, not because you told him to, but because what he wanted was for you to get mad. And he found just the thing that would do that.
Spencer.
“Who are you?”
He chuckles. “You already asked that.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I wasn’t ready.”
He reaches out again to brush another loose strand of hair behind your ear. You jerk your head away, your vision going completely white for a moment.
“Don’t touch me,” you demand.
“You don’t like being touched? That’s sure not what it looks like when you’re in Spencer’s bed.”
The way he says Spencer’s name makes you want to kill him.
He smiles at you. His teeth are crooked and yellow.
“You’re awfully affectionate with him for someone who doesn’t like physical touch. You’ve only been together what, two months?”
Your jaw tightens. You just keep staring at him silently.
“And you’re already spending almost every night at his apartment?” His eyes drift over your face, a darkness in his eyes that makes your stomach feel hollow. “Don’t you think that’s a little…dirty?”
“What?” you say, caught off guard. First he was talking about mushrooms on a pizza and now he’s trying to slut shame you or something? He’s just trying to break you. You won’t let him.
“Being with an older man.”
You almost laugh. He has to be kidding.
“What is he now? 25?”
“26,” you mumble. “He’s not that old.”
“Oh, so you’d go older?”
You stare at him. He waits for you to answer. You don’t. You have absolutely no intention of doing so. He slowly drags his tongue across his bottom lip, an attempt to be seductive. It makes your skin crawl.
He leans down close to your ear.
“Do you think I’m too old for you?”
You shudder. Every instinct in your body screams at you to get away from him. But you can’t, so you slowly turn to him and smile a smug smile at him.
“I wouldn’t fuck you if it would save my life,” you whisper to him.
He looks at you for a moment, before chuckling.
“Good to know.”
The way he says it makes your stomach twist.
“How do you know me?” you ask, hoping to change the subject from whatever was happening.
His smile lingers. “I told you.”
“No, you told me that you knew me. Not how you know me.”
For the first time he doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies your face, almost admiringly.
“You ask good questions.”
“If you’re not going to answer how you know me, can you at least tell me why you chose me?”
“I know your father. I knew him very well.”
“No you didn’t.”
He smiles a reminiscent smile. “Dennis always got the credit.”
Your entire body goes cold.
“Dennis James?”
“Yes, Dennis James.”
“The man who killed my father?”
“You know, you stayed late after school that day? You weren’t supposed to.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“You were supposed to walk through that front door.” Your chest tightens. “You were supposed to be next.”
The room goes silent. You don’t hear the dripping water, or your own breathing anymore. All you can hear is your uncle’s voice from three years ago.
“Something about this doesn’t feel right.”
He was right. He’d been right all along.
You look back at the man standing in front of you.
“Who are you?” you ask.
He smiles.
“My name is Steven Woods. And I killed your father.”
_____
–Spencer’s POV–
If going through her old school records wasn’t enough, now I’m being sent to go through her room. I hope she can forgive me for this. But if she can’t, at least I know it’s because she’s alive.
Walking inside of Rossi’s house feels wrong. There’s no TV playing in the living room while she insists she’s watching it, or laughing coming from her room upstairs. It’s just me and Dave walking through the door in complete silence.
Neither of us want to be here.
We stop outside her bedroom, Rossi stares at the door for a long moment before he reaches for the knob.
“I’ve never gone through her room before,” he says quietly. “Not this deep.”
I get it. I’ve been doing this all day. There’s something that feels deeply inappropriate about going through someone’s things when they’re not there.
Her room is exactly the same as how I know she would’ve left it. Her bed is unmade. A sweatshirt is draped over the chair at her desk. Three planners are stacked neatly beside her laptop. A half-finished novel rests face-down on her nightstand.
Her room doesn't look abandoned. It looks like she walked out five minutes ago. Like she'll come back upstairs any second and ask why we're standing around in her room.
My chest tightens. "This feels wrong," I say.
“I know,” Rossi nods. "But you know she'd rather it be you than anyone else."
I swallow. "I know."
Because I do. Even missing. Even scared. Even if she doesn't know where she is. She would want me looking. So I do.
We separate. Rossi starts at her desk. I move toward the bookshelf. Every movement feels intrusive. Like I'm taking something that doesn't belong to me. I run my fingers over the spines of her books. Most of them I've seen before. Some I've borrowed. One has sticky notes sticking out of almost every chapter. Of course it does.
I smile. Just for a second. Then I hear Rossi stop moving.
I turn. He's standing at her closet.
He has one of her sweaters in his hands.
No.
Not one of hers.
One of mine.
I recognize it immediately. The dark one she always steals because she says it's softer than hers.
Rossi looks at it. He smiles. Then it disappears. Because we both remember why we're here. He folds it carefully and places it back. Then he moves back toward the desk.
And that's when he sees it. The yellow sticky note.
His entire body stills.
I know what it is before he picks it up. I know because I remember writing it.
‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’
Followed by my phone number.
The first time I gave her a way to contact me. Rossi slowly lifts it. His fingers tighten slightly around the paper.
"I forgot about this,” he says, his voice barely audible.
I don't answer. Because I know what happened the last time he saw it.
The argument. The anger. The fear.
"I was so angry,” he says.
I look at him. He doesn't look angry now.
"I thought I was protecting her,” He looks down at the note. "I thought I knew what was best. I thought I was stopping something before it could hurt her."
"Rossi..." I try to stop him. We don’t have to do this right now. I’ve already forgiven him.
"No,” he shakes his head. "I need to say this."
“Okay.”
"I was wrong,” his voice cracks slightly. "I spent so much time worrying about what could happen to her that I didn't see what was already happening."
He looks around her room, then at the note.
“Spencer, I know you’ve learned a lot about her today, but I need you to know that you’re the reason that she was able to hide it so well.”
“I don’t know if that’s neces-”
“No, it is. The night that she met you, that was the happiest she’d been since she moved in with me. And I’m sorry that I kept you guys apart for so long.”
“It’s okay, Dave. I get it,” I tell him.
I do get it. I don’t know what else to say though. Because I don’t know how to respond to someone apologizing for something they can’t undo.
I look away because suddenly it’s all too much. Too many emotions, too many memories, everything is just so much.
Rossi carefully places the note back on her desk, more visible this time. “She’ll want to see this when she comes home.”
When.
Not if.
When.
I hold on to that word.
I notice a box underneath her bed labelled “school”. I pull it out and open it. Inside it’s filled with notebooks, folders, old yearbooks, and at the very bottom, there's an old composition notebook with no title, just visible years of usage.
I open it. The first thing I see isn’t a table of contents, or an entry. It’s a warning.
‘If anybody is reading this aside from me, please stop.’
I immediately close it.
“What?” Rossi says, looking over at me.
“She wrote for people not to read this,” I explain.
“She also likely never imagined someone would be reading it in order to save her,” he says softly.
He’s right.
The first pages of the notebook aren’t journal entries. They’re lists. And schedules. And goals.
Today’s Goals:
speak to one person
eat something (cereal doesn’t count)
stay awake through english
don’t cry at school
My vision blurs as I continue reading. It only gets worse.
Practice:
if someone asks “how are you?” don’t say “fine.”
instead, say “i’m okay.” or “good, how are you.”
It was so bad that she had to practice small talk.
I just want to give her a hug.
Things I don’t want to forget about mom:
she always sang frank sinatra while cooking
she hated mushrooms
she smelled like vanilla, which is funny, because she used coconut scented shampoo
she could bbq better than dad
I stop reading. This is too much for likely no reward. I stand up and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
“You need a break, Kid?” Dave asks, looking at me.
I sit down on her bed. “Hey Rossi,” I say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rossi sits the book he’s holding down and sits next to me.
“Because she finally got to stop being 15.” He gives me a half smile. “She would’ve told you eventually.”
“Are you just saying that?”
“No. She’s slow to warm up.”
“I mean yeah, but I’ve spent almost every day with her for the last two months, and she didn’t even hint at what happened to her parents.”
“Spencer, for the first two months after she moved in she didn’t speak a word to me. Not once.”
He tells me about how all she would eat is cereal. And how every question he asked would go unanswered. He tells me about how she didn’t unpack, and how she slept on top of her comforter because making the bed felt permanent.
He tells me about the first time she spoke to him after moving in. He had burnt a lasagna, and she appeared out of nowhere and told him to cover it with foil. The story makes me laugh. Because even then, without trying, she was funny.
“Rossi, I know what she’s feeling,” I say. “Right now.”
“This job will do that to you,” he says, unknowingly.
I realize that I was so caught up in the fact that neither of them told me about her parents, that I realize that neither of them know about what happened to me.
Rossi could assume. He knows this job, and if he wanted to know, he could find the files. But she had no idea.
And Rossi mentioned me helping her, but I don’t think I’ve given her enough credit for helping me.
My brain takes me to another place. Another time.
Concrete. Darkness. A locked door. A grave yard.
Tobias.
I remember the feeling of not knowing if anyone knew where I was. I remember how scared I was to hear any sound. I start shaking as I remember the feeling of the needle–
“Spencer?”
Rossi’s voice pulls me back. I realize I’m not in the shed. I’m here. I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I didn’t even know I was crying.
“Do you know?” I ask him through my tears.
“About Tobias Hankel?”
The name makes me gasp. I nod, my head falling into Rossi’s shoulder.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I say. “And now she’s in the same position I was.”
Rossi wraps an arm around me. It’s comforting, but not comforting enough.
“You’re here now though, aren’t you,” he says. He has a point. But I can’t stop thinking about her. Her all alone. Or if she’s hurt.
“What if she thinks no one is coming?” I say. And then I immediately find myself sick. The trash can beneath her desk is suddenly the closest thing in the room. I barely make it.
When it's over, I stay there, embarrassed Humiliated.
"I'm sorry,” I say.
Rossi immediately shakes his head. "No."
I wipe my mouth. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize,” he says.
I start to speak, but Dave’s phone rings in his pocket.
It’s Garcia.
“David Rossi,” he answers.
“We got him,” is all Garcia says. And Dave and I are immediately down the stairs and out the front door.
______
–Your POV–
You know he’s angry before he touches you. You’ve picked up on a few of his tells. The way his jaw tightens. The way he stops blinking. The way he goes quiet.
The quiet is always worse.
Because Steven likes talking. He likes hearing himself explain things. He likes feeling important.
And right now, you’ve made him feel small.
"You really think you're better than me."
It isn't a question. You don't answer. That makes it worse.
He steps closer.
“You think you understand everything.”
You look at him through your swollen eye.
“I understand enough.”
His face twists.
“You don't know anything about me.”
“No?” You swallow against the pain. “I know Dennis is the one everyone remembers. You know what I think?” You force yourself to keep looking at him. “I think you’re still angry because you spent your whole life standing behind someone else.”
His boot hits before you can prepare. Pain explodes through your side. A sound escapes you before you can stop it. You hate that. Not because it hurts. Because he heard it.
He smiles.
There.
That’s what he wanted.
Fear. Submission. You refuse to give it to him.
“You’re not scary.”
The smile disappears. “What?”
“You heard me.” Your breathing shakes, but your voice doesn’t. “You’re just desperate.”
He grabs your face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You stare at him. And suddenly you know exactly what to say. “You know what?”
He pauses. “What?”
You let out a small laugh. It hurts. Everything hurts. But you do it anyway. “Dennis never cared about you.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.” His expression darkens. “He used you. You were just the guy behind him.”
His breathing gets heavier. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know he got the credit. The headlines. The fear.” Your voice lowers. “And you got nothing.”
His face twists. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?”
His hands curl. “You don’t know what happened.”
You glance toward the wall. Just for a second. A movement. A shadow.
Someone outside.
Someone looking through the gaps in the wood.
Morgan.
Your heart jumps. But you don’t react. You keep going.
“I know my father fought Dennis. You weren’t the one who beat him.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice is steadier now. “Because my father was strong.”
His anger returns. “He was stronger than you.”
His hand grabs your hair.
You cry out.
He pulls you upright, forcing you to look at him. “You think you know everything.”
“No.” You look at him. “I know one thing, you needed Dennis.”
The wall beside you splinters. Steven turns.
The wood breaks.
“FBI!”
Everything happens at once. Morgan comes through first. Hotch behind him. Emily right behind.
Steven reacts instantly. You barely have time to breathe before he pulls you against him. A gun appears, pressed against your head.
You didn’t even know he had a gun this whole time. Not once did he show or mention it.
Everyone stops. Your heart pounds.
“Back up!” Steven’s voice shakes.
Hotch raises his hands. “Steven.”
“No.”
“Put the weapon down.”
“You don’t understand.”
Hotch’s voice stays calm. “You wanted this. You wanted someone to know your name.” The gun shifts slightly. “You wanted people to see you. They see you now.”
For a second it works. His grip loosens. The gun lowers. And that second is enough.
Morgan moves. He tackles Steven away from you. The gun hits the floor. Everything becomes noise.
Shouting.
Movement.
Then suddenly, you’re free. Emily is there immediately.
“Oh my God.” Her voice breaks slightly.
She cuts through the zip ties. Her hands are gentle. Careful. Like she’s afraid you’ll break.
You try to stand. Your legs immediately give. Emily catches you.
“Nope,” she says, holding you up.
“I can walk.”
“You can barely stand.”
You glare weakly.
Her arm wraps around your waist. “Come on.”
Every step feels impossible. Your ribs burn. Your vision swims.
“I can’t.”
Emily tightens her hold. “Yes, you can.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
Your eyes close. “I can’t.”
Emily looks toward the door. “Spencer is outside.”
That’s enough for you to fight through the near immobilizing pain. For him
The second you step outside you see him. And he sees you. For one second he doesn’t move. It’s like his brain can't process that you’re actually standing there.
Then he runs. He doesn't walk. He runs straight toward you.
Emily lets go just enough for him to reach you.
And then you’re in his arms. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. He just holds you. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like if he lets go you’ll disappear again.
Rossi reaches you seconds later.
“Kid,” his voice breaks. “Are you okay?”
You nod. Just once.
And immediately regret it.
Pain shoots through your body. Your stomach twists.
Spencer notices. “Y/N?”
You try to answer. You don’t get the chance.
You cough. Then again.
And suddenly blood is everywhere.
On your lips.
On his sweater.
On his hands.
You throw up against him.
For a moment, nobody moves. Then Spencer panics. Not because of the blood on him. Not because he’s covered in it.
Because it came from you.
“No.” His voice is hoarse. “No, no, no.”
“I’m okay, Spencer,” you try to convince him. “It’s not the first time.”
“That’s worse,” he says, looking at Rossi, then at the paramedics. “We need an ambulance.”
You try to tell him you can walk. You can’t. Your knees give almost immediately
“I’ve got you, Spencer says, catching you.
Before you can argue, he lifts you. You rest your head against his shoulder. And for the first time since waking up in that shed… You let yourself believe you’re safe.
_____
Read Part 31 Here!
Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist
All Works Masterlist
_____
a/n: i got this out way faster than i thought i was going to be able to. i was originally going to make it a little longer by having the last scene be everyone visiting reader in the hospital, but i decided that i want to dedicate an entire chapter to that. so next chapter will be that yippee
i really hope you guys enjoy this, i know it's longer than anything i've ever written, but i'm like 92% proud of it.
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The walk from the driveway to the front door feels significantly longer than normal. Not because it’s actually longer, but because you’re both overthinking every single movement.
Don’t hold hands.
Don’t walk too close.
Don’t smile too much.
Don’t do anything that would make David Rossi look at either of you and immediately figure it out.
But you guys are so caught up in trying to act normal that you’ve come full circle and have started acting weird.
You reach the front door first. Barely. Spencer reaches it half a step after you. You both reach for the handle at the same time. Then both stop. Then both apologize. Then both try again. Then stop and apologize again.
“Oh my god,” you say, “we’re already being weird.”
“We’re not,” Spencer says, trying to reassure you. You glare at him. “...okay maybe a little.”
You push the door open and step inside.
“Hey, Uncle Dave,” you say with a voice loud enough to be heard from the whole house.
“Kitchen!” He calls out.
Of course he’s in the kitchen. You kick off your shoes and head there. Spencer follows behind you. Your uncle is standing at the stove stirring a pot of something.
“Hey, kids,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “How was Georgetown?”
“Good,” you say a little too quickly.
“Good?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. You hate that.
“It was really fun,” you say.
“So Spencer,” Rossi says, making your heart immediately drop. “What are you going to do with a planner?”
Phew.
“I um… I really admire the organization of them and I-I’ve never really had one so I thought I’d try it out. And Y/N of course is an expert s-so I thought that she could help me.” Spencer speaks so fast.
Rossi smiles. Which is good. Because smiling Rossi is much better than observant Rossi.
“Ah, so I see she’s corrupting you,” Rossi says.
“I am not! He asked me first,” you argue.
Rossi glances at Spencer.
“I did ask her, but only because she’s already corrupted me,” Spencer says.
“Hey!” you say, offended. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”
Spencer just grins. Rossi chuckles.
“So what’s your guys’ plan?” he asks.
“I’m giving him some of my old planner supplies and helping him set his up,” you say.
“Makes sense,” your uncle says. “Where?”
You must look confused, because he continues speaking.
“Where are you doing this? I don’t want thousands of little paper scraps all over my furniture again.”
“...can we go to my room?” you ask. Maybe you should’ve talked to Spencer about that before you asked, but you couldn’t really do that without looking extremely suspicious, now could you.
Rossi looks between you and Spencer. Then back to you. Then back to Spencer. Then back to you again. He leans against the kitchen island, facing the two of you on the other side.
“You know, when I was your age–” he starts. You already know he’s about to be weird.
“NO!” you interrupt. He ignores it.
“I definitely never asked to bring FBI agents into my bedroom.”
“Stop talking,” you say.
“I’m making conversation.”
“You’re being weird!”
Spencer’s ears are starting to turn red. You don’t think it's as cute this time. And unfortunately for Spencer, Rossi notices too.
“Reid,” Rossi says.
“Yes, sir?” he says, straightening to attention.
“Should I be worried?”
Spencer makes a sound similar to a choke and a cough at the same time.
“What?” Spencer chokes out.
“You know,” Rossi says.
“No, I really don’t know what you’re asking me.”
“Interesting answer,” Rossi nods.
You and Spencer look at each other. Neither of you know how to survive this conversation.
“The door stays open,” Rossi says.
“That’s fine,” you say, trying your best to get a move on with this conversation.
“I mean open. I want to be able to hear.”
“Okay,” you say, starting to sound annoyed.
“I don’t trust either of you and I will be listening.”
“WE ARE ORGANIZING A PLANNER!”
“That’s exactly what people who aren’t organizing a planner would say.”
“It’s not…”
“No candles,”
“What?”
“No romantic music,”
“Dave.”
“No locking doors.”
“THERE'S NOT EVEN A LOCK!”
“Good,” Rossi points at Spencer. “And Reid,”
“Sir?” Spencer says, his face completely red at this point.
“If I come upstairs and see you in any horizontal position or with my niece on top of you–
“I WOULD NEVER–”
“Good answer. Now go before I have time to think of more rules.”
You and Spencer flee toward the stairs.
“Oh, and Y/N,” your uncle calls when you’re halfway up the steps.
“What now?” you yell back.
“Pants stay on.” He shouts.
“OH MY GOD!”
“And at least six inches of daylight through that door!”
“THERE IS NO REASON TO MEASURE THE DOOR!”
“Good,” Rossi calls back. “Because that’s the only thing I'd better go upstairs and see that’s six inches.”
You and Spencer are silent. Both of you are absolutely horrified.
“DAVE,” you finally shout. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
“I’m kidding,” he laughs.
“Oh my god,” you say a little quieter, but still loud enough he can hear.
You grab Spencer’s sleeve and physically drag him up the rest of the stairs before your uncle can embarrass both of you more.
The second you’re into your room, door open of course, Spencer leans toward you.
“For the record,” he says quietly.
“Don’t.” you warn, concerned of what he could even possibly say right now.
“I wasn’t going to say anything inappropriate.”
“Spencer.”
“Okay, sorry. Your uncle is terrifying.”
“Can we please just do the planner and forget this happened?”
Spencer nods his head so quick you’re almost a little worried about whiplash.
Spencer follows you farther into your room. Your bed is already half-covered in planner supplies before you even sit down. Spencer stares.
“...wow,” he says. “That’s…a lot.”
“This is only like half of my stuff,” you say, sitting on your bed and patting a spot across from you. “Sit.”
The way Spencer climbs onto your bed makes you giggle.
“What?” he asks.
“You look so uncomfortable.”
“I don’t know the rules for sitting on someone else’s bed!”
“You’ve sat on my bed before.”
“Yeah, but now–” he stops himself. Both of you know exactly what he was going to say.
Now things are different.
“Just sit down,” you smile.
He folds himself cross legged across from you. He still looks a little awkward, but honestly that might just be because he has long legs and you’ve never really seen someone as tall as him sit criss-crossed.
The planner and stationary supplies spread between the two of you like a sort of arts and crafts intervention. You show him the monthly spread, the appointments and travel schedules, and how he could modify it to fit his lifestyle. He listens to you like you’re teaching him something important.
“Can you help me pick colors?” he asks you.
“You want to color code?”
“You have one,” he smiles.
“Okay,” you say, picking up a highlighter. “I’d do blue for work.”
“Why blue?”
“Because that’s what I use.”
“That’s not really a reason.”
“Yes it is.”
Spencer looks unconvinced.
“Blue,” you say, throwing the highlighter at him.
“Fine.”
“Red is important things, like deadlines or appointments.”
“Why?”
“Are you going to argue with every color?”
“Great,” you say, picking up a purple highlighter.
“What does purple mean?” he asks with a grin.
Because he knows what your purple means.
Coffee with Spencer. Bookstore with Spencer. Call Spencer.
“Non-work things,” you say, clearing your throat.
“Right, sure.” he says, taking the highlighter.
You continue sorting supplies into categories. Spencer takes the process incredibly seriously. He spends at least five full minutes comparing tabs and page flags.
“They all do the same thing,” you finally tell him.
“Yeah, but these have arrows,” he holds up one pack. “And these are just squares.” He holds up another pack in his other hand.
You laugh at him. He’s right, but it’s funny coming from him. You help him write in his important dates in the monthly section. Things like BAU meetings, birthdays, visits to his mom, things that he knew would come.
You continue to work in silence side by side. Spencer is filling out more of his planner, while you organize stickers. After twenty or so minutes, Spencer looks up at you.
“Hey, Y/N,” he says softly.
“Yeah?” you say, still looking at your stickers.
“Thank you.”
You glance up at him.
“For what?” you ask.
“This,” he gestures at the planner.
“It’s just a planner,” you smile.
“No,” he says. “I like learning things that matter to you.”
“Oh, well–”
Before you can continue your uncle is shouting from downstairs.
“IS THE PLANNER DONE YET?”
You drop your head into your hands. Spencer starts laughing.
“I’M SERIOUS,” Rossi yells. “HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE?”
“WE’RE WORKING ON IT!” you yell back.
“BETTER BE!”
Spencer laughs a little harder.
“Don’t encourage him,” you say to Spencer.
“I’m not, it’s just funny.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s okay.”
You try very hard to stay annoyed. You fail completely. Because Spencer is smiling. And Spencer’s smile makes you smile.
“DINNER!” Rossi shouts.
“COMING!” You yell back.
“YOU BETTER MEAN COMING DOWNSTAIRS!”
“Oh my god,” you hide your face.
Spencer just laughs, as you both climb off your bed and go downstairs for dinner. By the time you reach the kitchen, your uncle already has plates on the island.
“About time,” he says as you and Spencer walk into the dining room.
“We were busy,” you say, sitting down in your chair.
“With the planner?” Rossi says, looking at Spencer.
“Yes, sir,” Spencer says, nodding immediately.
Your uncle studies him for a little too long. “Good,” he finally says.
After that, the questions stop. Which somehow makes you more nervous. Because when Rossi was being weird, at least you know what he's thinking, but when he’s acting normal? Then it’s terrifying.
The conversations at dinner go normal. But it doesn’t quite feel normal. Because every once in a while, you’ll glance at Spencer, and Rossi is already looking at you. The first time you think it’s an accident. The second time? A coincidence. But by the third time it’s obvious he’s watching something.
There's no more weird comments or warnings or threats about keeping doors open, nothing. By the time the plates are empty, you feel like you’re waiting for something. It never comes. And eventually, it’s time for Spencer to leave. And nothing has been said.
“I should probably get going soon,” Spencer says after watching two whole episodes of some Pawn Stars style car show with Rossi.
“Big plans tomorrow?” Rossi asks.
“Actually, yeah,” Spencer glances at you, making your stomach flip. “Finishing the planner.”
“Right,” Rossi says.
“Oh, Y/N, you left a book in my car,” Spencer says, standing.
“I did?” you say, confused. You don’t remember leaving a book in his car. But Spencer notices things, so he’s probably right.
“Yeah, do you want to come grab it?”
“Sure,” you stand up and look to your uncle. “I’ll be right back”
“Take you time,” he says, still entranced by the T.V. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Reid.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s dark outside now as you walk toward Spencer’s car. It’s quiet outside, both in nature and between you and Spencer.
“What book did I even have in your car?” you ask him as you approach the passenger side of the car.
He turns around to face you and looks guilty.
“You didn’t leave a book in my car.” He admits.
“I knew it!”
“No you didn’t.”
“I did!
“You followed me out here”
“Because I trusted you.”
Spencer smiles and steps a little closer. Not much, but a little.
“I just wanted to say bye,” he says, still smiling. “Thanks for coming out here.”
“Well I thought you had my book,” you giggle.
He doesn’t answer. He just stares down at you.
“Can I kiss you?” he finally asks.
The question catches you off guard. Not because you don’t want him to kiss you, you do, but because he’s asking. LIke he wants to know it’s still okay and wasn’t just a one time thing.
“Yes, just make sure Uncle Dave isn’t out here.”
Spencer looks around over your shoulders to be sure you’re alone. Once he’s sure, he grabs your waist and pulls your body into his. He presses his lips to yours softer than yesterday. It’s less desperate. More certain that it’s okay.
For a moment the world feels narrowed to porch lights, and cool February air, and Spencer Reid.
He pulls his mouth away, but your bodies stay close and his hands remain on your waist.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, his smile wide.
“You better,” you smile back.
He leans down and kisses you one more time before letting you go.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says.
“Goodnight, Spencer.”
_____
Read Part 19 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i made the mistake of trying to write this while watching live the 1975 concerts for a class and this part took me four days to write bc i kept getting distracted.
summary: You spend another Saturday with Spencer. And that Saturday leads into Sunday.
word count: 5k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18) smut (18+) dry humping, cumming in pants, no penetration
Today has been the fastest Saturday ever. One minute you’re knocking on the door of your boyfriend’s apartment, the next you’re looking at the clock on the microwave wondering how it was 5:07 PM.
Most of the day was spent how it always was. Books, coffee, conversations that started normal but ended with Spencer explaining how a Roman road system was one of the greatest engineering achievements in human history.
You listened to every word. Mostly because he looked so excited talking about it. In the months you’ve known him, you’ve learned that watching him get excited about something was far more entertaining than whatever he was talking about. And either way, you were paying attention to him, so it was a win for the both of you.
Now you’re standing in his kitchen, wondering how his cabinets are so organized. One has plates and bowls, all stacked by sizes. The next is cups and tupperware, all stacked by sizes. The silverware drawer had three different kinds of spoons, and the smaller spoons were laid into the bigger ones; stacked by sizes. His knives were organized from left to right by size and sharpness.
“Spencer,” you say, shutting the drawer.
He hums, still looking down at the cutting board where he was carefully slicing vegetables with pretty much surgical precision.
“Why are your cabinets alphabetized?” you ask.
“They aren’t.”
You open the spice cabinet and start listing them off from left to right.
“Okay maybe the spice cabinet is alphabetized. It saves me on average 37 seconds every time I cook.”
“You timed it?” you can’t help but giggle. “You’re a weirdo.”
“How is it different from color coding your planner?”
“It just is.”
“Objectively it isn’t.”
“Well to me it is!”
He paused for a moment, both in his words and in his chopping.
“...I’ll allow that.” he smiles.
“I win!” you grin triumphantly.
“It wasn’t a competition.”
“It was if I wanted it to be.”
You smile and hop up onto the counter beside him. The granite is cool beneath your legs. You swing your feet lightly against the cabinet doors while watching him cut.
Spencer glances over at you for half a second before looking back at the vegetables.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Very.”
“Good.”
He smiles to himself and keeps chopping for a moment before noticing just how close the cutting board is to your knees. He slides it a few extra inches away from you without saying anything. You notice immediately.
“You know I’m not going to lose a leg, right,” you joke.
“Kitchen injuries are far more common than most people think,” he says matter of factly, still focused on the vegetables. “I’d rather not test if you’re an outlier.”
“You’re catastrophizing,” you say.
“That’s a really good word, however, I am assessing a risk,” he says, sitting the knife down and walking between your legs. He leans forward and plants a heavy kiss on your mouth before speaking again. “I just don’t particularly want to explain to one of my bosses that I had to take his niece to the emergency room.”
You laugh as he returns to the cutting board.
“You’re not going to cut off my leg.”
“Probably not, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“I guess Uncle Dave would probably be a little upset.”
He raises an eyebrow at you. “A little?”
“Okay,” you say as you hop down off the counter with a grin. “He’d be very upset.”
Spencer gives you a satisfied nod, like the matter has been settled beyond all reasonable doubt.
“Can you boil some water?” he asks, attention focused on the vegetables again.
“I don’t know, my leg might fall off,” you say, grabbing a pot anyways. He just shakes his head.
Spencer finishes chopping the vegetables while you measure pasta into a pot. Spencer’s kitchen was small, not that that was a bad thing, it just meant that every few minutes one of you had to step around the other. The apartment slowly started to fill with the scent of garlic and mixed vegetables.
You leaned against the counter while Spencer stirred everything together.
“You know,” you said, “you’re actually pretty good at cooking.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Seems like my uncle is rubbing off on you.”
“Maybe that’s what inspired me,” he smiles.
_____
The dishes are washed and put away, and the apartment now smells very faintly of garlic and more like dish soap. Spencer is finishing drying the last dish while you claim your usual spot on the couch. His apartment is beginning to feel familiar now. The blanket that’s folded on the arm rest, the stack of books on the end table that grows a few every time you visit, the lamp in the corner that is always on in place of the big light, it all feels normal.
“You can pick what we watch,” Spencer calls from the kitchen.
“Doctor Who?” you ask, grabbing the remote.
He appears behind the couch. “Good choice.”
“You say good choice no matter what I pick.”
“Because you always pick good things!”
Spencer settles on the couch beside you as the familiar theme song plays. You cozy up next to him and he wraps his arm around your waist. He makes it a little under minutes before he has to say something.
“You know, this episode almost wasn’t made. It was originally supposed to have a completely different ending.”
“Mhm,” you hum, not taking your eyes off the screen.
“The production schedule had to be reorganized because several scenes exceeded the filming budget.”
“Spencer,” you say, voice sounding slightly more annoyed than you actually are.
“What?”
“You’ve been quiet for almost seven minutes.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you.” you smile at him.
He sheepishly smiles. A soft red spreads across his cheeks from being called out. You feel a little bad for him.
“So, what happened?” you ask him, still smiling.
His eyes brighten immediately, excited that you want to hear him talk.
“Well, the BBC had significantly fewer resources than most people assume during the early revival years. Russell T. Davies actually–”
You tune him out, instead paying attention to the way he talks. You try to listen. Really, you do. But your attention is so easily pulled away to something much more entrancing.
Him.
The way his mouth moves when he talks, forming each word carefully and thoughtfully. The tiny smile that keeps appearing when he probably says something he finds funny. You wouldn’t know. The way he can’t seem to say anything without using his hands.
God.
His hands.
Your eyes lock in on them like there’s nothing else to look at. His fingers are long, and refuse to stay still. They move with every sentence, putting his thoughts into the air. The veins along the backs of his hands shift every time his fingers move, becoming more pronounced whenever he gestures or flexes his grip around the remote. It's such a tiny detail, one most people probably wouldn't even notice. You can't seem to stop noticing it. Your eyes follow the lines, wondering how something so ordinary has somehow become one of your favorite things about him.
You wonder how his hands can be so many things at once.
The hands that scribble impossibly neat notes in the margins of books. The hands that always pull out your chair before you sit down. The hands that reach for yours without thinking when crossing a busy street. You remember them brushing against yours while making dinner. Holding doors open. Turning pages. Holding your notebook while helping you with homework. Holding your planner like it was fragile. Holding you like you were.
His hands are expressive in a way that the rest of him isn’t. Spencer is careful with words, careful with eye contact, careful with people. But his hands have never been careful. They flutter when he’s excited. They point when he’s making an observation. Twist together when he’s nervous. Run through his hair when he’s thinking. And on rare occasions, they settle quietly in his lap, folded together, making it almost impossible to believe they’re capable of moving so quickly.
“...which is why the production schedule had to be completely reorganized," he finishes, making one final gesture with his hands before looking into your eyes.
You blink, realizing with absolutely no dignity, that you’ve spent the last several minutes watching his hands instead of listening to a single word he said.
“You didn’t hear a single word I just said, did you?” he asks.
“I heard Russell T. Davis,” you smile innocently.
“It’s Davies. And that was the first sentence I said.
“Oops.”
He studies your face for a moment before a grin spreads across his face.
“You were staring at me again.”
“...maybe”
“Why?”
You glance down at his hands resting on his thighs. Then immediately back up at his face before he catches where you were looking.
“No reason.”
Spencer narrows his eyes at you. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’ve been told.”
Spencer keeps looking at you like he’s trying to solve something. Eventually he shakes his head and smiles to himself.
“I’ll make you tell me eventually,” he says.
“You can try,” you grin.
“I will.”
You smile, leaning back into his shoulder as the episode continues playing in the background. Neither of you pay it much attention anymore. The Doctor is apparently saving the world again. You assume he is successful. He usually is.
The apartment is quiet. Headlights drift across the living room ceiling before disappearing again. Somewhere downstairs a door closes. The heat kicks on. Comfortable sounds fill the room. The kind you stop noticing after a while.
You pull your legs up onto the couch and your knees to your chest. Spencer shifts at the same time as you, turning slightly so he’s facing you instead of the television.
It’s strange. A few months ago, silence between the two of you would’ve felt awkward. Now it just feels comfortable.
“This has probably been the least stressful week we’ve had in months,” you say quietly.
Spencer lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah.”
“I still can’t believe Uncle Dave knew,” you say.
“I still can’t believe he didn’t punch me,” Spencer says, only half joking. “I thought he hated me.”
“You thought Uncle Dave hated you?”
“A little,” he smiles awkwardly.
You laugh before lowering your voice. “I kind of thought he did too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I kind of spent the entire month preparing for him to ban me from seeing you again.”
“If it makes you feel better I spent the month preparing to be transferred.”
“What?”
“I figured if he disliked me enough, he’d eventually get Hotch to move me to another team.”
“You actually thought he’d do that?”
“I don’t know. I considered it a possibility though.”
“You overthink everything, I don’t think it would’ve gotten that bad.”
“I know,” he smiles softly. It quickly fades into something more thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted somebody’s approval for something so badly.”
You smile at him, waiting for him to continue on his own. He sounds like he’s going somewhere with this.
“I know he’s your uncle and that he’s important to you, but he’s scary.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Spencer is silent for a moment, not like he was thinking of what to say, more like thinking if he should say it. He looks at you, giving a half smile, before finally speaking.
“I didn’t want him thinking I was taking advantage of you,” he admits.
“He doesn’t think that,” you say, reaching over and lacing your fingers with his.
“I mean, I know that now.” His thumb brushes slowly across the back of your hand. “But I didn’t know that a week ago.”
He looks like he’s thinking again. You let him gather his thoughts.
“I just…” he starts, looking down at your joined hands. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”
“Dated me?” you say, smiling.
“Dating in general,” he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “I know most people my age have significantly more relationship experience than I do… I-I don’t have none, I just–”
“Spencer,” you interrupt him.
“No, it’s true.”
“I don’t care.”
He finally looks back up at you, a small, disbelieving smile on his face.
“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing most of the time.”
“You know what you’re doing,” you squeeze his hand.
“I know what I’m trying to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Not mess this up.”
Your chest hurts a little. “You’re not.”
“Would you tell me if I was?”
“Yes.”
He studies your face like he’s trying to determine if you’re just saying that to make him feel better.
“Okay,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
His mouth fights back a smile. “Can I ask another something?”
“Always.”
He takes a second to look at you before speaking.
“Are you happy?”
You don’t even have to think before saying yes. He exhales quietly.
“Is that what you’ve been trying to ask this whole time?” you question.
“Kind of,” he smiles sheepishly. “There are…several related questions.”
“Of course there are,” you smile.
“Do you feel safe with me?” he asks.
“Yes, Spencer.”
“Are you comfortable with me?”
“Yes.”
“If I ever do something that makes you uncomfortable, you’ll tell me, right?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s awkward?”
“Especially if it’s awkward.”
He nods again, committing the answer to memory. “Good.”
“You asked me like four different versions of the same question,” you point out.
“I know.”
“Why?”
He smiles, looking almost apologetic.
“Because they eliminated a different uncertainty. I just wanted reassurance.”
“And did you get it?”
He looks at you for a long moment. “I did.”
“So did I,” you say, leaning a little closer to him, toying with the idea of hoisting yourself into his lap. He seems to pick up on that as well, because he shifts his position on the couch to allow you room to climb on top of him. If you so please.
And you just so happen to please.
You straddle him, careful to keep yourself propped up on your knees rather than settling on his lap. You hover your mouth over his, his breath is hot against yours. His hands sit shakily on the couch on either side of your legs, like he’s scared to touch you.
You grab his wrists, pulling his arms up to your waist. He looks at you, eyes wide and terrified.
“D-do you want me to t-touch you here?” he stutters, fidgeting with the fabric of your shirt.
You bring your face down to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. You can touch me wherever you want,” you whisper into his mouth before kissing him. He shivers both from the warmth of your voice and the feeling of your body as he grips your waist.
Despite having been given consent to touch you anywhere, he paid careful attention to keep his hands only on your waist. He was desperately grasping at the fabric between every kiss, finding any way possible to beg for more.
Your hands found his chest, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt. Even though it was Saturday, he’s still dressed like he’s going to work.
You let your hands run down his chest, using a gentle palm on his diaphragm to hoist yourself up from your slipping position. The unsuspected heightening made his hands fall down to your hips, knocking your knees loose and causing you to be in contact with his lap. You knew what you felt, but chose to ignore it as you didn’t want to embarrass him.
Though you ignoring it was pointless as Spencer immediately pulls back from the kiss and pushes your hips away from him.
“Y/N, I’m sorry…” he says, not daring to look you in the eyes.
“Sorry for what?” you say, bringing your hand up to gently run your fingers through his hair. “You did nothing wrong.”
He smiles, unsure of what to say. He leans back in for another kiss, but is still careful not to let his semi-hard dick come in contact with you.
You kiss him back, bringing your hands to his chest again. You use your strength to turn him, you laying down horizontally on the couch and pulling him on top of you. Your lips meet again. You let your hand trace down his torso, stopping as you feel the sharpness of his hip bone. He shivers and lets out the smallest, and prettiest, whine you’ve ever heard. You smile into his mouth and quietly giggle.
“Are you okay?” you ask him, planting a kiss on his neck which causes his hips to buck, coming down to rut against you briefly. He whines again, then nods and leans in for more kisses. He’s given up trying to keep his hips’ distance from you, letting himself rest against your thigh as he kisses you. You reach your hands up to tangle into his hair, gently pulling. His dick twitches against you, alluding a sigh from flustered Spencer.
You tug a little harder on his hair, just enough to tilt his head back so you can kiss along his jawline. His hips jerk again, involuntarily pressing himself more firmly against your thigh, which makes him whimper.
“Sor–” he starts to apologize again.
“Spencer,” you interrupt. “It’s okay. I like feeling you like this.”
He hesitates for a second, dropping his forehead into your shoulder to process your words. “Y-you do?” he stutters.
You hum in response, shifting beneath him by parting your legs a little wider so he can settle more fully between them. The new position lines him up perfectly against you, even through layers of clothing. The sudden pressure makes you inhale, which causes him to freeze. You rock your hips up once, slowly grinding against the length of him.
A broken sound escapes him. His hips instinctively push forward to meet yours, chasing the friction. Heat pools low in your stomach.
“Oh,” he breathes, voice wrecked. He does it again, more purposefully this time, a shallow roll of his hips that turns into a longer, slower grind. The rhythm is a little uncoordinated at first, but every drag of his clothed cock against you feels electric.
You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to press closer.
“Just like that,” you murmur, guiding one of his hands down to your hip so he can hold you steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
Spencer nods against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every ragged breath. “Y-yes, you feel… incredible.” His voice cracks on the last word as he finds a steadier rhythm, rocking into you with more confidence. The friction builds with every roll of his hips
You can feel how much he’s holding back, how carefully he’s trying not to lose control, but his body betrays him. His hips stutter when you moan softly into his ear, and his fingers dig harder into your hip.
You reward him by grinding up to meet every thrust, matching his pace until the two of you fall into a shared rhythm. The couch creaks quietly beneath you. The TV is still playing in the background, long forgotten.
Spencer lifts his head to look at you, eyes dark and glassy, cheeks flushed. “Is this…am I doing this right?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, even as his hips continue their slow, rolling grind against you.
You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a deep kiss, tongues sliding together as you rock up harder against him. When you break apart, you smile against his lips. “You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”
He makes a soft, relieved noise and buries his face in your neck again, surrendering to the feeling. His thrusts grow a little harder, a little faster, each drag.
Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, occasionally tugging just to hear those pretty little sounds he makes, while his hands roam your waist and hips, holding you exactly where he needs you as he ruts against you with growing desperation.
After a particularly deep grind that makes you moan into his mouth, Spencer slows just enough to lift his head. His breath is ragged, eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?” he whispers. “Still comfortable?”
You nod quickly, holding the back of his neck. “Yes, Spencer. You just feel really good.”
He exhales shakily and kisses you again, but a moment later his hand slides under the hem of your shirt. His palm is warm against your bare stomach, hesitant. He pulls back just enough to ask, voice low and earnest, “Is this alright? Touching you under your shirt?”
“More than alright,” you breathe, arching into his touch. “You can touch me.”
Encouraged, his hand drifts higher, smoothing over your ribs, but he still checks in again when his thumb brushes just beneath the edge of your bra.
“And this? Still good?”
You answer by rolling your hips up harder against him, grinding along the full length of his cock through his pants. Spencer’s forehead drops to your collarbone with a groan, and his hips stutter forward in response.
He shifts his weight, sliding one hand down to the back of your thigh and gently pulling your leg higher around his waist. The movement opens you up more, letting him rut deeper against your center with each slow grind.
“Is this okay?” he asks immediately, voice strained. “The way I’m holding your leg?”
“It feels good,” you assure him, tightening your leg around him. “I like it when you hold me like that.”
He nods against your skin, visibly relieved, and starts moving again. Long, deliberate rolls of his hips that drag the hard ridge of his erection right over your clit with every pass. You can feel how hard he is, how his cock twitches every time you moan or rock up to meet him.
Spencer’s hand stays on the back of your thigh, fingers flexing as he uses the leverage to grind against you more purposefully. After a few moments he checks in again, breath hot against your ear. “Still comfortable? I don’t want to put too much weight on you or–”
You cut him off with a kiss, smiling into it. “Spencer. I’m perfect. Keep going.”
He lets out a soft, overwhelmed sound and obeys, hips rolling in a steady rhythm now. The couch shifts beneath you with every thrust. His free hand slips further under your shirt, palm sliding up your back to pull you closer to his chest. Another soft check-in, murmured between kisses: “This is still okay? Holding you like this?”
“Yes,” you whisper, tugging his hair gently. “I love your hands on me.”
That seems to break something in him. His movements grow a little less controlled and into deeper, needier grinds. You can feel the heat of him through his pants, the way he’s throbbing every time your bodies press together. His breathing is ragged, little whimpers and gasps slipping out whenever you roll your hips just right.
Every few minutes he still pauses just long enough to check on you.
Questions like “Are you still feeling good?” and “Tell me if you want me to slow down” and every time you reassure him, his confidence grows. The checks never fully stop, but they start coming between longer, hungrier kisses and more desperate rolls of his hips.
You’re both starting to lose yourselves in it. The apartment is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, quiet moans, and the faint creak of the couch. Spencer’s forehead rests against yours, eyes half-lidded as he grinds steadily between your legs, chasing the building pleasure with you.
You’re both breathing hard, bodies pressed tight together. You slide your hands down his chest, then back up to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he grinds against you. The words slip out before you can overthink them, low and a little breathless against his ear.
“I was staring at your hands earlier,” you confess, voice husky. “God, your hands are so hot. I kept thinking about them on me, holding me down while you moved just like this…”
Spencer’s breath catches sharply. His hips stutter once, twice, three desperate, uncoordinated thrusts that press his cock hard against your core. On the third roll, his whole body goes rigid. A choked, broken moan escapes him as he comes without any warning, even to himself. His hips jerk against you in shallow pulses while he spills into his pants, warm and sudden, the wet heat soaking through the fabric and smearing against your thigh and the hem of your shirt where your bodies are pressed together.
He freezes the second he realizes what just happened.
“Oh. oh god,” he gasps, mortified. His face burns bright red as he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide with panic. “I…I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even– fuck.”
You bite your lip, trying not to smile too obviously because the sight of him flushed, disheveled, and completely undone actually does something for you.
“Hey,” you say gently, cupping his burning cheeks. You pull him down for a soft kiss, then another. “It’s okay. Really. I kind of… find it really hot, actually.”
Spencer stares at you like you’ve short-circuited his brain. “You… you do?”
“Mhm.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, soothing. “You got that worked up just from me? From grinding on me? It’s flattering. And kinda hot.” You kiss the tip of his nose. “Go change your pants, okay? Then come back so we can cuddle. No big deal.”
He nods quickly, still looking embarrassed but visibly relieved by your reaction. He carefully climbs off you, avoiding eye contact with the visible wet spot on his pants (and the smaller smear on the bottom of your shirt). “I’ll be… right back. I’m really sorry.”
“Spencer. Stop apologizing,” you call after him softly as he disappears down the hall. “I liked it.”
A couple minutes later he returns in fresh sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, still pink-cheeked. He hovers awkwardly by the couch like he’s not sure where to put himself.
You sit up and reach for his hand, tugging him closer. “Come here.”
He lets you pull him in, but then hesitates again. “Is it… weird if we cuddled in my bed instead?” he asks quietly, voice shy. “The couch is fine but my bed’s bigger and… I don’t know.”
You glance down at the faint smear on your shirt and laugh softly. “Well, considering you kind of just came on my shirt, I don’t think cuddling in your bed is weird at all.”
Spencer lets out a surprised little laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally melting. He takes your hand properly this time and leads you to his bedroom, ears still red but a small, pleased smile tugging at his lips.
Once you’re both standing beside his bed, he glances down at the faint smear on the bottom of your shirt and winces. “I’m really sorry about that,” he says again, voice soft and genuinely apologetic. “Here, wait a second.”
He quickly rummages through his dresser and pulls out a soft FBI Academy hoodie and a pair of his sweatpants. “It’s… kind of frowned upon to be covered in someone else’s cum,” he mumbles, clearly mortified even as he says it. He hands them to you, avoiding eye contact. “You can change in the bathroom if you want. Or here. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
You take the clothes with a grin, rising up on your toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. And stop apologizing. I’m not even a little mad.”
While you change into his hoodie, which smells like him, and the sweatpants, Spencer lies down in bed. When you come back out, he’s already under the covers in his own clean clothes, looking a little shy but happy.
You climb in beside him and Spencer immediately opens his arms for you. You settle against his chest, tucking your head under his chin as he wraps one arm around your back and the other around your waist. His legs tangle with yours under the blankets, and he pulls you in close until there’s no space left between you. One of his hands strokes slow, soothing circles on your lower back while the other rests gently on your hip. He’s warm and solid, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.
“This is nice,” you murmur, nuzzling closer.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. After a quiet moment he adds, “It’s already past midnight… Do you want to stay the night? You don’t have to drive home this late.”
You blink, suddenly remembering the outside world. “Oh god… Uncle Dave.”
You reach over to the nightstand for your phone and unlock it. Sure enough, there are three unread texts from him.
Uncle Dave (10:47 PM): How’s dinner going?
Uncle Dave (11:22 PM): Getting late. Let me know when you’re heading home.
Uncle Dave (11:58 PM): You should probably just stay over there. I don’t want you driving this late if you don’t have to.
You let out a small laugh and tilt the screen so Spencer can see. His eyes widen slightly as he reads the last message.
“Looks like we have official permission,” you say, setting the phone back down and curling back into him. “I’m staying.”
Spencer’s arm tightens around you, a relieved little sigh escaping him as he presses another kiss into your hair. “Good. I like having you here.”
_____
Read Part 24 Here
_____
JOIN MY COMMUNITY
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i'm actually kind of going insane irl right now so i'm reverting to writing spencer reid porn with plots as an escape again
summary: Watching his niece grow up was always going to be difficult. Watching her fall in love was supposed to be worse. Somehow, it isn't.
word count: 2k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18)
The funny thing is, they think they’re sneaking around.
For the last month or so, I’ve watched two of the smartest people I know develop the world’s most obvious secret relationship and then proceed to act as if I don’t know. It’s a little bit insulting that they think I’m that dense.
I am not that dense. And surprisingly, I also am not so dense as to fail to understand why they are trying to keep me in the dark. After all, I have a poor track record when it comes to finding out about developments in their friendship.
That’s not to say I was angry this time. However, I wasn’t exactly encouraging the situation either. I had some questions. And some concerns. And several moments where I debated locking my front door and pretending Spencer Reid didn’t know where I lived.
But after some reflection, I’m not angry about it. Truly, I am not. Spencer Reid is a good man. A great man, even. He’s way better of a man than I was at twenty-six. And in some ways, he’s still a better man than I am now.
He’s kind, patient, loyal, brilliant, and I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody more incapable of manipulation and so bad at lying. Which is probably why watching him attempt to hide a relationship from me for a month while seeing me every single day has been so entertaining.
The age difference still leaves a sour taste in my mouth sometimes and I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Not because of Spencer, but because of myself. Because no matter how old she gets, my brain still sees her as the angry teenager carrying three duffel bags into my house.
But that isn’t Spencer’s fault. And I was wrong to blame him for it at first.
The truth is, I know exactly who Reid is. I know what kind of man he is. But more importantly, I know what kind of man he isn’t. He’s not a creep. He’s not taking advantage of her. He’s not manipulating her. If anything, he’s probably spent more time thinking about the nuances of their friendship than me.
Honestly, I think she scares him a little. Which I find comforting.
And if my niece was going to date anybody I work with, which is something I never thought I would have to think, I’d want it to be Spencer Reid.
Not necessarily because he’s the smartest, or because I trust him professionally, or because I know he would give anything for the people he cares about. Though all that does help.
But because I’ve seen my niece happier in the last few months than I think I’ve ever seen her. It’s not like she was incapable of being happy before. She’s funny, and smart, and beautiful, and kind, but she’s never been the type to let people in easily.
She has friends, but there’s a difference between having people to go to the mall and to go to the movies with and allowing someone to get close enough to you that you bring them around the house everyday without even asking the man who owns it.
She didn’t even ask if Spencer could come over yesterday. I came downstairs at like 6:30 to get a cup of coffee and boom. There they were, sitting on the couch with textbooks spread everywhere.
Nobody had asked me anything. I don’t even think they thought twice about it either. I mean, I would’ve said yes. But the fact that she forgot to ask says a lot more than just failing to ask.
And she manages to do it two days in a row.
I’m standing in the kitchen, leaning against the stove, while she digs in the refrigerator.
“What do you want for dinner?”
“I don’t care,” she says, not even looking up.
“You’re helpful,” I sigh.
“I’m always helpful,” she stands up and smiles.’
“Always a liar, you mean.”
She starts to walk away without even taking anything from the fridge. I’m not even really sure why she was in there in the first place. She turns to me before she leaves the kitchen.
“Oh, Spencer will be here in like twenty minutes,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow at her. That’s exactly my point.
“Ask him what he wants for dinner,” I say.
She nods and starts to walk away.
“And ask Spencer if Papa Rossi said it was okay for him to come over.”
She stops in her tracks and turns back. The look on her face is priceless. So priceless I can’t help but laugh.
“I forgot to ask,” she says, looking apologetic.
“No, you did not.”
“I’m so sorry. I can tell him not to come if–”
“No, he’s always welcome here.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Dave.”
“It’s okay, I’m just making fun of you.”
She rolls her eyes and walks to the living room.
_____
I find the two of them occupying the couch while I cook dinner tonight. They’ve somehow managed to spread across half the living room. Her planner is open on the coffee table. Spencer has his balanced on his knees. They’re supposedly organizing their planners together.
They’ve actually spent the last thirty minutes talking. I know because neither of them have written anything down. I hear bits and pieces of their conversation while I cook.
Something about professors. Then train schedules. Then… ancient Rome? Then they start debating over whether or not color coding a planner is useful or a waste of time. I take notice of the way Spencer automatically turns toward her whenever she starts talking.
I stir the pasta. I feel like I’m always making pasta. Maybe that’s an unfair Italian stereotype. But I make good pasta so I’m okay with it.
I look back into the living room. They’re actually using their planners now. She’s writing something down, Spencer is watching. He tells her there’s not enough detail. She says that there’s enough for her to remember. He says some memory statistic or some random fact or something that I honestly couldn’t care less about. Then he takes her planner out from in front of her.
I’m expecting her to throw a fit. She’s like a guard dog around that thing. If you even threaten to touch it she’ll bite your hand. But to my surprise, there’s no attack.
She just lets him take it.
He didn’t even ask. I’ve never seen her planner under the eyes of someone else without a fuss. And now it was in the hands of someone else and she was just sitting there. Completely comfortable.
I watch her shift closer to him. She’s looking over his shoulder at the planner. Her head is tiptoeing around the idea of leaning against his shoulder. She’s almost done it before she looks behind her into the kitchen. I know she sees me because she shifts back. Spencer’s eyes flick towards me, then to her. Then he straightens a little to create more space between them. I notice that too.
And I understand exactly what is happening.
I’m making them uncomfortable.
I spent months worried about Spencer being around my niece because I was thinking about myself. And that translated to me teaching them that being themselves around me was a problem.
It isn’t Spencer I’m worried about anymore, not that it ever was, he was just something to be used to cover my real worries. It isn’t the age difference, though that is something still on my mind, but that is something that I’ve realized isn’t being used as manipulation. It isn’t whether or not they’re together. I already know they’re together.
What bothers me is that they’re still seemingly waiting on my permission.
I built this house, sorry, mansion, to be a home for my niece. Not a place where she needs to monitor her social life, especially now that she’s an adult. I built it to be safe for her and the people that she cares about.
And whether I was prepared for it or not, Spencer Reid had become one of those people.
I set the spoon down on the counter, two realizations coming into my head:
I’ve been stirring the pasta for nearly five minutes.
I should probably bring it up at dinner.
______
The sound of forks against ceramic plates echoes in the dining room. Nobody has said much, everyone is far too focused on their pasta. For a moment I debate on not saying something. But I know if I don’t say something now, I’ll probably spend another month watching them be weirdos.
I sit my fork down on my plate.
“So, Spencer.”
“Yeah?” he says, looking up with a mouth full of bread.
“Did you get home safe last night?”
Neither of them react. Spencer just nods.
“Good.” I take a sip of water. “It was pretty late.”
Spencer hesitates for a moment. She stops eating and looks up at me with only her eyes.
“It wasn’t that late,” Spencer says carefully.
“That’s true.” I take a bite of pasta. Then chew. Then swallow. “3:00 AM is technically morning, now isn’t it?”
They’re silent. Both of their expressions are exactly the same, eyes wide, forks suspended halfway to their mouths. I can’t help but chuckle looking at them. Because the panic on their faces in unbelievable.
“Did you hear him leave?” She finally asks.
“I came downstairs for water.”
That makes their faces worse. Much worse. I know why. And they surely know why as well. My niece drops her face into her hands.Spencer looks like he’d rather be detained by the FBI. Which is unfortunate because he works for the FBI.
“I wasn’t exactly surprised.”
They exchange a confused look at each other.
“...what do you mean?” She asks.
I think about it. Because what do I mean? I wasn’t surprised to see my niece and my coworker cuddled up on my couch in the middle of the night?
“You guys really think I don’t know?”
“Think you don’t know what?” She asks.
“A few weeks ago you told me you were going to Georgetown.”
“We did go to Georgetown. Spencer got a planner!”
“You told me on Friday you were going to Georgetown. You called me from Georgetown on Saturday morning…So where were you the night before?”
I watch the realization creep onto her face. And his.
“...Spencer’s apartment,” she quietly answers.
“In our defense it was storming,” Spencer immediately adds.
“That’s fair, I’m glad you were safe.”
Both of them give me a weird look.
“That’s it?” she asks. I knew she expected me to be angry. Or to yell. She still looks suspicious. “I still don’t know what you mean by not being surprised."
I stare at her. Then at Spencer. Then back at her. And I smile.
“I saw you kissing in the driveway.”
“Oh…” she says, her face pale. Spencer swallows hard. I see it all the way down his throat.
I start eating again, ready to end the conversation. They refuse to take another bite, just looking off into space.
“You aren’t…mad?” Spencer finally asks with a shaky voice.
There’s something vulnerable about the question and the way he says it. I look at both of them sitting across from me. I don’t feel worried, or upset, or angry about what’s going on between them. I just feel old.
Very, very old.
“No. I’m not mad.” I say with a smile.
_____
Read Part 23 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i have no idea why but this is like one of my favorite parts i’ve written. i think it’s because i write in rossi’s headvoice rather than a first/second person blend. anyways i wrote this part in like two hours but i really really like it :) also i don’t know when the next part will come out, perhaps next week? it depends because i’m very busy right now. but trust me when i say it will be worth the wait hehehe
summary: You’re uncle Rossi has figured out that you’ve been sneaking around with Spencer Reid for the past few weeks. And he is not happy.
word count: 3.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap in mind (i'm imagining 26 year old (s3) spencer and 18 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise, angst between reader and rossi, also angst between rossi in spencer in the second segment where it switches to his pov
The second you walk through the front door you know something is wrong. You can’t explain it; nothing looks or sounds different. Yet somehow everything feels different.
You close the door behind you and sit your bag on the kitchen island. Then you notice it.
The light upstairs. Specifically your bedroom light. Your stomach drops. Because your bedroom door is open. And you know for a fact you shut it this morning. And David Rossi does not go into your room. Ever. Not when you’re home, and especially not when you’re gone.
For a second you just stare. Then you slowly head upstairs. The hallway feels longer than normal. The paintings on the wall seem to stretch far more than they actually do.
Your room is empty when you reach it. Nothing appears disturbed, nothing is missing, but something feels wrong.
You hear movement down the hall. Your uncle’s bedroom door opens and suddenly there he is. Standing in the doorway. Watching you.
“We need to talk,” he says. Your stomach sinks. The words are calm. Too calm. And that's far worse than angry.
He follows you into your room. You lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. He remains standing.
Your bedroom door stays open, but he’s standing right in front of it. Blocking the hallway, the escape route. Not intentionally, probably. It feels impossible to look anywhere except at him.
He sighs. He sounds exhausted. And disappointed. And angry. All at once. For a moment he just looks at you. You suddenly understand how three different women divorced David Rossi.
“You lied to me,” he says.
Your heart stops.
Spencer.
It had to be about Spencer. Except, how?
You force your expression into confusion.
“What are you talking about?” You ask, trying your best to seem clueless.
Your uncle clenches his jaw. He slowly reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a yellow sticky note.
Your blood turns to ice. You don’t even need to read it. You already know exactly what it says.
‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’
Followed by eight numbers. Spencer’s phone number.
Your uncle looks down at it in his hand. Then back at you.
“You lied to me,” he says again, this time quieter. Much quieter.
The disappointment hurts more than the anger. Much worse.
“I can explain…” you say.
“Can you?” His voice raises for the first time. “You told me there was nothing going on.”
“There isn’t!”
“Then why are you sneaking around and hiding it from me?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because honestly, you don’t have an answer. At least not one he’ll accept.
He laughs. Humorlessly. It’s terrifying.
“You lied about the phone number…”
“Uncle Dave…”
“You lied about Garcia’s car.”
You stand up. “Because you would’ve overreacted!”
“I’M overreacting?” His voice echoes through the house.You immediately regret saying that.
“You’re eighteen.”
You laugh a fed up laugh. “That’s what this is about?”
“It’s relevant.”
“It’s not.”
“How is it not?”
“We’re friends!”
“You are not spending three hours on the phone every night with a friend.”
Your stomach drops. How much does he know?
“A week,” he says, his voice shaking now. Not from anger, but from hurt. “A week of phone calls.”
You just stare at him. That tells him everything.
“A week,” he repeats.
You haven’t tried denying it. You hadn’t realized he knew. Your uncle looks away and runs a hand across his face. For a second he looks tired, almost older.
“He is twenty-six years old, Y/N.”
You flinch, because somehow hearing it from him makes it feel different. Hearing it from him makes it sound…wrong.
“I know.” you say, embarrassed.
Rossi just stares at you. And somehow the silence is worse than the yelling.
“You know?” he finally says, his voice low.
You can’t speak, but you nod in response.
His eyes widen, he looks more angry now. “YOU KNOW?” he shouts.
“Yes!”
“And you’re still doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Hanging around a twenty-six year old federal agent.”
Ouch.
“He’s my friend!”
“He’s twenty-six!”
“And?”
Rossi lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“And?” he repeats. “That’s your response?”
“Yes!”
“You are eighteen years old.”
“So?”
“You graduated high school five months ago.”
“I’m in college!”
“That doesn’t just make it okay for you to hang out with people in their mid twenties.”
You stand up from the bed. “You’re acting like he’s some creepy guy!”
“I never said he was.”
“You sure make it sound like that.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then stop acting like Spencer did something wrong.”
Rossi rubs his temple.
“This isn’t about Spencer,” he says.
“Then why is he the only thing you’ve been yelling about for ten minutes?
“Because he’s the thing you’ve been lying to me about!”
“I’ve been lying to you because if I were to mention Spencer you’d lose your mind!”
Your uncle’s jaw clinches. He knows you’re right, but he knows his point must stand.
“You are eighteen,” he says, for what feels like the hundredth time.
“I’m an adult.”
“Barely.”
His response hits harder than it probably should. You stare at him as he keeps going.
“He’s older than your brother.”
“Not even by a year.”
"That's not the point."
"It kind of is."
"No, it isn't." You cross your arms. "They would've been in the same grade."
"Exactly."
You pause. That wasn't the response you expected. "What?"
"They would've been in the same grade."
"So?"
"So would you ever think about being friends, or whatever,with somebody in your brother's graduating class?"
You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.
"That's different."
"How?"
Because it is. It absolutely is. Except you can't explain why.
"It's just different."
"No, it isn't."
"It is."
"Y/N." Rossi's voice drops lower. Dangerously lower. "The fact that you're struggling to answer that should tell you something."
You look away.Because you hate that he's right. You'd never looked at it that way before. Spencer wasn't "twenty-six" in your head. He was Spencer. The guy who sat on your bedroom floor for almost four hours talking about science fiction. The guy who got excited about planners. The guy who remembered random things you said weeks ago. The guy who called you just to talk. You'd never mentally put him in the same category as your brother and his friends.
Because somehow that felt ridiculous.
And yet technically he was.
Rossi sees the hesitation. "Exactly."
"No."
"Yes."
"No, because you're making it weird."
"I'm not making it weird."
"You're comparing Spencer to Sean and Darrell and all of Logan’s stupid friends.”
“And?"
You groan loudly. "My point is that Spencer isn't like them."
"I KNOW HE ISN'T LIKE THEM."
The sudden volume makes you jump. Rossi drags a hand down his face. Because that's the thing. This isn't about Spencer being a bad person. And that's what makes this so much harder.
"I know exactly who Spencer is," he says. "I've worked with him for over a year." His voice softens slightly. "That's part of the problem."
You stare at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means I know how old he is." His eyes meet yours. "I know what he’s seen and what he’s been through.” The softness in his voice vanishes. “Which means I know that he’s been in the FBI since you were in middle school.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate it because you’ve thought about it too. The age, the experience, the gap between where you and him are in your lives. You;d thought about it when Penelope mentioned his age at his birthday dinner, and while lying awake in your bed. You’d thought about it every single time your feelings were getting harder to ignore. Which was a lot.
“You don;t understand,” you say, pleading with your eyes at him for something you’re not certain of.
“Then explain it to me.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Because how are you supposed to explain that being with Spencer never made you feel young, or immature, or inexperienced? And that he makes you feel like your opinions matter, and that he talks to you like you’re smart. And worthy, And that he actually cares about what you have to say. How do you explain that talking to Spencer feels easier than talking to anyone else>
You can’t.
“He’s not what you’re making him sound like,” you say instead.
Rossi’s expression softens, which makes the whole conversation hurt more.
“I know he’s not,” he says. “I know exactly who Spencer is.” The softness disappears. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re eighteen.”
“I know,” you say. You hate that he keeps saying things that are true. And you hate even more that none of them change how you feel.
“Nothing is happening!” you finally yell.
He just stares at you in silence.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing!”
Then why are you crying?”
You hadn’t even realized you were. You wipe your eyes. Your uncle sighs, and sort of looks less angry, which makes him just look sad. And that hurts worse.
“I trusted you,” he says, after staring at you for a long moment.
Ouch.
“I know, I’m sorry.”
You’re both quiet for a long time.
“I don’t want you seeing him anymore.”
“What?”
“No phone calls, no dinner, no seeing him.”
“What?”
“If I find out that you’re talking to him again…”
“Uncle Dave!”
“As long as I’m paying for you to keep living in this house and for you to go to college and giving you anything you want you will follow my rules.”
You stare at him. He stares right back. Neither of you move. Finally, he turns to leave.
“Uncle Dave,” you call out to him.
He stops, but doesn’t look back.
“I expected better from you,” he says, and slams the door hard enough to rattle the room.
A book falls off your shelf. The same book Spencer had spent fifteen minutes carefully examining the night you met. It hits the floor with a thud.
And suddenly the room feels emptier than it ever had.
You stare at the closed door and the book on the floor. And think about the sticky note still in your uncle’s hand on the other side of the door.
Then the tears finally come.
And there’s nothing you can do to stop them.
_____
SPENCER’S POV
Friday
8:00 AM
I called Y/N three times last night. She didn’t answer a single time. She’s never missed a single one of my calls, let alone three. Maybe she was busy, she could’ve been studying. She does have a proctored test today.
I want to ask Rossi if she’s okay when he comes into work today, but he rushes past my desk without so much as looking at me. Which is weird. Without a doubt he always says hi to me. Every single morning.
And maybe she wouldn’t like me asking Dave if she’s okay. And if she was just busy last night, I don’t want her to be upset at me for overstepping for no reason.
My phone buzzes. I look down immediately. Nothing. No messages, no missed calls, nothing.
I called her three times last night.
8:07.
9:34.
10:52.
Not consecutively. People miss phone calls, phones die, people study, people fall asleep. All perfectly reasonable explanations for somebody to miss a phone call.
The problem is that after the third unanswered call your brain begins generating increasingly unreasonable explanations.
I don’t particularly enjoy that process.
I put my phone away and start working on paperwork.
I’m about half way through my first file when Fabid Rossi appears in front of my desk.
“Reid,” he says to get my attention.
I look up.
“We need to talk.”
That usually isn’t a sentence people enjoy hearing.
I get up and he leads me to his office. Any conversation that had been happening in the bullpen had ceased. I feel awkward as we walk. I can feel everybody’s eyes on me.
Rossi steps inside his office, I enter after him. He closes the door. That’s not concerning in the slightest.
He motions for me to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk. I do. He remains standing. That’s more concerning.
For several seconds he doesn’t say anything. He just studies me. I feel like I’m being interrogated. I don’t like it.
“My niece,” he finally says, after what felt like hours.
I blink. Oh. Immediately several possibilities occur to me. Maybe she’s upset. Maybe something happened. Maybe she failed her exam.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, genuinely concerned about her.
I see his jaw tighten. “You could probably ask yourself that question.”
Did I do something wrong?
“How often have you been talking to her?” He asks.
That wasn’t one of the possibilities I thought of. “What?”
“How often?”
I think about it. “Almost every night.”
His expression worsens, which is confusing.
“Phone calls,” I add, maybe he wanted context.
“I know,” he says.
Okay, so he already knows that. That eliminates several potential misunderstandings.
Unfortunately it doesn’t eliminate the actual misunderstanding.
“She’s great,” I say, smiling.
The second the sentence leaves my mouth I know something is wrong. I don’t know what's going on, or if I said or did something I shouldn’t have, but I’ve seen David Rossi interview serial killers with friendlier expressions than how he’s glaring at me now.
“Great?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” I keep smiling, despite the fact that something looks wrong. Because she is great. She’s funny, and smart, and she asks interesting questions. She actually lets me talk about stuff, which is rare for me. “I like talking to her.”
That appears to be the incorrect response.
“Seriously?” His voice is clearly sarcastic. I’m confused.
I stare at him.
“What?” I ask.
“Reid…” something in his voice makes my stomach drop. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
I have no idea how to answer that question, or what he wants me to say.
“Talking to her?’
His eyes close briefly. “She’s eighteen.”
Oh. The realization of what he’s thinking hits me all at once. I completely understand what he’s implying. Rossi and I are having two completely different conversations.
“No. That’s not what– No.” I stutter a lot.
“Then what is it?”
I run a hand through my hair because somehow this conversation has become deeply confusing.
“She’s my friend.”
Rossi stares at me. I stare back, I’m so confused.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t believe me, which is frustrating. “I’ve never–”
I stop. Because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
I’ve never what? I’ve never asked her out. I’ve never flirted with her. I’ve never intended…
My thoughts stop abruptly. Because suddenly I realize I don’t actually know what qualifies as flirting.
“She’s my friend,” I say again.
The silence that follows is awful. It’s painful, and awkward, and filled with gazes and glances that I don’t like being the receiver of.
Then Rossi explodes. For once I don’t remember every word. Mostly because he’s talking very loudly. And I’m scared.
He mentions something about phone calls, and boundaries, and responsibility. Something about age. Most of it blends together. Not because I’m not listening, but because I’m trying to understand how we got here. He starts talking about power imbalances, and life experiences, and maturity. And I genuinely do not think the conversation could get any more awkward.
And then it does.
“Do you have any idea what you’d do if she gets pregnant?”
I blink. Pregnant? For a second I wonder if I missed part of the conversation.
“Pregnant?” I interrupt.
Rossi doesn’t stop. He keeps talking. I completely lose track of the conversation. Because what?
“I’m not trying to have sex with your niece, man!”
The sentence leaves my mouth before I can stop it. I immediately realize two things.
That was significantly louder than I intended it to be.
The bullpen definitely heard that, which is pretty mortifying.
Rossi stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us say anything for a long time.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
“Then what is the point?”
“Reid.”
I lean forward, because now I’m frustrated too.
“No, seriously. You’re talking to me like I’m trying to date her.”
“You’re spending hours every night talking to her.”
“Because she’s my friend.”
“Friends don’t hide things.”
“I wasn’t hiding anything. I never asked her to hide anything. Honestly, I thought you knew.”
Rossi lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Really? You thought I knew?”
“I was under the impression everyone knew.”
That apparently is also the wrong answer. Rossi lowers himself into his chair for the first time since I entered his office. Which should make me feel better. It doesn’t. Now he just looks tired. And angry. And worried.
I realize this conversation was never really about me. It’s about her. He’s scared. That doesn’t make it right, but it explains a lot. Unfortunately, it doesn’t solve anything. Every explanation I give somehow makes the situation worse. There’s not much more either of us can say.
Finally he sighs. A long exhausted sigh that makes him sound like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Just stay away from her.”
Part of me wants to argue. It’s unfair to have to take orders from someone who is just making assumptions about my intentions. But I just sit there looking at him. He looks confused, I’m sure I look the same. Because I am deeply confused.
A week ago I was talking and laughing with his niece, now I’m apparently being treated like a criminal.
Eventually I stand, the conversation is over.
I open his office door. The bullpen immediately becomes more fascinated with paperwork than they have in their entire lives. Nobody looks at me, which means everyone was looking at me.
I walk back to my desk and sit. Just sit. I don’t open a file or turn on my computer. I just sit. Trying to process what just happened. The problem is, I still don’t understand exactly what I did wrong.
Garcia appears at my desk. She looks at me.
“Yes?” I ask quietly.
Her face falls when she sees my face.
“Oh, Honey,” she says.
I sigh.
“That bad?” she asks.
“That bad.”
Before I can stop her she’s marching toward Rossi’s office determined and very guilty looking. She closes the door behind her. She comes out a little while later, and judging by her expression, she was unsuccessful in whatever she was trying to accomplish.
Morgan rolls his chair over beside me shortly after he gets back from lunch. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t.
“Question,” he says.
I look at him, everyone heard my conversation with Rossi so there’s no point in running.
“Are you dating Rossi’s niece?”
“No.” I say immediately.
“That was a fast answer.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Okay,” Morgan nods. “Do you want to?”
I stare at him. Then I blink. “No.”
Morgan studies my face for several seconds. He’s profiling me. “You look confused.”
“I am confused.”
He leaves, which is remarkably unhelpful.
The rest of the day passes slowly. I keep feeling like I’m being watched. And it’s awkward.
By the time I get home I’m exhausted. Mentally. I sit my satchel beside the couch. I check my phone. Nothing still.
I tell myself I’m worried because Rossi is angry. Which is true.
I tell myself I’m worried because she’s never ignored my calls.
Also true.
I tell myself there are perfectly rational explanations for both things.
That’s true too.
Then I check my phone again. Which is not rational.
Knowing a behavior is irrational doesn’t automatically stop you from doing it. People assume it does. They’re wrong.
I start to really consider what Rossi said today. About Y/N. About why he was so angry. And I wonder why it bothers me as much as it does.
The only thing I know is that I miss talking to her.
And that’s the thought that keeps me awake the longest.
_____
Read Part 7 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: i’ve literally been working on this since 1:00 pm today (its 10:30 now) i have a serious problem i think
summary: Change is weird. As is time. And the amount of change that can happen in a short amount of time never fails to surprise you. Because two weeks ago, you were spending your entire day trying to ignore the fact that you were spending your entire day thinking about someone. And now you’re on that same person’s couch, curled up against him on a Saturday afternoon.
word count: 2.7k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
Change is weird. As is time. And the amount of change that can happen in a short amount of time never fails to surprise you. Because two weeks ago, you were spending your entire day trying to ignore the fact that you were spending your entire day thinking about someone. And now you’re on that same person’s couch, curled up against him on a Saturday afternoon.
Spencer is tucked into the corner of the couch with one arm wrapped around your waist and a book in his free hand. Your back is pressed into his side and your head leans comfortably against his shoulder.
Two weeks ago this would feel weird. You would be awkward. He would be awkward. But today, it doesn’t feel like that. You aren’t thinking about where your hands are, or whether you're sitting too close, or if you’re allowed to lean into him. You just are.
Spencer feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels…like…
Home.
The realization sneaks up on you unexpectedly. You decide not to think about that last part. So naturally you think about it even harder.
The apartment is quiet except for the sounds of pages turning and the occasional sound of the heater kicking on. Spencer’s thumb absentmindedly brushes against your side every few minutes. It’s not enough to cause a distraction, just enough that you notice. Every single time.
You’ve been trying to read your book for nearly twenty minutes. Trying. Because every few minutes your attention drifts towards Spencer.
You glance over from your book.
He’s reading.
You look back down. Two minutes later you look toward him again.
Still reading.
You stare a little longer this time. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed. He has a few strands of hair falling into his eyes and his glasses are slipping slightly down his nose. The sleeve of his sweater is pushed up his forearm on the arm that’s around your waist. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen his arms. You smile to yourself, then immediately force your attention back to your book before he catches you.
“You’ve read the same paragraph three times.”
“What?” You say, snapping your head up.
Spencer doesn’t even look away from his book.
“The paragraph,” he says, turning a page. “You’ve read it three times.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you spying on me?”
“No.”
“THen how do you know that?”
“You haven’t turned a page and the position of your head hasn’t changed enough to make me think you’re onto the next page yet.”
You stare at him. He still hasn’t looked away from his book.
“You don’t know that,” you argue.
“Actually, I do,” he finally looks down at you. “You weren’t reading either.”
“I was too!”
“You were looking at me.”
“I was not!” Your face is warm.
“You were.”
“I wasn’t!”
‘You were.” He squeezes your waist lightly, making you squirm into him.
“I hate that you know things,” you say.
Spencer marks his page in his book with a finger. He sits up slightly so he can have a better view of your face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. You hate that he knows that you were thinking. And you hate that there’s no way of getting around this conversation because the second you lie he’s going to know.
“It’s not really wrong…” you say, twisting the blanket between your fingers. He continues looking at you waiting for the rest of your sentence. “I still don’t think I’m ready to tell Uncle Dave.”
“That’s okay,” he says, his voice soft and genuine. “I said it was on your time.”
“I know, and thank you for that, really,” you say. “But…”
Spencer waits. Patiently. Like he always does. You continue.
“I was thinking maybe telling Logan could make telling Dave feel easier.”
“Is that what you want to do?” he asks.
“If it’s okay with you, yes.”
“I think it’s a good idea.”
“Okay, do you…do you want to do it now?”
“If you do.”
You look down at your phone sitting on the coffee table. Then you look at Spencer again.
“I’m 90% sure he’s going to make fun of me,” you say.
Spencer smiles. “Probably.”
“Wow, that makes me feel really good about this,” you say.
“Was I supposed to lie?”
“Yes, Spencer, that is a situation where you’re supposed to lie to me.”
“Okay, noted.”
You roll your eyes at him and reach for your phone.
“What if he freaks out?” you say.
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“You just have to trust me.”
You look up at Spencer. He’s watching you. His face looks sincere. You do trust him. And you know that Logan will be happy for you. And even if for some asinine reason he isn’t, you know that Spencer won’t go anywhere.
You open your phone and start to find Logan’s contact. Spencer shifts a little closer to you. You can feel his breath down the back of your neck. You hit the little green call button under Logan’s name.
Ring.
You’re nervous now that you’ve actually called him. A little over two weeks ago you were sitting in your room telling your brother that there was no way Spencer Reid liked you. Now you’re about to tell him that he was right all along.
You don’t even notice that your leg is bouncing until Spencer’s hand comes to rest on your thigh. You glance over at him, he just gives you a small smile. The bouncing begins to slow, which surprises you. Because it’s literally just a hand. But somehow, the same Spencer Reid that you swore didn’t like you has now become your most efficient source of emotional regulation.
“I liked this idea a lot more two minutes ago,” you say, looking at Spencer.”
Ring.
“You’ll be okay,” Spencer smiles.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
Ring.
“Well, well, well,” your brother’s voice sounds from the other end of the phone.
“Not even a hello?” you ask.
“Nope, what do you want?”
“Am I not allowed to call my own brother?”
“No you can. Are you dying?”
“Yes, I’m seconds away from death and the first thing I do is call you.”
“Fair point, what do you need?”
You glance over at Spencer. The last ounce of courage you have has completely disappeared. He notices immediately. Because of course he does. He removes his hand from your thigh and takes your free hand that isn’t holding your phone. He gives you a nod, silently telling you to get on with it.
“Remember when you said that you thought Spencer liked me?” you say.
“NO WAY!” Logan says excitedly. You hear something fall on his end of the phone.
“What was that?” you ask.
“I stood up too fast.”
“Why are you standing up?”
“WAS I RIGHT?”
You don’t say anything.
“Y/N WAS I RIGHT?”
Spencer smiles to himself. You move the phone in his direction.
“Yeah,” Spencer says, “you were right.”
“OH MY GOD HE’S THERE?” Logan says.
“Hi,” Spencer says innocently. It’s cute.
“Come on, Y/N, say I was right.” Logan cheers.
“Yeah…” you say.
“Yeah what?” Logan prompts.
“You know what,” you say, refusing to give him what he wants.
“I want to hear you say it,” Logan says. Of course he does.
You look at Spencer, who’s just smiling.
“Say it,” Logan pushes.
You sigh dramatically.
“You were right,” you finally say.
“I KNEW IT!” He shouts.
“Okay, yeah, you did,” you say.
“I literally told you so,” Logan brags.
“You’re so immature,” you say.
Eventually, Logan settles down enough to breathe.
“Have you told Uncle Dave?” Logan asks, voice more serious.
“No…” you answer, exchanging a look with Spencer.
“Y/N…” Logan says in a tone you know all too well. The ‘older brother tone’ that usually means he’s about to give you a life lesson you weren’t really asking for. “If he finds out on his own he might kill you guys…”
You hate that he’s right.
“I’m just saying,” Logan continues after no one answers. His voice is a little less serious now. “If you two are doing all this hand holding and weird stuff–”
“GOODBYE LOGAN!”
You hang up.
Neither you or Spencer speaks for a moment. You just sit there, curled up against him.
“He seemed…excited,” Spencer finally says.
“That’s one way to describe it,” you laugh.
“I think he almost blew out my eardrum.”
“He’s good at that.”
Spencer smiles and gets comfortable leaning against the couch again. His arm remains wrapped around your waist, his hand barely breaking the barrier of the hem of your shirt and your skin. His thumb traces absent-minded patterns against your bare side. Your phone sits forgotten on the coffee table, but the conversation keeps replaying in your head.
You chew your lip, thinking. Overthinking. Spencer notices. Obviously. There seems to be nothing that he doesn’t notice.
“What?” he says, looking over your shoulder at you.
“What, what?” you look up at him.
“You’re thinking again.”
“Brains tend to do that.”
“You know what I mean.”
You do. You stare at the T.V., then at the coffee table, then at your phone. Anywhere except for him. Because your eyes and mouth know what you’re going to say before your brain.
“What are we?”
Spencer’s fingers still from their drawings. You regret speaking.
“Forget I said that…” you mumble.
“No,” he says.
“Please.” You bring both your hands up and groan into them.
“You don’t get to ask a question and then immediately take it back,” he says, gently pulling one of your hands away from your face. You look at him reluctantly.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you say.
His eyebrows lift. “I don’t?”
“No. Honestly, I’d rather you not.”
“Okay,” he says. You can’t detect any emotion in his voice. You start to panic.
“Wait, that was mean, I’m sorry,” you spit out.
“It was a little mean,” he agrees playfully.
The playfulness doesn’t last long though. His expression softens to something more caring. And his voice is serious again.
“What do you want us to be?”
His response takes you by surprise because that’s nowhere close to what you expected. You don’t really know what you suspected, but it wasn’t for him to flip the question back on you.
You look down at your hands, then away, like somehow the answer might be written on the wall.
“I don’t know,” you shrug.
Spencer waits patiently. You hate it. Because it means you actually have to answer.
“I just…” you start, then take a deep breath. “I know I like you…”
Your words make him smile, which makes your face warm.
“...and I know I want to keep doing this…”
His smile grows.
“...and I know I don’t really want anybody else.”
Spencer’s face becomes almost sympathetic looking.
“What about you?” you ask him.
“You.”
“What?”
“You asked what I wanted. I want you.”
You stare at him. His answer was fast and certain.
“Take me out to dinner first,” you say.
And then immediately regret it.
Spencer laughs. You hide your face against his shoulder.
“Don’t laugh at me,” you say, voiced muffled by his sweater.
He brings a hand up to the back of your head, pulling you closer into him.
“I’m not laughing at you,” he says.
“Yes you are,” you whine, face still in his chest.
“Look at me,” he says, using his hand to tilt your head up to him, not really giving you an option to look away.
Reluctantly, you open your eyes at him. His expression is soft. Not amused or teasing like you expected.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says.
“Then what did you mean?” you ask quietly.
“I mean I want this,” he brushes his thumb across your cheek. You keep looking at him, waiting for him to continue. He does.
“I want you to be the person I call as soon as I’m home from a case. I want to spend every weekend I have off with you.”
His voice stays calm and certain, like what he’s saying is a fact.
“I want to be the person you tell about your classes, and I want to hear about whatever page you accidentally ripped out of your planner again.”
“That was one time,” you smile through tears that are fighting to come out.
“It was three.”
“It was one page that I told you about three times.”
Spencer laughs softly before looking deeply into your glossy eyes.
“I want all of it,” he says.
“You’ve really thought about this,” you say, taking notice of how much more in depth his thoughts were than yours.
“I think about most things,” he smiles.
“Not helping.”
“Sorry.”
Neither of you speak for a moment. The T.V. plays through the background. Neither of you even know what’s on anymore.
“Okay,” you finally say, after what felt like five minutes of just sitting there staring at him with your head in his hands.
“Okay?” he repeats, confused. Which is funny, considering he’s supposed to be a genius or whatever.
“If that’s what you want,” you say.
“It is.”
“Then I think that answers the question.”
“So you want to do this?” His smile falters slightly. Only slightly.
“I think so?” You say, sort of sarcastically.
“Like… officially?”
“Spencer,” you stare at him. “You literally just said you wanted me.”
“I know?”
“And I said I wanted you.”
“I know.”
“You’re still confused?”
“I’m not confused.”
“You sound confused,” you giggle.
“I’m verifying,” he says, rubbing his thumb on your cheek. “So…are we officially dating?”
He asks the question like it’s just a normal, Spencer Reid style question he’d ask to anyone. It’s so simple. After weeks, maybe even months, of nervous conversations, and kisses, and sharing books, and overthinking, it all comes down to such a simple question.
“Yeah,” you say, looking up at him.
The biggest smile you’ve ever seen spreads across his face.
“Yeah?” he repeats. A faint blush spreads across his face and ears. “You’re my girlfriend now.”
You smile and nod. You don’t trust yourself to respond with words. Spencer shifts his hands slightly against your face, not enough to move you, just to hold you a little closer.
And suddenly you’re very aware of how close he is. And how warm his hands are. And how he’s looking at you like you’re in a 2x2 white box with nothing else inside aside from each other.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Then back up to your eyes. You can feel yourself smiling. He’s smiling too. He leans forward slowly. Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. You don’t.
Every nervous thought in your head disappears the moment his lips touch yours. He cradles your face softly in his hand, making small movements with his thumb. So small you almost miss it, but enough that it makes your heart swell. Because it’s Spencer. And he has a way of doing that.
You reach up and grab the front of his sweater, pulling your body closer to him. He makes a quiet sound against your mouth that sends butterflies though your entire body. He smiles into the kiss, making you smile too.
Which ruins any chance of keeping the kiss serious, because the moment you feel your teeth click against his, you both laugh.
“Yeah,” you smile, pulling back only enough to be able to look at him.
“You’re my girlfriend,” he repeats, smiling wider than you probably have ever seen.
The second he says it you feel embarrassed again. You hide your face in his shoulder once more.
“Nope,” you say, jokingly, hoping he picks up on that. He does.
“You just agreed!” Spencer laughs.
“I know.”
“You’re my girlfriend.”
“Stop saying it.”
“You are my girlfriend.”
“Spencer!”
“My girlfriend.”
You groan into his sweater. You feel him laugh. The tension of worrying about Rossi, or the future, or anybody else has been put aside. You both know you’re eventually going to have to tell him. But now? At this moment? It can just b e yours together. Curled up on his couch, not worried about anything besides each other.
_____
Read Part 20 Here!
_____
BUY ME A COFFEE
_____
a/n: sorry for being MIA for the last couple days, sixteen year old me is alive again and i have been going to so many concerts i yearn for live entertainment
also ngl this was written over like three separate days and multiple different states of sobriety and is not proof read so if it's a mess i apologize
summary: Spencer starts coming over for dinner on Sundays. One Sunday, your brother shows up and finally makes you confront the thing you’ve been ignoring most.
word count: 3.3k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi!reader (reader is rossi’s niece), made up backstory for reader, mostly just spencer fluff, written with a small age gap (≈ 5 years) in mind (i'm imagining 25 year old (s3) spencer and a 18/19 year old reader) but nothing too crazy and it's not a kink thing i promise
The first time Spencer came over by himself felt weird. Not bad weird, just… weird.
For months Spencer had existed in very specific places. Places like coffee shops, and restaurants, and bookstores, and within phone calls. He existed at a constant in places that belonged equally to both of you.
Your house was not one of those places.
Then one Sunday afternoon, when you were sitting on the couch reading a book, your uncle looked up at you from his chair.
“Reid is coming over for dinner tonight,” he said calmly. Like it was a normal occurrence.
“What?” you say, fully believing that he is joking.
“Reid.”
“I know who Reid is.”
“Good.”
You stare at him. “You’re inviting Spencer?”
“I’m making dinner.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’m aware.”
“Why are you inviting Spencer?”
“He likes my cooking.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
You narrow your eyes at him but he ignores you.
“This is weird,” you say.
“Why’s that?”
“You’re inviting my friend over.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes. My friend.”
“He was my coworker first.”
Are you and your uncle really about to argue over whether Spencer Reid was your friend or his coworker?
No.
You ignore him long enough that he gets up to make dinner and you’re able to get back into reading your book.
The doorbell rings within ten minutes of you finishing your book.
“Will you get that, Y/N,” your uncle shouts from the kitchen.
You go open the door. And there was Spencer. Standing on the porch. Your porch. Holding a book. Of course he was holding the book.
“Hi,” he says, grinning from ear to ear.
“Hi,” you give a shy smile.
Neither of you moved.
“I brought this,” Spencer says, lifting the book.
“You brought reading material to dinner?”
“Yes,” he giggles.
And suddenly it hit you. This wasn’t coffee, or lunch. This wasn’t meeting somewhere halfway between your lives. Spencer was standing on your front porch coming over for dinner like it was normal. Like it was something he’d done a hundred times before.
The start of dinner was as normal as it could be when Spencer Reid is sitting at your dining room table. For the first ten minutes, your uncle is in the kitchen finishing cooking, while simultaneously holding three separate conversations: one with you, one with Spencer, and one with himself.
Spencer, somehow, is able to keep up. Which should not surprise you anymore, but it still does.
During dinner, Spencer and Rossi argue over something neither of them actually disagreed about.
“I never said the movie was bad,” Spencer says.
“No, but you were implying it,” your uncle argues.
“No I didn’t, I said the adaptation failed to properly capture the author’s intended themes.”
“Which is just genius for saying it was bad.”
You laugh. Both of them stop talking.
“What?” Spencer asks, looking at you.
“Nothing,” you smile.
“You’re laughing.” Good observation, Spencer.
“Yeah,” you continue laughing, “because you two sound exactly the same.”
Your uncle looks amused, but Spencer looks horrified.
“I do NOT sound like Rossi!” he says, but sadly, the emphasis of his words makes him sound exactly like Rossi.
“You so do,” you say, before taking a bite.
Your uncle doesn’t say he agrees, but he also doesn’t disagree before he changes the topic of conversation.
And somehow, three hours pass and you start to realize that your uncle likes Spencer. Because for months you’d been so focused on hiding from him because you thought that the issue was Spencer. You’d never really considered the possibility that the issue all along was never Spencer. And now that you know the real reason, you see it.
You watch your uncle laugh at something Spencer says, and ask him questions that only he would know the answer to. He’s not being polite and forcing himself to put up with Spencer because he’s your friend.
David Rossi likes Spencer Reid.
And while you realize that for the first time, your uncle is having a realization of his own. He doesn’t acknowledge it, he wouldn’t even if someone paid him. But as he listens to Spencer explain some overly complicated theory like it was simple addition, he finds himself smiling.
Because Spencer Reid was a good kid. A strange kid, a socially awkward nerdy kid, but a good one. And one that he wouldn’t mind having around for a while.
The evening ends a little after nine.
“Thank you for dinner,” Spencer says as he gathers his things. He grabs his coat from the rack in the hallway and puts it on. You and your uncle stand in the hall waiting to tell him goodbye.
Rossi extends his arm to shake Spencer’s hand. “How about same time next week?” he asks.
“I’ll be here,” Spencer smiles and shakes your uncle’s hand before turning toward you. Without giving it a second thought, he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.
Dave clears his throat. “Drive safe, Reid.”
Spencer steps back from the hug. “I will.”
You watch him go. Later that night, you’re laying in your bed trying to fall asleep. You can’t stop thinking about how Spencer Reid came over for dinner. And somehow, it felt completely normal. Which may have been the weirdest thing about it.
_____
The next Sunday Spencer comes over again.
The Sunday after that both he and Rossi miss because the BAU is on a case.
Then he comes the week after.
Then he misses another.
Then he comes back.
Eventually nobody really talks about it anymore. Spencer had just sort of become a part of Sunday dinner. Not every Sunday, but most of them.
Enough Sundays that your uncle starts asking if he’s available before deciding what to cook.
Enough Sundays that there are books permanently stacked on the end of the table for the week.
Enough Sundays that seeing his car in the driveway stops feeling unusual.
And one Sunday afternoon while he was preparing dinner, your uncle reaches into the cabinet and pulls out three plates. He sets the first one down, then the second, then the third. Then his hand pauses.
Because Spencer had never said he was coming. He just expected him to.
_____
By February, Spencer not showing up for Sunday dinner was more unusual than him coming.
You and Spencer were sitting at the kitchen table talking about books, of course, and your uncle was finishing cooking in the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” you say, standing from the table.
“Tell whoever it is we’re not joining their church. But if it’s girl scout cookies tell her I’ll be there in a second,” your uncle calls from the kitchen.
“Okay Uncle Dave,” you say.
You pull open the front door. Your brain completely stops functioning
“LOGAN!?” you shout.
“Surprise!” Your brother grinned.
You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him.
“Oh my god!” you shout.
“Hi to you too,” he laughs.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was rolling through the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by for a few days.”
“Oh my god!”
Your brother looks exactly the same. He’d gotten a haircut since the last time you saw him, but other than that he was exactly the same.
“Get inside,” you say, giving him a shove.
“Bossy,” he says, but steps inside. When he enters he notices two things. First, David Rossi, which made sense. The second was Spencer Reid, who was a new face.
Your uncle comes into the entry way to greet Logan.
“You picked the perfect time to show up,” Dave says.
“I was hoping you’d be cooking,” Logan smiles and gives your uncle a hug.
You lead Logan into the dining room and motion toward your guest. And for reasons that you couldn’t explain, your smile got bigger. And Logan noticed that too.
“This is Spencer,” you say. “He’s my friend.”
Spencer stood and offered his hand. Logan takes it.
“Hi, Spencer Reid.”
“Logan Rossi.”
That was it.
Dinner was normal. Logan caught you and your uncle up on his life, and sat quietly and watched as you and Spencer bantered.
“That’s not what happened,” you argued about something trivial.
“It is though,” Spencer responded.
“It isn’t.
“It is.”
Logan looks between the two of you. “Do you guys always do this?” He asks.
“Do what?” you ask.
“Whatever that was.” Logan says.
You and Spencer look at each other and then shrug. At the same time.
“Yes, Logan,” your uncle says in place of you or Spencer, “they always do that.”
Logan smiles a knowing smile. The longer dinner went the more things he noticed. You knew exactly what Spencer was about to say over half the time. Spencer knew what foods you wouldn’t eat. There were inside jokes and references that no one else understood.
It was the amount of familiarity people only get after spending a lot of time together.
Halfway though dessert you go to the kitchen to grab napkins because Dave had dropped his pie on his pants. He went to his bedroom to change while you cleaned up.
The second you left the room Logan immediately looked at Spencer. Spencer immediately noticed, and immediately looked nervous.
“So,” Logan starts. Spencer swallows. “How’d you meet my sister?”
“We met at a dinner party Rossi hosted a few months ago.”
“And you guys just became friends immediately?”
“Pretty much. We started talking about books, she reads a lot.”
“Oh, trust me I know. She’s a major nerd.”
Spencer smiles. “Yeah, she is. She remembers everything because she has this planner that she writes everything in.”
“A planner?”
“Yeah, it’s color coded and everything. It’s amazing.”
“Oh really?”
Spencer kept going. He told Logan about books you like, and going for coffee, and paintings you’ve talked about. He tells him that you highlight quotes in books in different colors depending on how they make you feel. He talks for almost five minutes.
You hear bits and pieces of the conversation as you move in and out of the dining room cleaning up the pie your uncle had dropped.
After Spencer is done talking Logan just stares at him. Spencer stares back, completely oblivious of how much understanding he just gave your brother, who now wasn’t sure Spencer even knew what planet he was on.
Rossi came back downstairs wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that looked older than you were.
“Problem solved,” he announced as he enters the dining room.
“You changed your entire outfit?” you ask him.
“There was pie involved,” Rossi says.
“Fair,” Logan says.
“Do any of you guys want to watch a movie?” Rossi asks.
“Yes,” you answer immediately,
“Depends,” Logan says. “What movie?”
“The good kind,” your uncle says.
The four of you go to the living room. Rossi immediately claims his armchair, nobody was getting him out of that thing. Logan sat on the couch cushion closest to Rossi’s chair, and you sat in the middle seat between him and Spencer.
Your uncle sets the T.V. and VCR up to watch Ocean’s 11, the Rat Pack version from 1960, not the 2001 Steven Soderbergh version. Because apparently when given complete television control, David Rossi became incapable of choosing anything made after 1995.
Not that anyone complained. Especially not Spencer. You were beginning to suspect he’d watch paint dry if someone explained enough statistics and facts about paint beforehand.
The room gradually got quieter as the movie began. About twenty minutes in, Logan started complaining.
“I’m cold,” he wined.
“You live in Washington,” you said.
“Exactly, I know cold well enough to know that I’m feeling it.”
“There’s blankets on the back of the couch,” your uncle says without taking his eyes from the T.V.
Logan reached behind and grabbed a blanket. Then another. And about five minutes later he somehow ended up with a third.
“Why do you have so many blankets?” you ask him.
“Because I am cold. Duh.”
He wrapped himself in a blanket burrito.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you scoff at him.
“What?” Logan asks innocently.
“You have three blankets.”
“I’m cold.”
You reached for the remaining blanket on the back of the couch. Unfortunately, so did Spencer. You immediately let go. So did he.
“You can have it,” he whispers quietly, like he only wants you to hear.
“No,” you whisper back, “you can.”
“You saw it first,” he says.
“That’s not how blankets work.”
The two of you stared at each other.
“We can share,” you suggest.
“Okay,” Spencer says.
You grabbed the blanket and spread it over both of your laps. Completely innocent and normal. It was just a blanket. Friends share blankets all the time. There was absolutely nothing weird about that.
You turned your focus back to the movie, well, tried to. Because suddenly you were hyperaware of everything. The warmth of the blanket, the fact that Spencer was sitting maybe six inches away from you, and that you can feel any movement he makes, and that you could smell him.
He smelled like a vanilla candle. And old books. And fall. You hated that you noticed.
You shift under the blanket, accidentally brushing your hand against his. Just barely, but enough that both of you pulled back quickly. Neither of you said anything, let alone looked at each other. The movie continued, but your head couldn’t pay it any attention.
A few minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe less. You weren’t really keeping track anymore.
Then it happened again.
This time your fingers touched for half a second longer. Not long enough to mean anything, or enough to matter. Still. Neither of you immediately moved this time, as if you both were waiting for the other to move.
You stared very intensely at the T.V.
Ocean’s 11 has never been so intriguing.
Spencer shifted slightly. You assume he’s moving away. He doesn’t.
He moves just enough that the back of his hand is resting against yours. And you were suddenly very aware of your heartbeat. Which you found annoying. It was just a hand. People have hands. Nothing was happening. At all.
Then a finger moved. You didn’t even know whose it was. A thumb brushed against the side of your hand. You’re not sure if it was his thumb moving to your hand, or you’re hand moving against his thumb. But you do know that no one moved away.
The movie continued. Both your uncle and brother were extremely invested. Which was making this worse for you because there was nothing to distract you from the fact that Spencer Reid’s hand was touching yours underneath a blanket.
You didn’t look at him. Not once. You were pretty sure if you did your brain would completely stop functioning. So instead you stared straight ahead watching the movie.
Sort of.
You probably heard the dialogue. You assumed things were happening. The actors were certainly moving around. But beyond that, there was nothing. Your entire awareness had been stripped to one single point of contact.
Then somehow, slowly, without either of you consciously deciding to do it, your fingers intertwined. It wasn’t sudden, it was gradual. Like it happened one tiny movement at a time.
Just one finger. Then another, and another. Until eventually your hand was resting in his.
You swallowed. He didn’t move a muscle. Neither did you. The movie kept playing, the glow of the T.V. the only thing bringing light to the room. Logan laughed at something, Rossi made a comment on the accuracy of something in the movie. Life continued exactly as it had before.
Except now you were holding Spencer’s hand.
The funniest part was that neither of you could possibly tell anyone what happened in the movie afterwards. You couldn’t remember a single scene, or a line. Nothing. Two adults with entirely functioning brains, completely defeated by hand holding.
Eventually the credits rolled and the lights came on, and somehow the moment seemed to disappear as quietly as it had started. The blanket got folded, people stood up, and conversation resumed. Nobody mentioned anything.
Not Uncle Dave. Not Logan. Not Spencer. And not you.
It was like it had never happened. And you probably could’ve convinced yourself of that had your heart not been beating far too fast for it not having just run a mile.
Spencer put his coat on at the door. Logan shakes his hand again.
“It was nice meeting you, Dude,” Logan says.
“Yeah, yeah you too,” Spencer smiles, shaking your brother’s hand. Your brother who was oblivious to the fact that the hand he was shaking was just intertwined with yours for almost an hour.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kid,” Rossi says, giving Spencer a salute.
“Thanks for dinner again, Rossi,” Spencer says before turning to you and smiling. The same exact smile he always gave you. Nothing different enough to make your stomach flip the way it did.
He hugs you goodbye. Brief, warm, and comfortable. Just like always.
And then the steps outside, pulling the front door closed on his way out.
You stood there for a second longer than necessary. Then your brother appeared beside you laughing.
“Oh you are so gone,” he says to you.
You narrow your eyes at him. “I didn’t even say anything,” you argue, slightly annoyed at him.
“I’m getting old,” your uncle announced as he starts going upstairs.
“You’ve been saying that since you were forty,” Logan says,
“And I’ve been right every year. Don’t stay up all night kids,” Dave says.
“No promises,” Logan smiles.
“Goodnight, Uncle Dave,” you say.
Then David Rossi disappears into his room, and you and Logan are left downstairs alone. You go to the kitchen and steal a piece of leftover pie. Logan follows, watching you. You notice immediately.
“No,” you say, your mouth full of pie.
“I didn’t even say anything,” Logan grins.
You give him a death stare.
“He comes to dinner every Sunday?” Logan asks.
“Sometimes,” you say, already done with the conversation that hadn’t even started.
Logan gives you a look. “Right.”
“Don’t do that,” you say, pointing your fork at him.
He gives you a mischievous smile. “Do what?”
“That… thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you’re not judging me.”
“I’m not judging you.” He’s being honest. “I’m studying you.” Also honest.
“That’s worse.”
He leans back in a barstool. You hate how amused he looks.
“So you like him,” he says. It’s not a question.
“No.” You quickly say.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” you blink.
“Sure.”
Sure? That’s not how these conversations are supposed to work. He’s supposed to argue. Or tease you. Or push for an explanation. And instead he just shrugs.
“I don’t,” you say.
“Okay,” he answers.
“Logan.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He laughs. “You know what I noticed?”
“I don’t care.”
“I’m gonna tell you anyway.”
Of course he is.
“You two know a weird amount about each other,” he starts.
“We’re friends.”
“You really don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
A grin takes over his entire face.
“He likes you too.”
You laugh. Not a nervous laugh, or an embarrassed laugh. A real laugh. Because of how ridiculous that sounded coming from your brother’s mouth.
"Oh my God,” you say.
"What?"
"Spencer does not like me."
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Compelling argument."
"You don't even know him."
"I know enough."
"No you don't."
Logan laughs. "I listened to him talk about you for ten straight minutes."
"Because you asked."
"I asked how he met you."
You open your mouth. Then pause. Because. Well. Okay. He was right. Still.
"No,” is all you can say.
Logan shakes his head. "Okay."
"Stop saying okay like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're humoring me."
"I am humoring you."
You groan. The kitchen clock ticks quietly somewhere behind you. Logan watches you for another few seconds. Then he smiles. Not teasing this time. Just amused.
"You know what the funniest part is?" He asks genuinely.
You already know you're going to regret asking.
"What?" you ask.
"I don't think either of you know."
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Read Part 14 Here!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: i'm sorry i made you guys wait 13 chapters for an ounce of romance but you're welcome for finally giving it to you :) also idk why but the whole time i'm picturing logan i'm picturing axl heck so do with that what you will i guess lmfao
