summary : spencer hints at the need to change himself to be deserving of love, but why would he compare himself to others, and who is he trying to impress ?
word count : 1.2k
pairings : spencer reid x bau!reader (idiots in love, workplace romance)
notes : pretty boy worries about his fitness test and falls for the promotion of toxic masculity, glowups and looksmaxxing... morgan's fault ? mentions of a high protein diet and yes i cringed writing this, who's gonna tell him we love an adorable skinny nerd ?
there were a lot of bad days at the BAU.
obviously, the place wouldn't run without the existence of negativity in the world. the everlasting presence of crimes, death, meant there were inevitably going to be a lot of bad days. victims you won't save in time , unsubs you won't catch, it was something all members of the team were at peace with by now.
there would be bad days, terrible ones even, but the sun would rise again the next morning, bright and announcing hope. another chance at making the world a better place.
the bad days at the BAU, the one spencer reid truly feared until his heartrate sped up and his breath caught in his throat, were a bit more silly. he'd grown up not to let himself be afraid of anything, except one.
the fitness tests.
"good morning, spence !"
when you entered the tiny kitchenette space to make your ritualistic daily coffee, your voice sounded cheerful. oat milk, lots of ice and a dash of vanilla syrup. iced latte was your fuel, and spencer didn't need to turn around to see look. he knew the way you liked it by heart like a catchy melody stuck in his head. he felt your presence in the room before you even spoke.
the lack of reaction made you frown when no one greeted you in return.
"morning," he answered simply. his hair looked particularly soft and ridiculously good in the way he'd decided to style it today - brushed back, curls rebelling agaisnt gravity - but you wished he'd turn around to hand you your mug. just like he always did.
today, he didn't.
the ice cubes hit the bottom of the glass and clinked, highlighting the unusual silence stretching between you. his shoulders looked slumped from behind, and you couldn't help but crane your neck to look over his tall figure.
it wasnt coffee he was drinking.
in his personal labeled mug, the one that had its spot on the shelf next to yours for convenience and unspoken rules - the first one to arrive makes coffee for two - was some sort of sloshy, pale mixture.
"holy fuck, what is that thing ?" you exclaimed in a voice too high for his sensitive self. too early to be the center of attention, too.
"nothing. i mean it isn't nothing, but it's nothing important"
judging by the knot your brows formed, he could tell you'd never accept to drop the subject.
"i have my fitness test this afternoon, i got the email last week and... i don't know, i guess it's not exactly a moment i look forward to."
"oh... none of us do, really."
your answer is simple, not inconsiderate. he knows you too well to be sure the latter would've included an eye roll and some giggling.
you move to the tiny fridge to find the bottle of oat milk kept on the top shelf, and feel the need to break the silence. "and drinking vomit is the best form of suicide you came up with ? babe, you could've made it work with the toaster"
there it is, the confirmation. you don't take him seriously, never have and probably never will.
"it's not vomit !" he retorts, crossing his arms to show how offensed he was. "it's a shake. with fruits and stuff... and protein as well"
by the sudden tilt of your head, lips parting and hand stilling mid pour, spencer felt his cheeks burn.
"they're full of micronutrients and can provide an energy boost, especially in the morning which is great for-"
"i know what a smoothie is, reid."
he looks down bashfully. “of course you do… i’ll let you have the space”
taking a couple steps to the right to give you the privilege of having the counter space, the conversation quietens when he sees you stare, dumbfounded and curious.
“this isn’t you.” you say in matter of factly tone. nothing is easier than knowing him. “you hate cold drinks…”
even coffee, actually. your beloved ice cubes you luckily always find in the freezer don’t interest him. and even though he’d never tell you he’s the one to refill the mold behind your back, he’d rather drink the coffee scalding hot.
“i do, but morgan recommended it.“
you sigh, rolling your eyes. “of course he did. what for, you know you could run backwards and the bureau would still keep you. you’re an asset to our team”
the little dimples of his you love so much make an appearance under the neon lights of the kitchenette, and you decide to keep going.
“morgan is just a cocky flirt.” your arms cross, droplets of condensation forming on the outside of the glass.
“aaaaand if you want my opinion, he’s probably suffering from some undiagnosed bigorexia. which to be honest, is really common in men”
not spencer, though. never spencer.
instead he shifts on his feet, and the distance between you seems like too much as a tight feeling in your chest urges you to protect him from all external forces.
“it’s not exactly like he forced me to do anything.” he retorts under his breath.
“i just think maybe… maybe i could put on some muscle. to be more efficient on the field.”
but his eyes are soft.
his eyes are soft as he opens up to you, the only person who ever listened. his slender fingers linger next to you, on the handle of the utensils drawer, and he looks like an absolute dream without even realising it.
when every breath and step he takes nearly undo you, how on earth could he possibly think he’s not enough.
“you’re perfect.”
those oh so perfect brown eyes look up and you melt.
“coffee is too good to be replaced with a bland protein shake you don’t even like. and you get too cranky when you’re lacking caffeine.”
it all comes to you naturally, too naturally. the reassuring words. the protective feelings when it comes to your beloved colleague.
“you hate exercise and there’s not a single reason why you should force yourself to do something you don’t enjoy for the purpose of changing yourself. it’s silly.”
swiftly you grab the handle of the mug with one hand and flick his forehed with the other.
"ouch- hey !" he exclaims in a high pitched voice. "what's that for ?"
“bringing you back down to earth. seriously,” the first sip you take is cool, the ice slightly melted already. “it’s not worth it.“
seconds pass before he actually says something, rubbing the spot you just hurt to make you feel bad about it.
now, his eyes find yours again. it doesn’t take a trained profiler to notice the change of posture.
“it does sound stupid when you say it like that…” he admits, chin higher and lips pursed.
you laugh, a full on burst of laughter at his self awareness.
“because it is. it’s so- unlike you.”
quieter, the sound of his chuckles mimic you. something warm contrasting with the iced drink you sip on.
“it’s not. i’m actually dying for a chocolate donut right now.”
this isn’t who he is.
the guy who cares about his physique more than anything and bends to society’s expectations. and amongst the false excuses he made and lies he tried to give you, you saw the truth immediately.
spencer is spencer. the guy who likes his coffee black with a donut on the side and calls it breakfast. he knows how you like your coffee and trades the opportunity to sleep in for more time with you in the morning.
and he is, in your eyes, the closest to perfect that there's ever been.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort, I think, either that or fluff, mid-ish seasons Spencer, some very mild violence, mentions of blood and injury, protective Spence
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Spencer Reid has never moved that fast. Not in the field. Not in training. Not ever. But when a grieving father shoves you into a kitchen cabinet during an interview, Spencer is across the room before anyone can blink—hand on the man's chest, voice like steel, all that quiet intensity finally aimed at someone who deserves it. The team is stunned. Morgan is asking questions. And the secret you and Spencer have been keeping for months is about to come crashing down.
You’d been bracing for this the second you stepped through the door.
The victim’s mother had the same wild, searching look you’d seen a hundred times before—the desperate need to blame anyone, anyone, other than the abstract monster who took her daughter. Grief curdling into rage at the nearest warm body. You’d taken point instinctively, not because you were the senior agent, but because Hotch’s gaze had already flicked to you in silent question. Can you handle this? You gave a single nod. I’ve got it.
“Mrs. Hartwell, I know this is unbearable. But every piece of information you can give us—her schedule, anyone new she mentioned—”
“You don’t know anything.”
Her composure shatters on the word. Her hands claw at the air between you, fingernails catching the kitchen’s fluorescent light like small, dull blades. “You stand there with your fancy credentials and your clinical words. My Maggie is gone.”
You hold your ground, even as your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. Don’t flinch. Don’t feed the spiral. You’ve seen grief turn feral before—watched it coil and strike like a cornered animal. You’ve also seen what happens when you back away: it tells them their rage is justified, that you’re afraid of the very pain you’re asking them to relive. So you stay. Soften your voice, but not your stance. “I understand. And I’m so sorry. But the small details—her routine, anyone new in her life—those could be the thing that brings her home.”
That’s when the father snaps.
He’d been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too late—the draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth.
There’s no room to dodge.
His palm catches you high on the shoulder—a glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasn’t slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then back—the crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.
White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.
The room tilts.
Your knees buckle.
You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesn’t match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you can’t remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.
Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.
Spencer.
Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.
This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got loose—all that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.
He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room.
His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thud—the kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's planted—weight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.
"Keep your hands off her."
Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpses—when he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.
It isn't a plea or a warning.
It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.
"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.
Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutral—open, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.
Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gaze—the one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existing—sweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.
"That was an assault on a federal agent."
His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once before—on a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.
"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."
His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eye—the only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongue—a denial, maybe, or a defence—something about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.
Spencer cuts him off.
"Don't."
The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room.
"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper now—honed to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."
The man sits.
It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bend—a controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.
The mother makes a sound—something caught between a sob and a gasp—and Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.
But you're not watching any of that.
You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twice—a deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.
He's shaking.
Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presence—and now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
Only then does Spencer turn.
His eyes find yours—and for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned jolt—the way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.
His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the light—the overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.
Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.
His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at it—that single red line across his skin—and something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.
"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.
It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the father—that same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.
You nod. Just once. Small.
His throat works as he swallows—a visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.
Then he blinks.
And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully release—it's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deep—but he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.
You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.
But you've never seen him do it this fast.
His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtle—just a few inches—but you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.
Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wide—not afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.
"Did… did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"
The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reid—who once apologized to a door he walked into—just made a grown man shrink.
A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emily’s face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.
"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the room—a human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's… actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."
She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencer—on the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.
Curious, her expression says. Very curious.
JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrow—just a fraction—and something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.
She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in.
Spencer’s thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.
"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanning—forehead, temple, cheekbone, lip—with the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarily—"
But Morgan isn't done.
"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."
Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower back—a nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold onto—before he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.
He clears his throat.
"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck—the one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."
Morgan crosses his arms. His head tilts—that slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.
"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"
Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lighting—that particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path.
His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.
You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.
It was three minutes and seventeen seconds—too defensive, too precise.
She was injured—too obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in.
“That's not protocol, that's—” He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.
That's personal.
Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to you—just for a second—and there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.
But he's not going to make it easy, either.
"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."
Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabric—a white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's not—" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."
"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"
The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's face—searching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.
Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.
No—well. No would be even worse.
Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.
Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."
"I don't know what you think you're implying—" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.
"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."
Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pockets—when did that happen?—and they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.
"I—" He stops. Starts again. "It's not—"
He can't finish the sentence.
He can't say it's not what you think because it is what Morgan thinks. It's exactly what Morgan thinks, and maybe more, and maybe worse, and maybe the most terrifying thing Spencer has ever had to name out loud.
The BAU bullpen was, by most standards, not an appropriate place for a four-year-old.
Jack Hotchner, however, had never been consulted on that opinion. Today though, spencer and JJ were tasked to look after the toddler while his father was in a meeting until his babysitter came and took him home. JJ and Spencer loved Jack, he was a kind and smart toddler. So to say they were shocked at how he was acting today was an understatement.
Jack was sat on top of Spencer’s desk with his legs swinging — on it, not at it, because the chair was too big and he’d declared it “boring” — with his arms folded tight across his chest and his bottom lip pushed out far enough to cast a shadow. In front of him, spencers hand held a paper towel with genuine optimism, and on said paper towel, several offerings: half a granola bar, half a banana, and a neat pile of red apple slices that Spencer was still holding out at arm’s length like a peace treaty.
“Jack,” JJ tried, using the warm voice she reserved for Henry when he was being particularly unreasonable. “Buddy. They’re apple slices. You like apple slices.”
Jack looked at the apple slices.
Then he looked at JJ.
Then he stuck his tongue out at her.
JJ straightened up and looked at Spencer. Spencer looked back at her. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
“I have a PhD,” Spencer said, mostly to himself. “Three of them.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
Spencer crouched down slightly to be at eye level with Jack, tilting his head with the careful, methodical energy of someone approaching a problem they genuinely intended to solve. “Okay, Jack, did you know that apples contain something called quercetin? It’s an antioxidant that actually supports—”
Jack blew an m&m directly into Spencer’s face.
JJ covered her mouth. Spencer stood back up very slowly, blinking.
“I’m going to get him a juice box,” JJ announced, and she was absolutely laughing as she walked away.
Spencer sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and held the apple slices out again gamely. “Alright. New approach. What if—”
The elevator doors opened.
Jack’s entire demeanor transformed in under a second — the folded arms dropped, the pout dissolved, and he launched himself off the desk with the full confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of falling.
“Hey!”
Spencer looked down at the little toddler running towards the elevators, then he looked at what Jack was after.
You started babysitting Jack when he was only a year old, so Jack quickly bonded to you since he spent most of his time with you because his dad was too busy working, not that he minded it, Jack loved you, and you adored the little gremlin. You met Aaron Hotchner when you were serving him at a diner you worked at, that diner? worst place. Your manager was a sexist asshole who payed you less than the guys working there. You heard Aaron talking about how he needed to take jack with him to work since his babysitter canceled again. So when he called you over asking for some water, you couldn’t help but intrude a little. “Are you looking for a babysitter?”. And then that was that. Of course he didnt hire you right away, he sat u done on the chair infront of him and started asking questions. You told him you were in college, you lived on campus not far from here, youve loved babies and that youve babysat before. Even then he told you he wasnt sure yet and that hed call you back. It was only till after he made Garcia do a backround check on you that he called you back.
You caught him on instinct, one arm hooking under him as he collided with you, the other steadying his weight as he scrambled up onto your hip like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. You laughed, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head.
“Hey, you,” you said warmly. “You ready to—”
“They were so mean to me.”
You pulled back to look at his face. He was devastated. Genuinely, completely, dramatically devastated, both small hands fisted in the front of your jacket, his expression the particular flavor of betrayal usually reserved for Greek tragedy.
“Who was mean to you sweet boy?” you asked.
He pointed.
You followed the direction of his finger to find a blonde returning from the break room with a juice box, and a tall man — lanky, cardigan, slightly bewildered expression, still holding a paper towel of apple slices — standing by the desk. Your gaze settled on him for just a moment, the way you might clock a new variable in a familiar equation.
Spencer Reid, for his part, forgot how to do anything.
He was aware, distantly, that this was an embarrassing response to a person simply existing in his vicinity, but his brain, which usually had plenty to say about everything, went abruptly and completely offline. You were standing there with Jack on your hip and a slightly frowning look aimed in his direction and he could not locate a single word in any of the six languages he spoke. You looked breathtaking. This was your first time at the bau, yes, hed heard about you from jack and aaron but hed never actually seen you. It was clear you’d came from class, hence the books peaking out of your bag zipper.
You looked back at Jack, then at Spencer and JJ again, and the small frown deepened with theatrical suspicion. Slowly, you walked over to them,
“Were you two being mean to my favorite boy?”
“Yes,” Jack said firmly, before the two even had a chance to reply.
“We were trying to feed him,” the girl said, with the weariness of someone who had been through a minor military campaign. “He won’t eat anything.” You soon recognized her from the pictures in Aarons living room, this was JJ.
“They were gonna poison me,” Jack stage-whispered to you, as though this were classified.
“They were—” You blinked. Then you looked at JJ. Then at the tall, still-silent man beside her. He was wearing a thick brown sweater with designs all over it, god he looked cute. This was Spencer.
JJ glanced at Spencer, who appeared to be experiencing some kind of internal systems error, and made the executive decision to speak for both of them. “We gave him the apple slices from the break room. He’s been up on that desk for twenty-five minutes refusing everything we offer him and making faces at us.”
“I made one face,” Jack said primly.
You looked at him. He had the grace to amend: “Two faces.”
JJ shook her head with a small smile, glancing toward her own desk where papers waited. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said diplomatically, and retreated with the grace of someone who recognized a handoff when they saw one.
Which left you, and Jack, and Spencer, who was still holding the apple slices.
You looked at what was in his hand. Then you looked at Jack, hiking him a little higher on your hip so you were face to face with him, eyebrows raised.
“Jack. Honey.” You kept your voice gentle, even as the corner of your mouth twitched. “Red apples are your favorite. Why won’t you eat them?”
“Because they’ll poison me,” Jack repeated, with total sincerity.
“Sweetheart, they won’t poison you. They’ve been washed. They’re very clean.”
“No!” He shook his head, with the gravity of someone correcting a fundamental misunderstanding. “I’m not talking about the apples.” He pointed again at Spencer. “I’m talking about him. And JJ. They’re gonna poison me. That’s what I’m saying.”
You stared at him. “…You think they’re going to poison you.”
“Uncle Morgan said,” Jack said, with complete confidence, “that JJ and Spencer are aliens and they electrocute people who touch them.”
The silence lasted approximately one and a half seconds before you couldn’t hold it anymore.
The laugh came out startled and genuine, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. Jack watched you with a very serious expression, clearly not understanding what was funny about the very serious threat he’d just described.
You got yourself together. Mostly.
“Jack,” you managed. “Baby. Uncle Morgan was playing with you. I promise — I promise — they are not going to hurt you. They’re not aliens.”
“Yes they are.”
“They’re not.”
“They’re gonna electrocute me.”
“They’re—” You looked up at Spencer, who was watching this exchange with an expression you couldn’t quite read — somewhere between charmed and completely overwhelmed — and made a decision.
You reached out and poked him on the arm. The arm not holding the apple slices. Firmly, squarely, two fingers against the sleeve of his cardigan covering his bicep.
“See?” you told Jack, turning back to him. “I touched him. I’m okay.”
Jack looked at your arm. At Spencer’s arm. At you.
“That’s his sleeve,” Jack said, with devastating four-year-old logic. “You didn’t touch his skin. It’s the skin.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He had a point.
You were aware, in some peripheral way, that what you did next was perhaps slightly beyond the normal bounds of meeting someone for the first time. You were also aware that you were being out-argued by a toddler in front of a stranger and that Jack would not eat his apple slices until this was resolved to his satisfaction.
You reached over and took Spencer’s hand.
Not his sleeve. His hand. You wrapped your fingers around his, spencers hand gripped yours and his thumb went to your knuckles, you held up his hand, clearly, visibly, between the three of you, and looked at Jack with raised eyebrows.
Spencer stopped breathing.
“See, baby?” Your voice was easy, unbothered, warm. “He’s not hurting me. Look. I’m holding his hand and I’m perfectly fine.”
Jack studied this with the intense scrutiny of a small scientist reviewing data. He looked at your joined hands. At Spencer’s face. At your face. Back at the apple slices.
And then, slowly, with the air of someone making a significant concession, he leaned forward and took an apple slice from Spencer’s paper towel.
You exhaled in quiet triumph.
Jack chewed. Reached for another slice. Then stopped.
“You have to keep holding it..” he announced.
“Jack—”
“Or he’ll electrocute me!”
You looked at Spencer. Spencer looked at you. Something almost like a smile was happening at the corner of his mouth — hesitant, a little undone — and up close his eyes were a very particular shade of brown that your brain filed away without your permission.
“Okay,” you said, and kept holding his hand while Jack methodically worked through the rest of the apple slices, unhurried, occasionally swinging his feet and humming something that might have been a cartoon theme song.
Spencer Reid stood very still and said nothing and was genuinely unsure if his heart was beating at a normal rate.
When the last slice was gone, Jack wiped his hands on his jeans with great satisfaction and announced, “Okay. I want to go home now.”
You laughed, shifting him back to a more secure position on your hip, and let go of Spencer’s hand. “What do you say Jack?” you nudged him, “Thank you!” jack beamed. You looked up at him, and there was something warm and a little amused in your expression.
“Sorry about him,” you said. “And — sorry about the, um.” A small gesture between the two of you. “I don’t usually just grab strangers’ hands. I’m—” you told him your name.
Spencer’s mouth opened. A sound came out that was not, technically, a word.
“Spencer,” he said, finally. Just his name. That was all he managed.
But you smiled at him like that was enough, and it kind of felt like it was.
“Bye Spencer” Your voice was like honey saying his name. You kissed Jacks cheek and told him to say bye.
“Bye, Spencer,” Jack said, pointing at him seriously. “Don’t electrocute anyone.”
“I’ll — do my best,” Spencer said.
You were still smiling as you turned toward the elevator, shifting Jack against your side, the two of you already deep in some murmured conversation about what he wanted for dinner. Spencer watched the elevator doors close.
“Looks like pretty boy found pretty girl.”
He didn’t have to turn around to know who that was.
Derek Morgan materialized at his shoulder with the energy of someone who had been watching this entire interaction from a safe distance and enjoying every second of it. He was grinning the way he grinned when he had something very good and intended to make it last.
“Couldn’t speak, huh.”
“I spoke,” Spencer said.
“You said your own name, man.”
“That’s — speaking.”
“Hotch’s kid’s babysitter.” Morgan shook his head slowly, savoring it. “You gonna be weird about this for a while, or—”
“I’m not going to be weird about anything. I don’t know her. I met her for four minutes.” Spencer quickly came to his own defense.
“She held your hand.”
“For Jack. She held my hand for Jack, it was a child-management strategy—”
“You watched her walk to the elevator.”
“I was just—”
“Spencer.”
“I don’t know her,” Spencer repeated, with slightly less conviction than the first time.
Morgan looked at him for a long moment with the particular expression of a man who had just filed something away for future use, extensive future use, possibly for years. Then he clapped Spencer on the shoulder and walked away, still grinning.
Spencer stood where he was.
The bullpen hummed around him — keyboards, phones, Garcia’s distant laugh from the break room, maybe she was talking to Emily. Normal. All completely normal.
He looked down at his hand.
The paper towel was still in it, empty now, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. He was looking at the other hand. He turned it over once, a slow, slightly disbelieving motion, the way you might look at something that had been briefly, unexpectedly extraordinary and was now just ordinary again.
His hand, which was also just his hand.
He stood there looking at it for probably too long.
Then he folded the paper towel very carefully and went back to work. But that was the day that Spencer made a mental note to thank Derek for calling him an alien infront of Jack. One day.
summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.
How hard could it be?
[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]
STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL
"Be my girlfriend."
The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.
You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"
Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.
"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."
You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.
Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.
"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."
Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."
Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.
"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"
Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.
"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.
"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"
"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."
He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.
"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."
Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.
"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"
He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.
"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."
You take in his words. "But you're not."
"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.
"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."
You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."
Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."
His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.
"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."
You take a moment to think it over.
"When is it?"
"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."
"Dress code?"
"Formal. Duh."
"How many people?"
"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."
Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.
You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?
Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.
You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.
It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?
Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.
Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.
Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.
"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."
You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.
He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."
You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.
Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.
He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."
Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.
"You've got a deal, mister."
Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.
"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."
Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."
You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.
"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.
Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.
His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.
He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."
"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."
—
A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.
You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.
Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.
You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.
You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.
It would take an hour, tops.
A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.
"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.
Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"
You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.
"And just what are you trying to say?"
Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.
"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."
He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."
You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.
Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.
You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.
"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.
"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."
"Different?"
"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"
His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.
You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"
Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.
"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"
You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.
You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.
His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.
You could do that.
"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"
"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."
You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.
A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.
"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."
You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.
Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.
"Think this'll do?"
Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."
You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.
"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."
Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.
"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."
Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"
Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."
Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.
"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."
Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.
"And Brandon."
"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."
"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."
Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."
You blink, perturbed. "What?"
"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."
You cringe a little. He does have a point.
"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.
You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."
Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.
"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"
You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.
"Yeah," You say.
Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.
Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"
"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.
You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.
"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"
Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."
"You lost that game."
"I still scored!"
"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."
Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."
You laugh again, soft and light.
"Who asked who?"
"I asked you." Steve says.
You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.
What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.
Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.
That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?
You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.
You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.
For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.
"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"
"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."
He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.
"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.
Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"
Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."
Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!
Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"
Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.
"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.
"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"
STEP TWO: THE ACT
Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.
Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.
You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.
"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.
He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.
You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.
"We got together the 20th—"
"—of June, last year." You finish for him.
Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."
You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"
"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."
That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.
"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.
"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."
"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."
Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.
"Thanks." He murmurs.
He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.
What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.
You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"
Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.
"They definitely did."
There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.
Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.
"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.
The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."
"Steve."
"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."
"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.
"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.
"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."
"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.
You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.
"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.
Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.
You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."
Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.
Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.
Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.
"Ready?"
Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."
You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.
He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.
A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.
As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.
Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.
Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.
Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.
Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.
Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?
“Steven.”
The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.
You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.
“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”
He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.
“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”
You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.
“No, Mom, you didn’t.”
There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.
That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.
“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”
The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.
Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.
“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”
You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.
Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.
“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”
This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.
The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.
“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.
Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.
“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”
It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.
Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.
“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”
“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?
You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.
You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.
Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.
“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.
“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”
Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.
He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.
“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.
“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.
Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.
The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.
“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”
The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.
“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”
For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.
However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.
“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.
Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.
A new voice interrupts.
“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”
You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.
He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.
The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.
“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.
Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.
Then he does the same to you.
It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.
God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.
“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.
You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.
“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”
Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.
Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.
“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.
He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.
Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”
He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.
You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.
And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.
Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.
“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”
“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”
Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.
You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.
“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”
Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.
“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”
“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.
He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.
“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.
You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.
“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.
“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”
There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.
You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.
The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.
You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.
“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.
“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.
He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”
He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.
You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.
Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.
It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.
As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.
“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.
From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.
You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.
“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”
“You think?”
You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.
If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?
"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."
Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.
"Touchy?" He provides.
You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.
The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.
And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.
You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.
How different would it really be?
Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.
Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?
The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.
Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.
Just more. More of this.
Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.
"Hm?"
"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”
Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."
Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.
"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”
The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.
Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.
The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.
“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?
He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.
“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.
How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.
“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”
“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.
“Okay," You say. "Fair."
"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"
It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.
"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."
"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."
Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.
"What about you?"
Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."
"Too late."
“Yeah, well, obviously.”
There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.
“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.
He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”
“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”
Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.
Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”
“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”
You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.
“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.
You’ve met him thrice.
Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.
Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.
“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”
Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”
Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”
Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.
Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.
You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.
You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.
“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.
Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.
“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”
There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”
Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”
“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.
“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.
A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.
“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”
Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.
“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.
You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”
He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.
“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”
The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.
Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.
Does he really think all those things about you?
Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.
He turns back to his father’s business friends.
“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”
You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.
It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”
You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.
Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”
There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.
“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.
“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”
“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”
Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”
Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.
You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”
Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.
“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”
“Eh, what’s the big difference?”
“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”
He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.
“Steve? Leaving so soon?”
The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.
“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.
“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”
Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.
Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.
Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.
“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”
He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.
“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”
He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.
“It’s like- wait, no—”
Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.
“Is he paying you?”
You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.
Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.
“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”
He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.
STEP THREE: THE KISS
You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.
You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.
And… oh.
He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.
For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.
And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.
Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.
He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.
“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”
The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.
“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”
Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.
STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH
It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.
You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.
Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.
You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.
Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.
Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.
By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.
Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.
As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.
“I'm sorry, okay?"
Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.
"What?"
"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.
"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."
You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.
"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."
Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"
His particular wording isn't lost on you.
"But you are mad." You press.
"I'm not."
You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?
"You sound mad."
Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.
"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"
“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”
Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.
"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"
“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”
That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?
Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.
His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.
"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"
He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"
He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.
A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.
"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.
"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."
"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."
He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.
"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.
"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”
There's desperation in his final plea.
A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.
A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.
"Wha... You never said anything."
It comes out a little insulted.
Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"
"I didn't think I was your type!"
Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.
"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"
"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”
Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.
“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."
"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.
He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.
"And... now?"
Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.
"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"
It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.
"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"
Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.
"Would you... want that?"
"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.
Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.
But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.
And there it is; the true revelation.
"And I don't think I want to."
The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.
He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.
How the hell did you miss it?
"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"
What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.
"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.
Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.
But you want to try.
That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.
He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.
He pauses just before your lips can touch.
Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.
Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.
You're excited.
His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.
"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."
The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.
He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.
You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.
"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.
"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"
"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.
God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.
"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.
You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.
"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"
Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.
"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."
Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.
You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.
Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.
One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.
Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.
As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.
taggin some peeps below!
@illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime
just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm
— your fake boyfriend breaks up with you for extremely stupid reasons, and you spend a few miserable days realizing you actually liked being his girl. turns out fake dating is very bad for your sanity but great for finally getting the boy who’s been in love with you the entire time.
🧷 13.1k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, fake dating gone painfully real, steve “i’ll just suffer quietly” harrington, reader with delayed emotional processing, fake breakup → immediate overthinking → fix it with kissing, robin has been right since day one, hurt feelings but make it romantic, clingy steve supremacy, best friends to idiots to lovers, small town thinks they’re already married, a scene inspired by rachel and joey from friends
request — [ anonymous ] hiiiiiiiii! if you’re still doing requests, would you be interested in a man’s best friend-centric steve harrington fic? could be maybe based on when did you get hot, manchild, or my man on willpower ??? idk i have a soft spot for sabrina and steve hahaha. kind of down for whatever suits your fancy! your writing rocks :-)
author's note — god this baby is huge. i think this is one of my the fics. anyways, thank you so much for the request, i had the best time writing this because i, too, am deeply attached to both sabrina and steve, which is honestly a dangerous combination for everyone involved. definitely somewhat inspired by 'my man on willpower'. hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. enjoy <3
masterlist : navigation
gif by @keery-joe | divider by @/lavendergalactic
The first sign that your day was going to go downhill was when Steve Harrington came in before you and Robin, which was usually a reliable omen that something deeply embarrassing was about to happen to him.
You stood behind the counter at Family Video scanning returns. Robin was on the back counter, crouched on a stool and rearranging a tower of cassettes that did not need rearranging but were receiving her full commitment anyway.
Steve, meanwhile, was in the action aisle, moving tapes from one shelf to another. Every few seconds he would pause, squint at a title, then slide it over half an inch as if that would finally bring him peace. He had been like that all morning. Suspiciously productive.
You had already made a note to ask Robin if he was going through some kind of personal growth phase, because those usually ended badly for everyone around him.
The bell above the door chimed and a girl walked in, hovering just inside like she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to be there. She looked around the store. You straightened from the counter and gave her your best customer-service smile.
“Hey, can I help you with a few tapes?”
She shook her head quickly, hands clasped together. “No, I’m not here to get anything. I actually wanted to talk to Steve. Steve Harrington?”
Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”
Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”
There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.
You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.
The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”
Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”
Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”
“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”
The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.
Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.
Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.
Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”
Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”
You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”
The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.
The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.
Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.
Then you both burst out laughing.
You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.
“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”
“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”
“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.
“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.
He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”
Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”
You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”
“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”
Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”
“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.
“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”
Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.
That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.
Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.
“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”
You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”
“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”
“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”
“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”
You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”
He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”
You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.
It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.
“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”
He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”
You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”
You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”
He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”
You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”
He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.
Then he stopped abruptly.
You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.
“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”
He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”
You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”
He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”
You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”
“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”
You choked.
The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.
Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”
You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”
He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”
“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”
He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”
You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.
“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.
He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”
You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”
His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.
“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”
His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”
He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.
You exhaled, relieved.
Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.
“Your mom,” he said.
You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”
“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”
You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”
He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”
You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”
He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”
He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”
Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”
You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”
He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”
You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.
He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said.
He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”
You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.
He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”
You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”
He nodded quickly. “Deal.”
You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”
He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”
You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”
He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”
“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”
He held up his hands. “I would never.”
You gave him a look.
“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”
“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”
You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”
“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”
He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”
You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”
He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.
Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”
You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”
He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.
A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.
“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”
Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.
The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.
On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”
You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.
Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.
The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.
The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.
Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”
Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.
Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.
Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.
Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.
Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.
“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”
You had both ignored her.
That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.
Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.
Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.
Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.
He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.
Steve visibly gulped.
You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.
Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”
“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”
Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.
You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.
“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”
Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”
Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.
Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.
You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.
You both turned to look at each other at the same time.
“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”
You blinked at him.
Your mother blinked at him.
Your father did not blink at all.
Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”
Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.
“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”
“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”
You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.
“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”
Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”
Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”
“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”
You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”
Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”
Your father stared at him.
You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.
“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”
You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.
Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.
“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”
Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.
Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.
That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.
You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.
You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.
Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.
By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.
He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.
Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.
“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.
You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”
He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”
Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”
Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”
You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.
A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.
Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.
You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.
You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.
Then you noticed the customer.
She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.
You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.
His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.
“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.
You stared at him. “What?”
He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.
“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.
He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.
Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.
Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.
You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.
You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”
You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.
Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.
Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.
By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.
You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”
You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.
You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.
Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.
You opened the door and immediately stopped.
Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.
He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”
He looked up.
He stopped talking.
For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.
You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.
He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”
You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.
“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”
You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”
He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.
“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”
Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.
You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.
You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”
You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.
The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.
You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”
Steve blinked at you. “What?”
“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”
He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”
“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”
You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”
He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”
You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”
He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”
You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”
He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”
You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.
He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.
You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”
He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”
You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”
He blinked. “That’s your move?”
“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.
“Hawkins,” he said.
“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.
He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”
You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.
He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”
You grinned. “Thank you.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”
You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”
He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.
“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”
You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.
He froze.
For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.
You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.
You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.
You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.
“Hey,” he said.
You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.
He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”
There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”
You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.
His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”
“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.
He stopped. “The noodles?”
“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”
He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”
You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.
Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.
Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”
They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.
In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.
“I think I broke the rules,” he said.
Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”
“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”
Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.
“Finally,” she said.
Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.
“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”
She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.
Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.
Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”
She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”
“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”
“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”
She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”
He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”
He blinked. “You think she likes me?”
Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”
Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”
Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.
“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”
Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”
Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”
He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.
“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”
Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”
“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”
She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”
He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
He started for the door.
Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”
Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.
He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.
Steve opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.
You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.
He swallowed. Tried again.
Still nothing.
You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.
“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”
He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”
You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”
He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.
He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.
Except the opposite happened.
Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.
Much worse.
He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.
You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.
Instead, you started getting used to it.
Then you started liking it.
You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.
Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.
And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.
At group hangouts, it only got worse.
Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.
No one questioned it.
That was the wildest part.
One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.
And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.
He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.
He did not do that.
Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.
From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.
“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”
He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”
Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.
He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.
“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.
He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.
“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”
He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”
She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.
Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”
He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.
“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”
Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”
“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”
He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.
He knew what he needed to do.
He just. . . didn’t want to do it.
Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.
When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.
“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”
Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.
Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.
The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.
You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.
He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.
He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.
“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”
Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.
“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”
Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.
You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.
“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”
The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”
He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”
You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”
He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”
There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.
“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”
He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.
“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”
The words hung in the air between you.
For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.
“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”
He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”
You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”
He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”
Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.
You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.
“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”
He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”
“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”
There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.
“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”
He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”
You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.
“Everything good?” she asked.
“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”
Lucas frowned. “Already?”
“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”
Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.
Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.
He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
The next few days were, in a word, terrible.
Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.
You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.
You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.
What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.
You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.
It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.
By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.
She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.
“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”
Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.
“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”
“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.
“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”
Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”
You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”
There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”
You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”
Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”
“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”
Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”
Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”
You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”
You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”
“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”
Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”
“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”
You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”
Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”
“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.
You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.
“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.
You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”
There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.
“Oh oh,” Robin said.
You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.
You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.
Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.
The door swung inward and there he was.
Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.
He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.
“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”
He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.
You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”
He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”
You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”
The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”
His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”
“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”
He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”
“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”
He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”
You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”
He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.
“You. . . what?” he said.
“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”
He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”
“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”
He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”
You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.
He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.
He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”
You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”
You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”
He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”
You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.
“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”
wc: 1748
summary: spencer sees your work persona crack while at a bar
cw: ?
me: who even invented exam season i just wanna talk
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If someone were to rank the BAU on how hard someone could be to read, it would probably go something like this:
Hotch, of course
Gideon
You
Prentiss
Rossi
Everyone else.
You were a master of compartmentalisation. You’d been at the BAU for just under three years, and Spencer still hadn’t truly learnt to read you. It scared him a little, but mostly it just made him curious.
You rarely flinched when you saw a gruesome scene. You never looked confused, only calculating. When you caught a killer or saved a victim, you didn’t cheer or celebrate; you only allowed yourself a small smile. It was driving Spencer crazy trying to figure you out.
He couldn’t even figure out if you really liked him. You never said anything unkind to him, and rarely interrupted his rambling unless it was absolutely necessary, but you never exactly looked glad to be talking to him.
The BAU were just wrapping up a case in Portland, and Spencer was watching you again. The gang had caught the killer, and everyone was in high spirits. You didn’t give much in terms of expression, a small satisfied smile, the only indication you even knew it had all wrapped up.
You sat quietly on the plane, earbuds in and flipping through pages of an old Penguin classic. Feeling Spencer’s eyes on you, you looked up.
“You read it?” You asked, holding up the cover so he could see. Spencer startled, aligning with the conversation you’d started.
“Um, yeah, a few years ago.” Your face didn’t change.
“Did you like it?”
His brows raised fractionally, surprised you were asking.
“Um, yeah, yeah! I thought it was an interesting look at masculinity, death and ego. Do you like it?” You shrugged slowly, constructing your next sentence carefully.
“It’s not bad, but it feels like the type of novel that prides itself on dissecting the egos of everyone but the author.”
Spencer nodded, contemplative. “I hadn’t thought about it through that lens,” He said.
This whole exchange told him very little about you. You were smart, obviously, and well read, but he knew all that about you, and it was just about a given to be in the BAU. But did you like him? You asked him a question, which points to yes, but didn’t continue the conversation, didn’t show any particular enthusiasm, and didn’t display any typical physical indicators of affection or fondness.
He was still musing over this days later on a Friday night.
“You can’t be looking this troubled at the start of the weekend, man.” Derek leant on the corner of his desk, arms folded across his tight navy t-shirt.
“I’m not troubled, Morgan.” He barely glanced up, eyes intentionally trained on his files.
“Oh, you are,” He teased, taking the file from his hands with a grin, “The files can wait until Monday, Pretty Boy. Bunch of us are going to the bar in 20; you’re coming."
“No I’m not!”
Twenty minutes later, Spencer was in fact at the bar. It was loud, and crowded, and everyone seemed to fit in in a way he never could. So, instead of being part of the merriment with the rest of his friends, he watched. Watched the conversation playing out in front of him, watched the bar, watched the dance floor.
“Hey guys…” His voice was quiet, especially when fighting against the rattling bass of the music. Still, Emily and JJ caught it, both breaking out into screams when they followed his line of sight. Amongst the sweaty crowd of bodies writhing and grinding to the beat was you, unlike they’d ever seen you.
You’d let your hair down — literally. Instead of the crisp work uniforms they’d otherwise seen you in, you were dressed for the bar better than they were. Slinky going out top and jeans that hugged your sides, your hair tossed through the air as you moved, hands running up and down your own body.
You were surrounded by a group of women you clearly knew, all dancing amongst the crowd, not a visible care in the world.
“Guess we know why she was so eager to go home tonight,” Emily grinned, studying you carefully.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile like that,” Derek added, referring to the brilliant beam that was blinding even across the room. Spencer was transfixed. A far cry from your serious persona at work, you looked years younger than you were with the sparkle of life in your eyes. He wondered how you turned it on and off.
“Should we go and say hi?” JJ asked, eyes following your every move.
“No,” Hotch said, “She’ll see us on her own. Clearly the compartmentalisation is how she handles the job, and we don’t know if mixing worlds will upset her.” The rest nodded like it made sense, but Spencer couldn’t deny being a little upset about it. He’d love to meet who you really were, not who you made yourself be to survive a job that takes too much from you.
An hour or so later, Reid was heading to the bar for a glass of water. He’d already passed his mentally decided allotment of drinks for the night, and really didn’t want a hangover in the morning. He was almost there when you bumped into him at full force, still somehow dancing.
“Sorry,” You said on instinct, before your eyes had even lifted, “Reid?” Spencer could feel himself shrinking down, sorry for bothering you, even accidentally.
“Hey.” His lips pulled into a straight line, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
“Oh my god!” You cried, the biggest smile he’d ever seen splitting your face. “How crazy you’re here! Wait, you have to meet my friends.” You grabbed his hand without looking back, dragging him through the crowd to the group of women he’d seen before. Reid followed behind, utterly disarmed by the switch-up of your personality.
“Guys!” You yelled over the music, pulling Spencer right into you, looping your arm through his, “This is Spencer, he’s my favourite coworker.”
The other women all greeted him kindly, but Spencer could hardly pull himself to give more than a polite hello, almost starstruck at your admission. He could tell you were drunk, not just from your general demeanour but also your slight unsteadiness on your feet.
“Favourite?” He asked quietly, but you didn’t hear or pretended to.
“He’s like this super genius, knows everything about everything.” You were leaning on him, hand around his arm, whilst Spencer stood awkwardly. Your friends didn’t really care either way, not trying very hard to listen over the music. “C’mon, Spence, don’t you wanna dance?”
Spencer stole a look over at your coworkers, because really? Spence? You barely talked to him at work, let alone called him affectionate nicknames. What had gotten into you? He didn’t have time to consider it because you were taking his hand, making him dance with you.
“You like ABBA?” He yelled and you leaned in closer to hear. You screwed up your face, making an expression Spencer had never seen before. Disgruntled but kind of adorable.
“Yeah,” You said, “Obviously. Who doesn’t?” You span, face glowing from joy and exertion.
“I guess I just didn’t think that was your kind of music.”
“Maybe you’re not as good of a profiler as you thought,” You teased, making him boogie with you. Spencer was awkward, all lanky limbs, yet it was somehow still endearing.
“Maybe you’re too good at compartmentalising.” It was direct, yes, but you were almost proud of him for saying it.
“Touché. You want a drink? I’ll buy.” Spencer shrugged, letting himself be led to the bar behind you.
You and Spencer ended up sitting by the bar for the rest of the night. You’d stolen a stool and he stood close by, practically between your legs as you spoke animatedly. Both of you had been surprised by the other, so different to inside the walls of the FBI, that you kept finding excuses not to go back into the crowd of sweaty bodies. Another story, another joke, anything to keep each other close.
The whole team had seen you, Spencer had let you know quietly when he’d noticed them watching, in case you’d wanted to retain your persona. You’d only shrugged. The compartmentalisation was never about your team, it was to protect yourself from the evil you saw every day. If Hotch saw you giggling into Spencer’s shoulder while you were off the clock then that was none of your business.
“Can I call a cab for you?” Spencer murmured in your ear, finally leading you with a soft hand on your back when you nodded.
“This was really fun,” You confessed when you got outside, eyes shining in the streetlights. Spencer was caught off guard, not used to seeing you at all in this kind of way.
“Yeah,” He said, “It was. Are you going to pretend it didn’t happen on Monday?”
Spencer instantly regretted it when you bit your lips, eyes flying down to the ground between you.
“No,” You mumbled, No it’s just…”
“I’m sorry,” He interrupted, “I didn’t mean that. I just had a really good time tonight, and I feel like we’ve worked together for three years and this is the only time I’ve ever felt like I’ve known you at all, and… I really like it. What I know of you, I mean.”
“Maybe I can find a balance between work and real life,” You said slowly, shy smile growing on your lips.
Spencer just smiled, eyes crinkling as he opened the taxi door for you. Just before you pulled it shut, you stopped.
“I’ll see you at work, Spence.”
As the cab pulled out into the street, you let out a soft sigh. Things were going to get harder from here, you knew. Mixing work with your life would only complicate things, and certainly invite the horrors from work back into your home. Still, maybe letting a few more people in would be good for you. Especially when it was a know-it-all genius whose eyes crinkled up when he smiled.
Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 1080to 1082.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・
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I. Love. This. SO MUCH 🥹🥹 I do not exist in solid form anymore, you can find me as a puddle on the floor because this FLUFF has melted me completely.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
HELLO?? This is a masterpiece, I will be reading this once a day for the foreseeable future because again its a masterpiece
pairing: spencer reid x forensic specialist!reader
genre: fluff
summary: spencer has an eventful morning bumping into somebody, but it's actually his new colleague.
warnings: none
notes: we got first season spencer reid content here cuz i'm feeling silly and wanna write, but i don't have the energy to write anything elaborate
Spencer woke up later than he intended to. He had at least three alarms set, so he doesn't know how he slept in, but he did. Maybe his thoughts were running many miles a minute, as per usual, or he accidentally stayed up too late rereading one of the books at his bedside, or the fact that he went out of his way to get coffee from one of the nearby cafes. It could've been all three, thought Spencer. Whatever it was, it had him sprinting through the metro as he was fixing his tie.
In his frazzled state on the way to the building, Spencer didn't see the poor pedestrian walking past him. And just like that, he completely collided with the person.
He sputtered mid-fall, "Shit- I'm sorry!"
Papers were scattered on the ground, along with paper coffee cups, hitting the concrete, splattering coffee all over the floor and the papers. His satchel had betrayed him, letting his belongings loose onto the ground. He luckily didn't take any case files home, so none of those would've fallen out, but his books unfortunately did so. A little bit of coffee had singed his skin, and he landed a bit roughly, but he was fine otherwise.
Spencer looked across from him to see the poor victim of his uncoordinated rushing, you. You were around his age, which shocked him. He didn't usually see people his age at Quantico. The boy genius expected at this very moment to be berated and yelled at, but no. You were quite unbothered as you tucked flyaways back into your tied-up hair, getting up to dust any dirt off your clothes.
You looked at the lab coat you wore, sighing at the sight of the large coffee stain on the center of your chest and sleeves. You could feel the heat of the coffee through your lab coat and sweater. It was pure luck that the coffee didn't stain through your lab coat. Oh shit, Spencer thought, that was his coffee on your lab coat.
You stepped around the mess of things and held your hand out to the young man. With a teasing tone, you asked, "Are you going to keep being a deer in headlights, or are you going to help me sort through our belongings?"
As he, very flusteredly, took your hand and stumbled to his feet, you both just ended up crouched on the concrete, hunching over the mess of your things while grabbing what belonged to whoever.
Spencer sheepishly mumbled, "I'm so sorry for running right into you... And for spilling coffee all over your lab coat."
"I've had lab interns accidentally spill worse on this coat; it's okay," you replied quietly.
"I can get it cleaned if you want," He offered.
You shrugged, "It's fine. I can clean it myself. Accidents happen."
Spencer picked up your book, examining it, "I think I tore your copy of Jane Eyre. Luckily, it's just the cover. It's a good book. I hope you enjoy it. Charlotte Brontë was a great writer."
You carefully took the damaged paperback from his hands, looking at the tear in the back of the cover before flipping through the pages to check for any other damage. As you took the book, Spencer could see chipped burgundy nail polish on your short nails, along with stacks of rings decorating your fingers.
Spencer could see the occasional annotation or comment in the margins and underlined quotes throughout the pages. The cover itself already seemed worn out with many creases in the spine. It seemed like a well-loved book.
"I'm rereading it, I haven't really done so since I finished up school," You smiled fondly at the book.
The two of you got up from the ground, belongings now in their designated place within your bags. It was silent, but there was something warm between you two.
"Do you want money for a new cup of coffee?" You asked, digging for your wallet. "I feel bad you didn't get to drink your coffee."
"Oh no, no," Spencer shook his head, smiling with a pink hue on his cheeks. "I'm honestly in a rush. I'll probably just get coffee in my break room at work."
He looked at his watch, realizing the time, "Uh- I actually have to go. I'm gonna be really late. Bye!"
Before you could say bye or introduce yourselves, he was already off to the bullpen. While speed-walking away, he was already scolding himself for rushing off and praying to god you didn't notice the flush on his face.
—
Spencer was brief through his email about having a new member on the team, specifically their own in-house forensic specialist. Penelope was thrilled at the thought of a member who wasn't a profiler in the field, even researching the forensic specialist prior to coming down from her office.
"She is such an interesting person!" Penelope rambled excitedly, "She's a Virgo, actually your age, and she has a cat. I love cats! Actually, she's really pretty too. I'm also so happy to have another girl on the team! Oh my god- that's her with Hotch!"
Spencer looked to where Penelope pointed and froze. It was you, just without the stained lab coat covering your outfit, showing off slacks and a cozy sweater that flattered you well. Hotch was busy introducing you to the others in the bullpen individually, politely smiling with a box in your hands. As you walked closer alongside Hotch, he noticed the glint of multiple piercings in your ears.
Hotch introduces, "This is Dr. Spencer Reid, and our computer analyst, Penelope Garcia. Your desk will be across from Dr. Reid's. I trust that he'll help you adapt to our workplace."
"Hi.. Again," Spencer stammered. "I'm still so sorry about earlier."
"I mean, I had to go back to my car anyway," You chuckled. "And at least you got a new cup of coffee."
"Yes! Yes, I did," Spencer smiled. "I actually read a couple of the research papers you collaborated on, and I thought it was really interesting how the rate of decomposition can actually differ depending on the health of the victim-"
"Okay- enough fanboying, Dr. Reid," Penelope giggled. "Let me have a turn with the newbie."
a/n: this has been rotting in my brain for days now i hope you enjoy the angsty comfort this brought me <3 my requests are open (guidelines in pinned!) or if you wanna just chat hop in my ask box :) gonna hopefully work on a smut fic in the next week so keep an eye out hehe
cw: angst, hurt/comfort, protective!spencer, afab!reader who uses she/her pronouns, non bau!reader, cm type violence, reader sustains injuries from unsub, vague description of injuries, maeve mentions, derek being a good friend, spencer being so in love with reader, this takes place probably a year after maeve, inconsistencies with tls and characters but who cares
wc: 2.4k
summary: the bau is working a local case when their unsub strikes again mid investigation, hotch tells reid and morgan to go check it out but spencer finds the address of the crime to be a little too familar
_______________________________________________
Whenever the BAU has a case based in the D.C. area, it’s always a little easier on the team. Familiar stomping grounds, ease of resources, no major time difference, and everyone can sleep in their own beds. The hard part about home cases is knowing there’s a serial killer in the place they know deeply, with people they cared about deeply.
Spencer and Callahan are in the middle of the bullpen staring at the giant white board with all the evidence they have so far. The unsub has been killing women in their mid 20s in the local dc area, with the mo currently unknown. there had already been two victims, both killed in their homes. Spencer was currently trying to analyze all the information the case had alongside with what Garcia was able to provide, and he was still hitting a dead end. Morgan had joined them at some point too, trying to offer what he could remember from the crime scenes but to no avail. He felt his eyes straining and dropping so he decided to get more coffee, but was stopped by Hotch and Garcia entering the bullpen.
“Police just got a 911 call about a break in, but there’s a witness this time. She was home when it happened and it looks like he didn’t expect that and tried to knock her out before escaping. I think it sounds like our unsub. Morgan and Reid, I need you to go check out the scene and interview the witness, see what she remembers.” Hotch explained.
Morgan and Reid nodded as Garcia spoke up, “I just sent the address to your phones, it’s a house on Hillcrest so it's not that far from here.”
Spencer froze. he had to have heard wrong, she did not say Hillcrest, “Did you say Hillcrest?”
“Yeah, Hillcrest Drive. It’s like, a 15 minute drive, not that far.”
He felt his heart drop to his feet, a sinking feeling building in his gut. That was the street you lived on. He tried to ground himself with logic, the probability of it being your house is only 10%, but he was dreading asking the fated question.
“Garcia, what’s the house number?”
“Reid, I already sent it to your pho-“
“Garcia, what is the house number,” he spoke again.
Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say 1159. Please don’t say-
“1159.”
Fuck. The color drained from his face, and the nausea was building to a head quickly. Spencer hurriedly tried to think through the last time he spoke to you. Last night? This morning? He doesn’t check on you as much as he does when he’s not on a case, but oh my god why can’t he remember the last time he saw you.
“Reid,” Hotch bellows, finally breaking spencer out of his trance, “What is it? What do you know?”
He shook his head, “Nothing. Morgan, let’s go.” he grabbed his jacket and booked it out the door.
Morgan, Garcia, and Hotch all looked at each other in concern, before Morgan spoke up, “I’ll see what’s up.” The latter two nodded softly, though the worry didn’t let up in their eyes.
Morgan walked up to the car to find Spencer repeatedly trying to call someone on the phone, clearly unable to get through and getting really frustrated.
Spencer was alerted by Morgan’s presence hearing the car unlock but he didn’t even look at him, just immediately got in the car and strapped his seat belt. Morgan joined him in the drivers seat giving him a wary look before turning the car on and pulling out of the bureau.
“Okay Reid, spill it. It’s obvious you know who lives here.” Morgan speaks up.
“Just drive, please.”
“Because if you know something, something that could help the case, it would be helpful if we knew.”
“Morgan, just drive.” he borderline yells.
He raises his eyebrows at his raised voice, “Listen kid, i’m just trying to help you. I can see you’re upset but we’re on the same side, you know that.”
Spencer takes a shaky breath, feeling another shade of guilt at yelling at one of his friends, for something he didn’t even know about. He’d kept you a secret for many reasons— your relationship with him was still new, and he just wanted to keep you to himself for a bit. After what happened with Maeve, he felt especially more responsible at keeping you safe and making sure you didn’t get tangled up in his line of work.
Some job he did of that.
The one thing he regrets about how he handled the Maeve situation, was not asking for help until it was almost too late. For not doing anything about her stalker when he was part of one of the most famous fbi teams built to find people like that. He’d always live with that guilt, but he vowed not to do that with you.
He loved you so much. You were so kind, and smart, and beautiful. A breath of fresh air after feeling lost in a dark tunnel for so long. You were so understanding when he explained what he did for a living, and what had happened to him and people he cared about as a result. He still remembers what you said to him when he told you that you could have an out, if you wanted.
“Any risk is worth taking if getting to be with you is the consolation prize.”
Tears welled up in eyes thinking about the memory. If you were willing to take any risk, then he should be able to as well.
He cleared his throat, and Morgan’s ears perked up, “My uh, my girlfriend lives there. Where the unsub, at- attacked.” he voiced softly.
Morgan looked at him for a beat while driving, Spencer missing the way his face dropped. He tightened his hands on the wheels, and without hesitation he turned the lights and siren on and shifted gears to speed up.
__
The car pulled onto your street and the first thing Spencer sees is the flashing light of the ambulances. Morgan doesn’t even put the car in park before Spencer’s bolting out hoping he can find you quickly.
He’s asking all the paramedics he’s passing if they’ve seen you or know if you’re being treated, were you transferred to a hospital and he didn’t know. The tunnel vision slowly overtaking him until he hears a voice breaking through like sunlight call out his name.
He whips his head in the direction he heard it come from, and he’s never been more grateful to be met with the beautiful sight of you. You watch his eyes widen and let out a sigh before running over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance. He’s definitely not thinking when he goes in to hug you, not even knowing the extent of your injuries. He’s overtaken by the desperate need to hold you in his arms so he knows you’re safe and okay.
“Hi,” you choke out muffled, “Funny seeing you here.”
He pulls back to inspect your face, taking note of a small cut above your left eyebrow and the beginning splotches of a bruise forming on your lower jaw. His heart aches so much looking at you, knowing what happened to you and who did this to you.
“Hi, honey,” he lets out tearfully, “Are you okay? I mean, of course you’re not. But what did the paramedics say? Did they give you anything? Are you sure they checked all your injuries? You know what, let me go call the guy over. I’ll be two seconds.” his panicked ramble fading off as he rounds the truck you’re sat in to find the emt.
Upon his extensive questioning of the man who treated you, he found out that you had sustained a minor concussion from when the unsub swung at you with an umbrella, superficial cuts caused by a broken vase you threw to defend yourself, and a dislocated shoulder from getting shoved into the wall.
You were okay, but at what cost.
The EMT leaves you two and Spencer sits himself next to you on the rig. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you as tight as he can and the other hand cradles your head into the crook of his neck, holding you so tight he’s hoping he can squeeze the bad memories out of you. It’s at this moment of feeling safe and sound in his arms when the adrenaline of your attack wears off.
Spencer hears a small whimper and feels a few hot tears trickle down his neck, your breathing gets faster as you’re attempting to beat your body’s fear response. The slow build up of sobs starting to rack your chest, and he immediately holds you tighter.
“It’s over, baby, they won’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”
You sniffle, “I know, I just can’t believe this happened. To me. To us. It’s not fair to you.” trailing off the last two words.
“To me? Wh- what do you mean?”
You take a deep breath, “I don’t mean to bring it up again, I just know how eerily similar this is to a past experience you’ve had. and I hoped that I wouldn’t be in a position to make you feel that way again. I don’t know why this happened, I'm sorry.”
He looked down at you incredulously, genuinely unable to believe that you were sitting next to him on an ambulance, beaten up with bruises and scars after a home invasion attack, worried about how he would feel when he got to you. It was enough to finally let the swell of tears saved up in his eyes fall.
“Oh sweetheart,” he chokes out, realizing you’ve been trying to be brave for him this whole time, “What happened is not your fault, do you understand me? My job is to always worry about you and your safety. When Garcia said the address I…I couldn’t even process it, I don’t even know how I got to the car,” he shook his head, “But I am the last person you need to push your emotions down for. I will always take them in stride and love you even more for that, okay?”
“Okay,” you take a shaky breath, “I love you.”
“I love you.” he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
Both of your heads look up at an approaching figure, who you quickly recognize to be SSA Derek Morgan. You knew Spencer hadn’t told the team about you yet, so you tried to sit up independently as fast as you could before he came over and suspected something.
Spencer’s grip didn’t let up when he bent down and whispered, “It’s okay, he knows.” You look up at him with wide eyes when derek finally reaches you.
“Reid, I already talked to the detectives and we’re good to go when you’re ready,” he turns his body to you and gives you a comforting smile, “Hi sweetheart, I’m Derek Morgan, it’s nice to meet you.”
Spencer rolls his eyes at the nickname while you giggle softly, “Hi Derek, I’ve heard so much about you. It's nice to finally meet you too.”
“I wish it were under better circumstances,” he sighs, “Listen, I know it’s all still really fresh for you, but it might help the case if you’re able to come in for a cognitive interview, or even talk to a sketch artist.”
Spencer doesn’t miss a beat before protesting, “Absolutely not. We can do it later, it’s fine.”
“Reid-“
You look up at him placing your hand on his chest, “Spence, It’s okay. I want to help, please.”
He rests his hand on top yours and gives it a light squeeze, “Okay, but i’m not leaving you alone for a second.”
“I didn’t think you would.” you smile.
“Alright lovebirds, you can have your private time later, we should go now.” Derek teases.
Spencer groans, “See, this is why i didn’t say anything.”
“You think I’m bad? Wait till Penelope meets her.”
__
The three of you pile into the car before starting the drive to Spencer’s apartment so he could get you a change of clothes and other things you might need. You end up falling asleep in the back seat, the final stage of your shock sinking in like a rock. Spencer checks on you from the rear view mirror and sees you passed out, and smiles.
“She’s cute,” Derek starts, “Can I ask how long?”
“Nine months.” he replies, fishing for something out of his pocket.
“Pretty boy hid a girl from all of us for nine months? Maybe we’re not as good profilers as we thought.”
“Imagine that,” he laughs, and gestures to the item in his hand, “Look.”
Spencer’s holding out a well loved photo booth strip with three pictures, of you and Spencer from the time you went to a local county fair. You’re sitting in his lap, mostly due to the cramped space and the expansive limbs. The first picture is the two of you holding up finger guns attempting to be as back to back as you can. The second picture, you intended it to be a normal one where you both smile at the camera, but spencer couldn’t take his eyes off you and the picture captured the love struck gaze he had on you. The last one you were about to tell him the idea for it, when he grabbed your face and pulled you closer to kiss you, neither of you knowing when the final picture snapped.
The edges were worn out and frayed, clearly broken down by the oils on his fingers from pulling it out frequently. It was his most treasured item, a constant reminder of what was always waiting for him when he got back from grueling cases, and how lucky he was to have you in his life.
“You look really happy, kid.” Derek says, thinking about the many times he’s seen his friend at rock bottom, the things that have been so brutally taken from him, and the suffering he’s had at the hands of his job. His heart warms for his friend, who seemed to finally catch a break.
in which spencer comforts you after you wake from a good dream about becoming a mother
fluff!
warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader sort of wants to be a mom sort of doesn't, they discuss having a child in the future, talk of pregnancy stuff, I think that's it!
a/n: another short sweet fluff piece that is by no means going to get me a pulitzer but is cute nonetheless!! love u!!! let me know if u enjoyed!!
Spencer wasn’t in the room when you fell asleep into an impromptu nap, induced by the pattering rain, the low light of your bedside lamp, the warmth of your favorite throw blanket—but he is when you wake up. Home from work, sprawled on the bed next to you, long legs crossed and as close as he thought he could get without disturbing your slumber.
“You came home,” you whisper groggily, curling into his side and letting your sleepy eyes flutter shut again.
He pulls you closer against him, rubbing your arm. “I always do.” A low, affectionate chuckle that buzzes from his chest and dizzies you. “You tired?”
You hum a distant affirmation. Visions of diaphanous pink, of sweet cooing, of a haloed Spencer doused in warm light and smiling down at a some blanket-bundled creature in his arms, still burn behind your eyelids, fading with every passing second. The gentle classical music you’d been playing earlier now blends with the sound of evening rain tapping ceaselessly against the window. Spencer is warm next to you, scent familiar and comforting and only contributing to your drowsiness—but a lingering sort of sadness still claws at your stomach. Emptiness. It bites like a shock of icy water. It’s just a small thing. You feel silly for being upset, but you are upset, and you want to tell him.
“I had weird dreams.”
Spencer offers a hum of his own (perhaps a habit you’d picked up from him) and you open your eyes, watching him watch the rain. The stark angle of his jaw, the sweet slope of his nose. Any baby he had a hand in creating would be absolutely cherubic. “You know, Carl Jung said dreams are hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul.”
You fiddle with the knit of his sweater, and he covers your hand with his own, looking back down at you, deep eyes full of easy contentment. Like as long as you’re together, he can’t imagine a thing to be worried about.
“Wait—the dreams are the door? Where does the door go?”
His brows pinch slightly as he recalls what is no doubt an exact quotation.
“Uh—he said they led to a primeval cosmic night, that is soul long before there was conscious ego, and will be soul far beyond what a conscious ego could ever reach.”
You frown, sleepy head aching as you twist your brain into knots trying to decode the ornate language. “Was he the weird incest-y one?”
Spencer chuckles again. “Nope. That was Freud. Jung was essentially saying that there is something primal and instinctual about our dreams. He said they were our way of accessing the unconscious, which can process things the conscious psyche can’t, and our consciousness was a ship on the great sea of unconsciousness.”
“You’re losing me, Dr. Reid.”
The corner of his mouth flickers up.
“He just meant they offered us an unbiased look at our lives. Our desires, our needs, unburdened by conscious ego.”
Our desires. Our needs.
You chew your lip.
“What does dreaming about having a baby mean?”
You say it because Spencer is your closest friend as well as your partner and you trust him completely with every thought in your head—but the way his hand pauses on your arm makes you nervous.
He takes a moment to dissect your answer, digging for a hidden meaning like a precious gem, and then, once he decides there are no landmines, proceeds cautiously.
“Well… some people say that a baby in your dream is a representation of you. It could indicate a desire to nurture, or a need to be nurtured.” Again you make a noise of vague acknowledgement. His hand starts back up again on your arm, and he delves gently deeper. “Why? Did you dream about having a baby?”
For a moment, you can only nod. Suddenly you’re choked up, releasing an exhaled, “Yeah,” as tears cloud your vision. He gives you a moment, just holding you as you try to find the words to continue. “It felt really real. I mean—I think I knew it wasn’t, but I was so happy that I didn’t care. I—she—” You laugh tearfully. “I’m being ridiculous, I know, I just… I miss her. Is that crazy?”
“That’s not crazy,” he says quietly. A stretch of silence follows, and the brief deluge of tears fades to trickling stop. Spencer is probably used to you enough so that he’s not surprised when you huff dramatically, trying to dispel your melancholia with a hefty dose of drama.
“I wanna have a baby!”
Your boyfriend releases a surprised laugh as you bury your head against his chest, but it only takes him half a second to root his hand in your hair and hold you there.
“Because of your dream?”
“Yes!” You sniffle into his sweater. “She was so perfect, ’nd sweet. I wanna have a baby so much.”
“With who?”
You look up at him tearfully and visibly frustrated. His eyes betray only fondness. “You, Spencer! Who else?”
“No one! No one else.”
You collapse again, satisfied with his answer.
“You were such a good dad. It was—oh my god, you were so happy. You were holding her, and smiling at her, and—can we please have a baby?”
“Oh, sweet girl,” he coos, half chuckle, voice tinged with pity. His hand sweeps over and over your hair in a soothing pattern.
You pout, hiding even further away against him. “That’s not an answer.”
“We can’t have a baby right this second, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
“Why not?”
He hums, pretending to consider the question, hand still carding gently through your locks, detangling.
“You’re not pregnant, for one thing.”
“I might be.”
“I doubt it.”
“I could be.”
He angles your head up, smiling. Those warm brown eyes of his are full to the brim with sparkly affection. “Do you have something to tell me?”
“No, I’m saying, we could have a baby.”
The curve of his mouth lessens though doesn’t entirely dissipate, and the subtle lines next to his eyes soften as he regards you. There are a thousand reasons you shouldn’t have a baby right now, but Spencer knows you know that, and it’s still not what you want to hear right this second.
“We could.”
He’s not being serious, but your heart flutters anyway.
“Really?”
“Sure. Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“Spencer. I’m not joking. You’re not taking me seriously.”
Spencer pulls you closer, and though you’re mildly annoyed, you allow it with a huff.
“I am taking you seriously. Like the plague.”
“I know you want kids.”
“I do.”
“We can have kids.”
“Angel. We have time. I believe that you want a baby, and I’m overjoyed that you want one with me. And you know we’d need more time to talk about it.”
Of course, you probably will change your mind tomorrow, and again the next day, and Spencer will love you then and every time you change your mind thereafter.
“Do you love me?” You ask softly, bunching the fabric of his shirt in your hand and not looking at him. Just to make sure. His eyes are liquid adoration on you.
“More than anything in the whole world.” And maybe, you think, you’re okay with keeping it that way. For just a bit longer, at least. Spencer squeezes your arm. “I do think you’ll get to meet her again one day. I’ll get to meet her.”
You smile to yourself, imagining your little dreamy baby girl back in your arms. “One day.”
He kisses the top of your head.
“Did we name her in your dream?”
“Elizabeth. But only because in my dream your mom’s name was Elizabeth, for some reason? I don’t… I can’t explain that.”
“Hm... I love my mom, but I don't know if I'd want to name my baby Diana. Feels too prophetic.”
“Hold on, I have like, a hundred baby name ideas. Can you hand me my phone? I’m gonna tell you all of them. First and middle name combinations.”
Spencer reaches for your phone on the side table. “Boy and girl?”
You scoff, settling into the crook of his arm, head on his shoulder, so he can see your phone screen.
“We’re not having a boy, Spencer.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
You smile and tangle your legs with his, searching through your notes app with your non-dominant hand for your list of ridiculous baby names.
“I can’t believe you would even suggest that. You're obviously going to be a girl dad.”
“Am I?”
“Yes! Oh my god, I’m so glad I'm not pregnant because you’re clearly not ready. You have a lot to learn. Okay, how does Artemisia Valencia October Reid sound to you?”
Summary: You are on spring break in Florida where the BAU is investigating a string of murders.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Category: fluff, angst
Warnings/Includes: talks of case, danger, slapping, fear, investigation
Word count: 4k
a/n: i can just imagine our poor baby wanting to help but scaring us so bad because he doesn't know how to not be serious
main masterlist
The sun was setting over the Florida beach, casting a warm orange glow over the lively spring break crowd. Music pulsed through the air, the bass thumping in time with the waves crashing against the shore. You had been dancing for what felt like hours, your feet moving instinctively to the beat, your skin glistening with sweat and salt from the ocean breeze. Your friends were still lost in the music, but you decided it was time for a small break. You excused yourself with a laugh and made your way toward the bar, craving something cold and refreshing.
As you waited for the bartender to circle back to you, your eyes drifted over the lively scene. People were dancing, laughing, and soaking in the carefree vibe that only a spring break beach party could offer. The bartender was busy mixing drinks, his hands a blur as he catered to the rowdy crowd. You tapped your fingers on the bar, your thoughts a pleasant buzz from the music and the warm evening air.
Suddenly, you felt it—a hand on your bare waist, gentle but firm, like it belonged there. Your first instinct was to spin around and give whoever it was a piece of your mind. You didn’t need random people touching you, especially not some guy who probably thought he could flirt his way into your night. But just as your irritation started to build, a low voice spoke into your ear, calm but urgent.
“Don’t panic,” the voice said, his breath warm against your skin. “There’s a man who’s been following you. I’m an agent with the FBI. I need you to look and tell me if you know him.”
Your heart skipped a beat, the casual atmosphere of the beach party shattering in an instant. FBI? Following you? This had to be a joke, right? You slowly turned your head, trying to get a look at the person speaking to you. He was tall, with a lean build that seemed out of place amidst the carefree beachgoers. His eyes were serious, and there was a calm authority in his demeanor that made you believe he could be telling the truth. But your stomach churned with nerves, disbelief mingling with fear.
“Who?” you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You scanned the crowd behind him, your gaze darting over the masses of people dancing, drinking, and enjoying the night. It was a sea of faces, none of them standing out. “There’s so many people.”
The agent kept his hand on your waist, a grounding presence in the chaos. “He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. On the beach.”
You blinked, the description clicking in your mind. Who the hell wears jeans and a long-sleeve to a beach party? Your eyes narrowed as you scanned the crowd more carefully, searching for the oddity in the sea of swimsuits and sundresses. Then you saw him—a man standing a little too still, a little too focused. His dark jeans and long-sleeved shirt made him stick out like a sore thumb among the beachgoers. And his eyes... they were locked on you.
Your stomach dropped. “Oh, I see him,” you said, your voice shaky. “No, I don’t know who that is.”
The agent’s grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, a subtle reassurance. “Okay,” he said calmly, his tone professional. “Just stay with me. We’re going to move, casually, like nothing’s wrong. We’ll blend in with the crowd.”
You nodded, swallowing hard. The beach that had felt so full of life and fun now seemed filled with shadows and threats. You could feel your pulse quicken, but the agent’s steady presence kept you grounded. Together, you started to move through the crowd, his hand never leaving your waist, guiding you with a quiet confidence that made you believe that everything would be okay.
“Can you tell me what’s going on? Why is the FBI here?” you asked, your voice laced with confusion and a touch of fear as the agent continued to guide you further away from the crowded beach. The music and laughter seemed distant now, replaced by the pounding of your heart and the seriousness of the situation.
The agent glanced at you, his expression unreadable but his tone reassuring. “I’ll tell you everything as soon as I know you’re safe.”
You hesitated but followed him, your mind racing with a million questions. Who was this guy? What was happening? Why did it have to involve you? The warm sand shifted beneath your feet as you walked, the noise of the party growing fainter until you finally reached an SUV parked away from the crowd. The agent moved swiftly, opening the door for you, his demeanor professional yet urgent. But as you looked at the open door, a nagging doubt crept into your mind.
“Um… can you show me your credentials?” you asked, your voice steady despite the rising tension. “I don’t want to just get in your car.”
The agent paused, his expression softening with understanding. “Yeah, sorry, of course.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a badge, flipping it open to reveal his identification. “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. I work with the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI.”
You examined the badge, your eyes scanning the information quickly. The name, the title, the official seal—it all seemed legitimate. You nodded, feeling a bit more at ease. “Okay, okay.” You slid into the car, the cool leather of the seat a stark contrast to the warmth of the beach. Spencer closed the door behind you before rounding the SUV to get in on the other side.
Once inside, he took a moment to glance at you, his eyes softening just a bit. “Thank you for coming with me,” he started, his voice gentle. “My team is here investigating a string of murders. I was canvassing the beach when I saw you.”
“Saw me?” you repeated, your confusion deepening. “I thought you said the man was following me.”
“Yeah, yes, he is… was,” Spencer corrected, fumbling slightly with his words. He seemed to take a breath before continuing, his tone more focused. “You fit the victimology of the women who have been kidnapped and assaulted. I was on my way to talk to you when I noticed him watching you.”
Your stomach dropped at his words, a cold shiver running down your spine. “So you just let him go?” you asked, the fear creeping back into your voice.
“Not exactly,” Spencer replied quickly, shaking his head. “My partner went after him.”
You took a deep breath, trying to process everything. Your mind was spinning with all the new information, and you couldn’t quite wrap your head around what had just happened. “Okay… so now what? Are you going to take me back to my hotel?” you asked, hoping for some clarity, some direction.
“I can do that,” Spencer replied, his voice hesitant. “Or really, you could go back to the beach, I—I’m not entirely sure where to go from here.”
You blinked at him, surprised by his uncertainty. “Haven’t you done this before?”
“Well, yes. But I have never taken a potential victim to my car… I guess I got swept up,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly, as if embarrassed by his own confession.
“You said I can leave, right?” you pressed, your wariness growing.
“Yes, of course. Do you want me to check if my partner got the guy?” he asked, his concern evident in his voice.
“No, I’m good, thank you,” you replied quickly, the alarm bells in your mind growing louder.
Without another word, you jumped out of the car, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t look back as you sprinted away from the SUV, putting as much distance between you and the agent as possible. His nervous energy, his fumbling words, his uncertainty—it all made you question if he was really who he said he was. What if he was the one after you?
Spencer watched as you bolted from the car, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he slumped back in his seat. The realization hit him hard: he had been the one to creep you out. Emily always joked that his IQ dropped around pretty girls, but this time, it seemed like his entire common sense had taken a nosedive. Why did he take you to the car? He knew better than that. Now, he was left staring after you, hoping you wouldn’t be putting yourself into trouble by going back to the beach.
Spencer’s phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen before answering, “Spencer Reid.”
“Reid, that wasn’t our guy. He was just your garden variety pervert, creeping on girls in swimsuits,” Derek’s voice came through, casual but with a hint of annoyance.
“Seriously?” Spencer’s heart sank. “So he’s still out there?”
“Yeah, we didn’t have anything on him. What’s up?” Derek asked, sensing something was off.
Spencer hesitated before admitting, “That girl, she just went back to the beach.”
“Why?” Derek’s curiosity was evident.
“I… scared her,” Spencer confessed, feeling a twinge of guilt.
There was a pause, and then Derek chuckled, the amusement clear in his voice. “She thought you were the unsub, didn’t she?” Spencer could practically see Derek’s smirk through the phone.
“Shut up,” Spencer grumbled, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “...Yes.”
Derek’s laughter echoed through the phone. “Well, maybe you should find her, explain yourself. She did fit the victimology; maybe she knows our unsub.”
Spencer sighed, knowing Derek was right. “Great. Got it.”
“Good luck, pretty boy. Don’t scare her again,” Derek teased before hanging up.
Spencer pocketed his phone, feeling the weight of the situation settle on his shoulders. He had to find you and explain, not just for his sake, but because there was still a dangerous man out there—and you might be closer to him than anyone realized.
—
“You guys, it was so weird!” you exclaimed, your voice a mix of disbelief and lingering fear as you recounted the events to your friends. “He just grabbed me, and then there was this guy watching me, and then the agent or doctor or whoever he was took me to his car! I thought I was going to be kidnapped!”
Lynn’s eyes widened in horror. “That’s so scary! What did the guy look like?”
“He was tall, lanky, had shaggy hair, kind of a pretty boy, and he was wearing a button-up shirt. Like, come on, it’s hot out here!” you said, shaking your head in disbelief at the memory.
Jayce suddenly stiffened, their eyes darting past you. “Uhhh, I swear to God that guy is walking over here right now,” they said, their voice tinged with panic.
“What?” You whipped around, your heart skipping a beat when you saw Spencer approaching. “Oh, hell no. We gotta move.”
Without wasting another second, you and your friends started weaving through the groups of people on the beach, trying to put as much distance between you and the man who had just turned your evening upside down.
“Wait! I’m sorry! I need to talk to you!” Spencer called out, his voice strained as he picked up his pace, trying to catch up to you. But the crowded beach made it difficult for him to move quickly, the sea of partiers barely noticing his attempts to get through. Frustration and desperation colored his tone as he shouted, “FBI! Move!”
You heard him, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins wouldn’t let you stop. You pushed forward, determined to get away. However, Spencer’s long legs finally closed the distance, and you felt his hand grab your wrist, pulling you to a sudden halt.
“Hey! Let me go!” you shouted, spinning around in a flash of panic and anger. Without thinking, you lashed out, your hand connecting with his face in a sharp slap.
Spencer recoiled slightly, his eyes widening in shock, not expecting the slap. But he didn’t let go of your wrist, his grip firm yet gentle. “Please, just listen,” he said, his voice pleading, desperation lacing his words. “I’m not trying to hurt you—I just need to explain.”
But in that moment, all you could think about was getting free, getting away from the man who had scared you more than the potential threat he was supposedly protecting you from.
“Fuck you, let me go, man!” you yelled, twisting and struggling in Spencer’s grip. “This hurts!”
Spencer’s eyes widened, and he immediately loosened his hold, his face a mix of concern and regret. “Okay, okay, what if I have another agent come and talk to you instead? A woman even?” he offered, his voice softening as he tried to calm you down.
“Fine, fine! Just stay away from me,” you demanded, your voice shaky but firm.
Spencer nodded, releasing your wrist and lifting his hands in surrender, showing you he meant no harm. He quickly pulled out his phone and made a call, his voice low as he spoke to someone on the other end. Within minutes, he managed to convince you and your friends to move toward the edge of the beach, away from the crowds, at least until the other agent arrived.
Soon, a blonde woman in a professional yet approachable demeanor approached, her expression warm and reassuring. “Hi, I’m Agent Jareau. I appreciate you speaking with us, and I’m really sorry about Doctor Reid here. He’s completely harmless, I promise. Pretty women and exposed skin tend to make his brain shut down,” she said with a playful smirk, trying to lighten the mood.
“Hey!” Spencer protested, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red.
You couldn’t help but laugh, though it was tinged with nervousness. “What do you guys want, Ms. Jareau?” you asked, your tone cautious but more relaxed now that someone else had taken over.
JJ smiled sympathetically. “Can you come back to the precinct with us? Please? We have some questions regarding the string of murders. You fit the victimology to a T, and we’re curious to know if you might know the unsub.”
You hesitated, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “Okay… I’ll ride with you. But can we drop my friends off at the hotel first?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” JJ replied, her tone grateful. She then turned to Spencer, giving him a reassuring nod. “Spence, I got it from here.”
Spencer looked at you one last time, his expression apologetic, before stepping back to let JJ handle the rest. You watched him for a moment, still wary but starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the bad guy in this scenario.
—
At the precinct, you found yourself seated in a quiet office with JJ and Emily. The atmosphere was serious, but both agents carried a sense of calm that put you slightly at ease. They began asking you questions about the man they were looking for, hoping that something you knew might help them catch the unsub.
As they described what they knew so far, you frowned, a memory stirring in the back of your mind. “Um… that kind of sounds like this guy that was hitting on me. His name was Adam,” you said, your voice tentative.
JJ and Emily exchanged a quick glance before Emily leaned forward. “Where is Adam?” she asked, her tone direct but not harsh.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, shaking your head. “We met at one of the bars on the beachfront. He was weird.”
“Weird how?” JJ prompted gently, her eyes searching yours for any detail that might be important.
“He, um, he kept flirting with me, even though I was really clear that I wasn’t looking for anything. Not even a spring break fling,” you explained, the memory of the encounter making you shudder slightly.
Emily’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Did you get his phone number?”
“Yeah, he put it in my phone,” you replied, feeling a bit uneasy as you remembered how insistent he had been. “He was kind of… opposing. Like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
JJ nodded, her expression serious but understanding. “Okay, can you give us his number, please?”
“Of course,” you said, pulling out your phone and finding the contact information. You handed it over, hoping that this small detail could help them find whoever was responsible for the terrifying situation unfolding around you.
“Can you stay here until we find Adam? We want to make sure you’re safe,” Emily suggested, her tone warm but serious.
You nodded, still processing everything. “Uh, yeah.”
JJ’s expression softened with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Mhm… I feel bad about hitting a federal agent,” you admitted, your voice quiet as the guilt settled in.
Emily’s eyes widened in surprise. “Who did you hit?”
JJ, unable to contain herself, snorted. “Did you hit Reid?”
“Is that the doctor?” you asked, unsure if you were following correctly.
“Yes,” JJ confirmed, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Then yes,” you replied, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment.
Both women burst into laughter, the sound filling the office. You couldn’t help but crack a small smile, even if you still felt awkward about the whole situation.
After a moment, Emily, still chuckling, asked, “Why did you hit him?”
You hesitated, then shrugged. “He grabbed my wrist, and I thought… I don’t know, I panicked. He seemed so nervous and awkward, and I was already on edge. I guess I just reacted.”
JJ shook her head, still smiling. “Don’t worry, Reid’s tougher than he looks. He’ll be fine.”
Emily nodded in agreement, a twinkle of humor in her eyes. “Yeah, he’s used to dealing with all sorts of things. I’m sure he’ll understand once we explain everything.”
“Who knows,” JJ said with a playful wiggle of her brows, “maybe he liked it. He couldn’t seem to keep it together around Y/N here.”
Emily burst into genuine laughter, the kind that made heads turn in the precinct. Her amusement was contagious, and you could see a few of the other agents glancing over with curious smiles. Despite still feeling a bit uncomfortable, you found yourself starting to relax, the tension in your shoulders easing as the humor lightened the atmosphere.
“Thank you both,” you said, your voice warm with sincerity. “You’re so nice.”
JJ smiled softly, her earlier teasing tone replaced by one of genuine care. “We’re just glad you’re okay. We’re here to help, and we’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Emily nodded in agreement, still grinning. “You’re in good hands, Y/N. We’ll get this sorted out, don’t worry.”
For the first time that night, you felt a real sense of reassurance. You watched as Emily left the room, her presence comforting, but now it was just you and JJ. As JJ stood up, ready to leave as well, you hesitated for a moment before speaking.
“Um, miss?” you called out, your voice soft but steady.
JJ paused, turning back to you with a raised eyebrow, curiosity evident in her expression. “Yes?”
“Do you think I could apologize to the doctor?” you asked, feeling a small knot of guilt twist in your stomach.
JJ’s expression softened, her gentle smile returning. “Clear the air? I’m sure he would appreciate that. I can stay if you’d like,” she offered, her tone kind and understanding.
You shook your head, giving her a small, grateful smile. “No, you don’t have to stay. Thank you for offering.”
JJ nodded, her smile growing warmer. “Alright, I’ll go get him.”
As she left the room, you took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest. You weren’t sure why it felt so important to apologize, but something about the way Spencer had handled everything, his awkward sincerity, made you want to make things right.
Moments later, the door opened again, and Spencer stepped in, looking a bit timid, his usual confidence tempered by the earlier events. “Hello,” he said quietly, almost hesitantly.
“Hi,” you replied, feeling a mix of awkwardness and relief that this conversation was happening.
Spencer took a deep breath before speaking, his voice sincere. “I’m sorry, for today. Scaring you, grabbing you—I’m really sorry.”
“Oh, um, it’s okay,” you said, waving off the apology with a small, embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry for slapping you.”
A faint smile tugged at Spencer’s lips. “That’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me on a case. I’ll get over it.”
You couldn’t help but giggle a little at that, the tension between you easing with the shared humor.
“It’s nice to see you laughing instead of terrified,” Spencer said, his tone light, but with a genuine warmth.
“You’re a lot nicer to be around when I’m laughing instead of terrified,” you teased back, the playful remark slipping out before you could think twice.
Spencer’s smile grew, and for a moment, the stress of the night seemed to lift. “I know the other agents already asked you everything, but, uh, did you know the unsub?”
“I think so, yeah,” you replied, your tone still light but with a hint of frustration. “Some jerk who wouldn’t take no for an answer at a bar.”
“Does that happen a lot?” Spencer asked, his brow furrowing in concern.
“What? Men being dicks? Yeah,” you laughed, but it was humorless, tinged with the weariness of too many similar experiences.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You don’t deserve that,” Spencer said earnestly, his gaze softening.
You looked at him curiously. “What do I deserve, Doctor?”
“Oh, sorry,” he stammered, realizing how his words might have come across. “Another man telling you what you need, huh?”
You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “Mmm, no. This time, I’m interested to hear what you have to say.”
Spencer blushed, clearly caught off guard. “Well, all women deserve to be treated with respect and kindness.”
“And me?” you pressed, leaning in just a little, curious to see how he’d respond.
“You, uh, I guess you deserve a man who will listen to you?” he suggested, his voice unsure but sincere.
“Smart boy,” you giggled, the compliment rolling off your tongue easily.
Spencer felt a warm rush at your words, enjoying the praise perhaps a little more than he should. “I’d—I’d say I could take you on a proper, gentlemanly date, but we’ll leave Florida as soon as we close the case.”
“Now that’s a bold statement,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “Are you assuming I would want to go out with you?”
“No, I just—based on your body language and demeanor, not to mention your flirtatious tone and word choice, I suppose, yes, I did assume you would want to go out with me,” Spencer replied, his analytical nature slipping out.
You tilted your head, impressed. “What are you, some kind of genius?”
“Yes, actually. I have an IQ of 187,” he said with a sheepish smile.
“Wow.”
“Hah, yeah,” Spencer chuckled, still a bit shy under your gaze.
“You’re right, by the way. In your assumption,” you said with a playful smile.
“Good to know,” he replied, a touch of satisfaction in his voice.
“Tell me, Doctor, do you happen to work at the FBI bureau in Quantico?” you asked, your tone still teasing.
“I do,” he confirmed, curiosity piqued.
“Well then, in the event that you close this case by, say… next weekend, do you still want to take me out?”
“What? But I won’t be here,” Spencer said, clearly confused.
“I know, neither will I. Do the math, genius.”
Spencer stared at you for a moment, his face adorably concentrated as he processed your words. Then, realization dawned on him, and his eyebrows shot up. “You live in Virginia?”
“I live in Charlottesville, but I’m willing to let you travel two hours to see me,” you said with a teasing grin.
“How kind of you,” he laughed, feeling relief and excitement.
“Well, you did basically kidnap me, and you hurt my wrist,” you pouted playfully.
“Did I really?” Spencer asked, his concern immediate as he took your arm gently in his hands, examining your wrist.
“I still prefer you to the other guy,” you said softly, your voice sincere.
Spencer’s gaze met yours, and for a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade away. Despite the chaotic night, something good had come out of it—a connection neither of you had expected.
a/n: here is part 2!! hope you all enjoy, thank you for the support and 200+ followers!! reblogs & comments appreciated !!
the sun was at its highest point, casting burning rays down onto the white sand. you and garcia were splashing around, emily and jj had run off to look for seashells and derek was building a mega sandcastle with jack while hotch and spencer were sat by everyone’s bags.
“i’m getting a little cold now y/n, im getting out to warm up.” garcia announced as she began to wade back out of the water, you decided that it would probably be a good idea to take a break maybe get a drink to rehydrate, so you followed the blonde back to the towels.
“honestly hotch the water is perfect are you sure you don’t want to come for a swim?” you grinned as you walked back.
“i think i’m good here.” he mumbled, smoothing down the hawaiian print shirt that adorned his tall figure.
“well in that case- lets get ice cream.” penelope chirped, as he dried herself off putting on a violently floral beach coverup over her swimsuit.
“ice cream!” jack came running back, practically leaping onto his dad, covering them both in sand.
“well that’s one way to summon a five year old.” you laughed.
hotch sent you a joking glare before picking jack up. “yeah lets get some ice cream.” he agreed passively.
“morgan, ice cream lets go hotch is buying!” penelope yelled to derek who was now two feet deep in a hole he was digging.
“wh- i never said…fine.” hotch shook his head in disapproval as he walked away, jack still in his arms, with penelope and derek in tow.
“get me my favourite!” you yelled out as they left, earning a dismissive wave from hotch.
you turned to face spencer, who had now picked up your towel and was using it to block his legs from the sun. his face was buried in his book, with only a few pages remaining.
“can i use my towel, spence.” you smiled sweetly once his doe eyes met yours.
your two piece clung to your body, saturated in sea water. little droplets of water trickled down your bare skin, spencer’s intense stare watching as they connected to each other and fell from your figure.
he cleared his throat before speaking, “i-uh yeah here.” he quickly pass your towel to you, your finger briefly skimming over his causing heat to rise in your cheeks.
you towel dried your hair, wringing your salty locks out.
spencer closed his book, setting it down on the blue cooler to his right. he eyed you, as you began to pat your torso dry, wrapping the towel around yourself, over your two piece, like you had just stepped out of the shower.
“when did you last put suncream on?” you questioned, flicking your hair off of your shoulders.
“i don’t know- maybe four hours ago.” spencer pondered.
you gasped loudly in a playful manner, immediately diving into your beach bag and pulling out your trusted factor 30 suncream.
“i- y/n i think i’m fine.”
“you’re supposed to reapply every two hours- you should know this.” you muttered, shuffling towards spencer’s seated figure.
spencer let out a small groan, although secretly he thought it was cute how concerned you were.
“stand up please.”
“i’m not moving.” a smug smile resting on his face, he wanted to test how serious you were about the application of suncream, surely you’d give up.
you let out a prolonged exhale, dispensing suncream onto your hand.
“you gave me no choice!” you exclaimed, climbing onto the beach chair. spencer’s eyes widened as you practically straddled the man, one leg resting over either side of his lap.
you pushed back his hair with one hand, gently applying the cream to his face with the other. his face burning at your close proximity, he was staring directly and your towel clad form.
once you finished applying it to his face, you reached for the bottle again, you moved down to his neck, then to his arms. at this stage spencer was compliant, doing whatever you needed of him.
“give me your arm.” you muttered, taking his forearm and rubbing in the cream on any visible skin. spencer stirred as you shifted your weight to one side, getting comfortable on his lap.
spencer knew you were a confident person, it reflected in your work on the field, but he never expected you to go this far.
“i know you’re enjoying this.” you joked, your small laugh ringing in his ears.
“s-shut up. i say you couldn’t wait to get your hands on me.” he rebutted your remark, and now it was your turn for your face to flush.
“so what if i did…” you mumbled, taking his other arm in your hand. spencer’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to read your expression, he wasn’t certain if you meant it. so he decided to find out.
“is that why you wanted my hands all over you?” he questioned. it was a bold move, even for spencer, he couldn’t quite believe those words came from him.
this caught you off guard, you dropped spencer’s arm and stared at him, his hazel eyes stared back with intensity.
“and what if i said yes, dr.reid?” you replied, chewing your bottom lip waiting for his reply.
spencer lifted his dominant hand, slipping it under your towel to rest on your waist. you breath hitched in your throat as his warm hand came in contact with your chilled skin.
“maybe you need a top up.” he mumbled, his grasp on you not faltering.
you studied him, the fresh layer of suncream on his facing causing his skin to glow from the few rays of sun that managed to shine through the gaps of the umbrella.
your hold on the bottle of suncream loosened causing it to fall into the sand below. you brought your right hand up to his face, resting it against jaw as you smoothed your thumb over cheek.
he gave you a small smile, embracing your hold. you reluctantly leaned closer, shifting your position on him. spencer could tell what you were doing, quickly closing the gap between you and pressing his lips to yours.
it was gentle at first, a soft brush that sent shivers down spencer’s spine. you immediately brought your other hand up, running in through his hair. spencer’s grip on your waist tightened, as he brought his other to rest on your thigh.
you shuddered at his touch, your beach towel slipping away from your torso and pooling by your hips. spencer deepened the kiss, as you leaned forward, pressing your body against his. you kissed back hungrily, trailing your hands to cup his face.
spencer pulled away, taking in your features. your eyelids were heavy, your lips slightly swollen. a grin spread across his face as you leaned back in pressing a kiss to your jaw, then to below your ear.
“spence?-“ you breathed out, resting your arms around his shoulders as he continued peppering kisses along your neck before returning to your lips. spencer had wanted to kiss you for months, and now it was finally happening, he wanted to savour every moment.
his lips were soft, his kiss much more tentative this time, spencer’s hands tracing over your figure.
you both pulled back to gaze at one another, heavy breaths slipping from your lips. you could practically feel the heat radiating off of spencer. you both sat for a moment, in silence, taking in what had just happened.
“will you go for a swim with me now?” you questioned.
In which Spencer almost loses the love of his life, literally and figuratively
TW: angst with a happy ending, criminal minds level depiction of violence, mentions of death, it takes a little to get to the actual plot but trust me it’s worth it, (tell me if i missed any)
Word count: 3.3K
To know Spencer Reid was to be absolutely enthralled by him. You were both 16 when you met, granted you were 16 in your junior year of highschool and he was 16 working on his 2nd PHD, but you were both 16 nonetheless.
It had taken some convincing to get a place in his life, not because he didn’t like you or your company, more because he was waiting for your ulterior motive to show itself, or for your patience to wear thin. It never did.
You knew vaguely about his mother, mostly through a news article you found from a few years back, talking about the prodigy like he was more of circus attraction then a 12 year old. It had mentioned that he also took care of his sick mother, and with his hyperfixation on finding a cure to schizophrenia, you’d connected the dots.
But you still didn’t want to assume.
“Hey Spence, why’re you so set on finding a cure?” You ask, gesturing to the 8th book on schizophrenia you’d seen him read in the 3 months you’ve known him.
“My mother” he says, closing the book and placing it infront of him. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m curious about what goes on in the mind of Spencer Reid” you smile “though, I’m sure you could tell me exactly what’s happening up there, down to the chemicals”, he laughs at that
“I could give you an idea” he says, you hover your hands over the book, he nods, you open it to the last page.
“508 pages, how long would that take you to read?” You ask
“A little under 10 minutes, if I had to guess, I don’t know how many words are on each page” he says
“Well I’m not counting so I guess we’re gonna have to stick with an estimate” you joke, he smiles again.
You sit in silence for a minute, just looking at each other, and the book. There’s a light tension, unasked questions float between you.
“Can I be invasive?” You ask, Spencer nods
“You usually don’t ask first” he smiles
“You suck” you reach to hit his arm, you don’t. “I won’t hit you before asking about your sick mother, actually”
“I appreciate that” he laughs “but what do you want to know?”
“What’s her name?” You ask, he seems a little shocked.
“Diana.”
“And you take care of her?” You already know the answer, but he’d never said it explicitly.
“Yea” he nods, he looks at you like he knows what you’ll ask next
“Well, tell me if there’s ever anything I can do to help. Her or you, I can’t imagine that’s an easy thing to do alone, props to you spence” you smile, and if someone saw his face right now, they’d assume you asked him- well not many questions would dumbfound Spencer Reid but that’s not the point.
“You’re not gonna ask if I hate it? Or if I want to put her in a home?” He asks, sounding more confused than you’d ever seen him
“Do you want me to ask that?” You counter.
“No.. not really” he looks at his hands, which are rubbing together. A nervous habit of his you’d picked up on rather quickly.
“Well then I won’t ask it” you smile, so does he.
It’s a week later when he tells you why he’d been so shocked that day.
You were on his front porch, about to meet his mother for the first time. He said she’d been having a good day, and though you weren’t exactly sure what that entailed, he said it with enough excitement that you decided to just ask later.
“When you first asked about my mom, you asked what her name was” he says, you nod.
“Thats usually my starting point, yea” you laugh softly “why, was that the wrong thing to ask?”
“No- no no no. It was the perfect thing to ask! I just- you were the first person to ask what her name was before you asked about what’s wrong with her” he says, and he looks sad, so you offer a hand. You know he’ll say no, but you don’t miss how he smiles everytime you offer.
“Wanna tell me about her? I never know what I’m walking into meeting my friends parents, I would’ve brought her flowers but I didn’t know what kind she liked” you say, and his smile goes from soft to wide and bright.
He is ineffably beautiful.
“She likes lilies” he smiles “and she’s really nice, when she’s, yknow” you just nod. And then he holds out his hand, you take it. And that’s the first time you ever touched Spencer Reid.
You met his mother that night, it was uneventful, but it was nice.
That’s a lot of your friendship with Spencer. Uneventful, but nice. More than nice, it’s wonderful. He’s wonderful. You’re there when he gets his first PHD at 17, you’re there when he has to put his mother into assisted living, you’re there when he gets the letter saying he’s been invited to the FBI academy, you even drive him to go meet Agent Gideon.
You see him off at the airport when he goes to Quanico.
And that’s the last time you see your best friend.
After a while weekly phone calls became monthly, and monthly became an occasional text on birthdays and holidays and informing the other of big achievements, but by his 3rd year as an agent, friendships were hard to maintain.
You’d accepted never seeing your friend again.
Spencer hoped he’d never see you again, because he knew he didn’t have the guts to reach out, and he knew that the only time his teammates seemed to see old friends was when they were a part of a case.
But he also knew you.
And he recognized your necklace the second he saw the pictures Penelope had on the screen.
“The second and third victims haven’t been found, but they’re believed dead” JJ says, Spencer barely hears it.
“I need air” is all he manages to say as he rushes out of the room. Derek went after him and caught him as he collapsed.
“Hey man, what’s goin on?” Derek asked him, holding onto Spencer’s shaking shoulders as he tries to stay upright.
“I can’t- she can’t- she can’t be dead” his words were barely audible and even less coherent.
“Do you know one of the victims?” Derek asked, and Spencer nodded.
He more than knew you, he’d held you while you cried, he’d slept in your bed the night his mom went into care, you were the only person there for him at his graduations, he’d helped you decorate your first apartment. You were so much more than someone he knew. And you were so much more than victim number 3.
“Spencer? Hello?” Derek’s hand waved infront of Spencer’s face as he zoned back into reality.
“Sorry” I he muttered as he started to stand up. He and Derek walked back into the briefing room, he doesn’t apologize for his outburst, he just sits and waits for Penelope and JJ to continue. They do.
“Well, 3 girls went missing in New York City within a span of a week. The reason we’re on this case is because they all worked for the same law firm”
Spencer takes a shuttering breath.
“The first victim, whose body was found dumped in a dumpster by a homeless man, was 56 year old Mrs. Shelly Kailee, a lawyer at Shelly and Dylan law firm, she was a co-owner along with her Husband Dylan. The two other victims, who are still currently missing, are Darleen Calvin, and Y/N L/N. Darleen is 28 and a practicing attorney at the same law firm, she’s only been practicing there for a few months after graduation from University of New York in January. Y/N is 25 and is working as a receptionist at the law firm while working on her law degree at Cornell. Both girls are reportedly very sociable and very kind, but from what we’ve been told, Y/N seemed to be more acquainted with everyone while Darleen seemed to just have a large group of friends. That’s the only information we have on them” JJ says. It seems everyone’s eyes drifted to Spencer, but his were dead set on your face on the projector. Smiling. You had the same smile. You were still wearing the same necklace you wore every day since he gave it to you at 18 when you graduated. You were still as beautiful as he remembered.
“She wouldn’t let anyone take her to a second location, not without a fight. We’re probably looking at a fairly athletic man, unless we find out that she sent someone her location. Then it’s probably someone charismatic, charming, played himself as a friend” he says, and everyone nods.
“You think she’d fall for that?” Morgan asks, he gets a few glares. But Spencer nods. “I think I saw her have a conversation with a homeless man once because she thought he might be lonely.” He says “so yes”. Hotch clears his throat “Spencer is there any possibility she’s.. changed since you knew her?”. Spencer shakes his head “we only really fell completely out of touch a few months back, she seemed pretty much the same the last time I called her, which was probably 6 months ago”
You could’ve cut the tension with a knife.
“Spencer I’m sorry-“ Emily says, he cuts her off.
“You can be sorry if we find a body” he says. And they get the message.
“Wheels up in 10” Hotch says.
Spencer works that case like a dog. There’s not a moment where he isn’t doing something to find you. Something to make sure you’re okay.
A few times, Derek had to pull him out of the police precinct, just so he’d get a couple hours of sleep.
He was beside himself.
Then the tapes showed up.
On the front steps of the police station, there was a box, with 4 tapes, each labeled with a date of the days you’d been missing, the most recent being from the day before.
The first started with a voice they later confirmed to be Shelly’s. A final message to her husband and kids. Tearful messages to each one about how much she loved them. And then a gunshot.
The second tape was worse. It was of you and Darleen. Spencer recognized your voice immediately, he could tell you were holding back tears. Darleen on the other hand was sobbing. You were both pleading for you life. You were a bit more composed, and he quickly recognized some of what you were saying as examples he’d said to you when talking about what usually does and doesn’t work on killers.
He never intended you to have to put those lessons to use.
And the selfish part of him wonders if you thought of him when you spoke.
The 3rd tape is the shortest. It’s just a gunshot and a scream. Your scream. He, for the first time in his life, sincerely hopes that you watched someone get killed.
The final tape is just you.
And it breaks him.
There’s a few seconds of silence before your voice starts.
“This is a message for Spencer Reid, and the rest of the FBI. My name is Y/N, and if you’re listening to this. I am dead.”
And his face falls.
“Spence, meeting you in highschool was the greatest thing I’ve ever done. And I love you, I love you so much Spencer. And I hope-“ the tape ends.
Spencer listens to that tape another dozen times.
The cops find Darleen’s body before lunch.
He doesn’t have it in him to care.
He listens to the tape again. And then it hits him.
You had never once said you met Spencer in highschool. You always, always made it a point to say that you were in highschool, but he wasn’t.
And it was currently summer, and the highschool was empty.
“Guys I know where she is-“
Hotch cut him off with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Spencer she’s dead” he said, his voice wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t gentle either. Spencer could’ve punched him.
“They’re at the highschool. Trust me” his voice was shaking, not with doubt, but with fear. Fear that both he and Hotch were right, and that in a couple hours he’d see you again under the worst possible circumstances.
But they went anyway.
He was zoned out most of the car ride, ignoring Derek’s questions of if he’s sure he can handle this.
For Spencer, it doesn’t matter if he thinks he can, because he has too.
He’s a few feet past the doorway when it really sinks in that he might leave the building again with your lifeless body in his arms. He pushes the thought aside. It felt like betrayal not to try and have hope, because for Spencer, you were hope incarnate. It would feel disrespectful to take that from you without asking first.
He heard it before anyone else did.
He all but ripped the door open, the local PD turning on their heels at his aggressive movements.
But there you were, in a chair, sobbing into your binds. He was infront of you in seconds, shouting for someone to cut the ropes holding your wrists and ankles as he removed the cloth from your mouth.
“You’re okay, you’re alright now, I’ve got you” his hands gently holding your cheeks as you leaned forward into his chest, your arms wrapping around his torso once they were cut free.
“I knew you’d come- I knew it. I told him but he said you wouldnt find me so- so in the tape- oh my god did he send you the tapes?” He cut off your manic rambling with soft shushing
“I know you knew, you always know, and yes we got the tapes. You did good, you did everything perfect. I understood.” He assured you, running his hands through your hair.
Emily came up to you and Spencer, putting her hand on his shoulder.
“Does she know where he is?” She asks.
He starts to speak, but you do it first. “Maybe the janitors closet? Or the bathroom? He- he made us scrub the floors, he was like- he was psychotic about it” you say, she nods and leaves the room, Spencer just tucks your head back under his chin.
“You’re doing so well” he whispers
“Spencer I want to leave” you cry
“Alright, alright. Let’s get you out of here” he says, slipping his arm under your knees and lifting you. You probably could’ve walked, but no one was shocked that he chose to carry you out.
He asked the EMTs more questions than your frazzled mind could even think of.
“Dr.Reid, she’s going to be fine. It’s cuts and bruises and maybe a few pulled muscles, she will be fine once she gets some fluids and a good meal in her system. “
He still didn’t believe it.
He didn’t believe it when the nurses told him the same thing, he didn’t believe it on the car ride back to the precinct after you were discharged, and he didn’t believe it when you sat next to him during your cognitive interview.
He’d fought Hotch about giving you one, but Hotch said that having a solid story will help make sure the man who did this is kept in prison for as long as possible, and you’d volunteered.
“You really dont have to” he says, you shake your head
“Spence i can handle it” you say
“Im not leaving your side.” He insists, you laugh a bit, which all but calms him down.
“I didnt think you would.” You offer your hand, and for the first time he accepts the invitation.
The interview makes you cry, which could’ve been predicted, but it still breaks Spencer’s heart.
After that he sets a semi-permanent ban on anyone asking you about what happened.
JJ brings you a change of clothes and you thank her profusely as she walks you to the bathroom and helps you wash your face and body as best as you can with wet paper towels.
Spencer anxiously waits outside.
“She’s with JJ, man. You can go outside and take a breather if you need” Derek offers.
“I’ll go outside and take a breather with Y/N when they’re done. Im sure this isnt where she wants to be right now.” Spencer says, Derek sighs.
“Spence, that girl might be one of the most well adjusted victims we’ve ever seen, she’ll be okay if you step away for 5 minutes-“ Spencer cuts him off
“I wont” he says “do you not get that? She’s well adjusted, Im not. I am not well adjusted to almost losing her and im not well adjusted to having her back so Derek would you please stop suggesting that I need space from her because space from her is the last thing I need right now” they stand in silence for a minute until you leave the bathroom.
“Spence? Everything okay?” JJ asks as she walks out of the bathroom after you, you quickly finding your place leaning against Spencer’s side.
“Yea we’re good” Derek answers for him, placing a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and leaving with a small nod of understanding.
Spencer guides you outside.
He sits next to you on the bench outside the precinct, your head on his shoulder and his arm around you.
“Im really glad you picked up on that” you say
“Picked up on what?” He asks, his hand moving from next to you on the bench to your lap, resting on top of your own.
“The highschool thing, i honestly didnt know if he’d even send the tapes, kinnda figured he was making them for himself” you say, interlacing your fingers with his “but I figured it was worth a shot”
“It was smart” he says, squeezing your hand “took me awhile to realize”
“Did it?” You ask “and here i was thinking you were a genius. Spencer when have i ever skipped a chance to brag about you?” You smile at him, he shrugs.
“I was under a little stress” he says, pulling you closer.
“I know, im sorry I scared you”
“Dont apologize, this is not your fault. You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.” You just nod.
There’s silence for a while, it could’ve been hours, neither of you would’ve noticed, or minded.
“Do you want to move in with me?” He says it before he even realized he thought it, immediately looking just as shocked as you. “I am so sorry- i just- well i figured-“
“Spencer” you grab his hand. “We’ll talk about it” you say, and that seems to be the right answer as he wraps you into a hug.
“I just want to make sure you’re okay” he whispers, you nod.
“It doesn’t require moving in for us to stay in contact” you say
“But you’re so far” you just nod in response. “I dont want to lose you again” he whispers
“Spence you didnt lose me, im alright-” he stops you
“Thats not what i meant. Not entirely” he clarifies, you sigh and pull him into another long hug.
“My lease ends next month” you hum
“See you in Virginia next month?” He asks, you smile
“We’ll talk about it”
There’s never a conversation about if you’ll move in. Spencer just Venmo’s you (he got Garcia to teach him how) 300 bucks along with “plane ticket or take out dinner for a week” which makes you laugh, and it also makes you call him to ask approximately how much of your stuff would fit in his apartment, he says he’ll make as much space as you need.
A month later you show up to one of Rossi’s dinner parties hand in hand with Spencer, JJ hands Derek 20 bucks, and slowly, everything falls back into place.
(PS: Spencer makes sure you have everything you need to finish school online because he’ll be damned if you gave up your dreams for a man, even if he himself is that man.)
Remember to reblog with feedback!! Reblogs make the world go round and feedback helps artists keep creating!
This might be the longest fic ive ever written. This took 2 days and a few tears but finally it’s done. Im tagging the pookies bc Ykw i worked too hard not too @the-phantom-author @thesockbehindthewashingmachine @mariasont @st4rgzer @canonically-a-genloser
author’s note :: my one brain cell has been occupied by protective!spencer as of late, so this is what we’re dealing with
accompanying song :: ugotme by omar apollo
the first time he squeezed your hand, it was during a handshake.
you had just joined the bau, and as is customary in introductions, you held your hand out for a round of handshakes. with a tight-lipped smile, you looked into his face as you introduced yourself.
“f/n l/n.”
his eyes — a charming shade of brown — stared right back at you.
“i’m doctor spencer reid.”
he grasped your hand for only a fleeting second, but still gave it a gentle squeeze.
---
the second time he squeezed your hand, you were talking behind erin strauss’ back.
if it were hotch or any other member of the bau, spencer would’ve let everything play out and watched your panicked reaction with an amused smile. but it was erin strauss, and spencer could see that she was visibly agitated.
“a good section chief should have faith in the team’s decisions,” you pouted and looked up at spencer, who was chewing on a cookie and humming in agreement.
“she’s been telling me to call her every hour for an update on the case. last time, i was a minute late — a minute late, spence — and she just had to rub it in my face!”
you angrily rubbed the bridge of your nose, sighing as you vented to your colleague. his brows perked up, but you didn’t take note of it; in fact, you started to speak even louder as the rage continued to pile at the back of your throat.
spencer cleared his throat once, but you thought he was just trying to swallow his food.
“honestly, spencer, do you think i should tell her?”
he blinked rapidly this time, hoping you would get the signal. but when you were still rambling by the time strauss was only a few feet away from your desk, spencer reached for your hand and squeezed it once.
you looked up in surprise, eyes widening as you waited for him to explain his gesture.
but the voice that spoke up was strauss’.
“agent l/n, i would like to speak with you in private. now.”
you stood frozen for a few seconds, exchanging a panicked glance with spencer.
he gave you an apologetic grimace, but squeezed your hand once again, as if to wish you good luck.
---
the third time he squeezed your hand, it was during your first undercover mission.
earlier that morning, swat had silently raided the home of two unsubs – a couple that went by the names of mr. and ms. stone – that were covertly collecting harmful biological agents.
after uncovering the news that they were planning to trade their bioweapons with a team of buyers, you and your team decided that the exchange would not fall through. the team revised the plan and decided that you and spencer would pose as the couple and intercept the trade.
so here you were, dressed in a dark green dress, the hem of the fabric flowing in the cool wind of the air-conditioned hotel lobby. spencer stood next to you in a black suit, hair falling in front of his eyes in the form of slick, wavy strands.
time seemed to still when he reached behind you and squeezed your right hand four times – each to let you know how many possible targets were standing to your three o’clock.
that was all the signal you needed to get into character.
the two of you were a couple only for the night, but you put on a show that would’ve convinced any onlooker otherwise.
you snaked your hands around spencer’s neck before rising on your tiptoes and whispering, “are you ready, mister stone?”
he moved his hands to rest them around your hips, and ran his fingers through the smooth texture of your dress.
he dipped his lips near your ears, so close that his breath tickled your skin.
“i am. are you, miss stone?”
---
the fourth time he squeezed your hand, it was because you asked him to.
glass had struck your sides during the explosion, leaving a deep and dark gash in your flesh and surrounding it with a sticky stream of crimson red.
you tried to muster the strength to push yourself up, but it was too much. with a heavy sigh, you crashed back onto the ground.
thankfully, spencer was next to you in seconds.
he softly brushed over your cut skin, and when you flinched at the pain, he tried to console you by saying that the medics were almost here.
“almost?” you wheezed, struggling to keep your eyes open but still able to see that spencer had ripped a part of his dress shirt to wrap your split skin.
when he circled the fabric around your torso and started to apply pressure, you had to bite back a scream. you bit down on your bottom lip so hard that blood seeped through and filled your mouth with its metallic taste.
“spencer- spence,” you gasped, and wrapped your hands around his.
“it’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated, trying to reassure you as he continued to apply pressure to your sides.
“squeeze my hand.”
when he didn’t move his hand, you tried again. “please. i need a distraction.”
he furrowed his brows and gave you a hesitant look, but when he noticed the desperation flashing in your eyes, he complied. lifting his hands that were now stained with your blood, he gripped your hand and squeezed.
it felt like electricity coursing through your arm, but it didn’t hurt.
it felt oddly serene to have your blood sandwiched between your skin and his, to feel warmth amidst the draining cold.
---
the fifth time he squeezed your hand, you were on the verge of tears.
you and spencer were just about to regroup with the rest of the team to deliver the profile, but as the two of you were walking across the hallway, the victim’s mother leapt in front of you and yelled in a fit of rage.
“my daughter’s been gone for more than two days, and you haven’t done anything to find him!”
she pushed against your shoulders and you flailed your arms in an attempt to regain balance.
“you just sit around and pretend to work, but you don’t actually care. if anything happens to my monica, i’ll make sure you’ll never work this job ever again.”
that was the last strike that tipped spencer over the edge.
you didn’t even get an attempt to reason with her, because spencer grasped the fabric of her shirt around her shoulders and pushed her into the waiting room.
it wouldn’t be another five minutes before he stepped out, but you could see his face was flush with anger and disbelief.
yours was hot with shame.
approaching you with a concerned expression, spencer put his hand on top of your palm and squeezed. “that was completely inexcusable on her part-”
“it’s okay. i know.” you moved your hand away and forced a smile.
you could see the words written all over his face — it’s not your fault, you did nothing wrong. yet you still couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt, of the terrible pain that comes with knowing that you’re doing everything you can but still failing miserably.
you walked as fast as you could to the nearest bathroom before spencer could stop you, tears already streaming down your face as you locked yourself up in the stall.
---
the sixth time he squeezed your hand, spencer showed a different side that you’d never seen before.
you and spencer were dating now, so showing affectionate gestures in public wasn’t a foreign concept to the two of you. however, the workplace was a different story.
both of you did your best to adhere to professional conduct, as it was fundamental to being a federal agent. and although it took some willpower, you refrained from your usual hugs and playful nudges with spencer.
but the detective at the local p.d. was on your tail, unrelenting with his attempts to flirt with you.
“how does dinner at seven sound?”
he flashed his teeth at you and smiled, and it took everything you had within to not retch in front of him.
“can we please focus on the case here?”
“can’t we talk about both at the same time?”
you sighed, your fingers itching to grab him by the collar and subdue him to a deathly hush.
“no, we cannot, and i’d appreciate it if you would stop-” you waved your hand in an annoyed gesture, “-stop whatever you’re trying to do.”
“you know you could’ve just said no.”
“i don’t think it would take any extra deductions to figure that she’s turning you down, detective.”
your shoulders lifted ever so slightly at the familiar voice, and you had to suppress a smile from surfacing on your lips when spencer took a seat beside you and squeezed your hand.
“it’s just friendly banter, agent. one that you’re not concerned with,” the detective spat back, his stare still fixed on you.
“doctor. it’s doctor,” spencer retaliated, “and i believe that i do have the right to be concerned when you’re making my team member uncomfortable.”
you were so fed up with listening to the detective ramble on and on, choosing to ignore your and spencer’s words. you stood up, braced spencer’s hand, and nodded your head towards a closed-off room.
“come on, babe, i’m tired of this. let’s talk about the case in private and grab dinner together later.”
spencer nodded, a proud gleam shining in his eyes as he stood and placed a hand behind your back.
you felt your body warm up with fuzzy excitement when the detective tore his gaze away from you defeatedly and clamped his lips shut, and you smiled as spencer followed you out of the room with his grip lying on your hips.
---
every time spencer squeezes your hand, it’s a heartfelt reminder of how much he cares about you.
you don’t ever have to question it.
he knew he would care about you from the beginning, a fate decided by the stars when he locked hands with you for the very first time.
and he’ll prove it to you time and time again, all six reminders a testament to his dedication.
spencer notices that you’ve been skipping a few too many team socials.
pairing :: spencer x fem bau!reader
warnings :: romantic confessions, mentions of alcohol, mental health, hurt/comfort, plenty of fluff, spencer is a huge softie
word count :: 2.3k
author’s note :: don’t think i’ve written anything where reader and spencer confess their feelings for each other?? anyways here’s to more hurt/comfort
accompanying song :: sugar by brockhampton
“who’s up for drinks at o’keefe’s?”
a loud cheer erupts as the elevator doors open and reveals garcia standing in front of the entrance with a gleeful smile.
“count me in!” jj raises a hand and emily promptly follows suit. the two giggle as they lean in to embrace the tech analyst festively decorated with bright red jewelry.
when rossi declares the first round’s on me! the room breaks into an even louder celebration, whistles and applause sounding left and right.
moving past the crowd with a few happy chants of your own, you finally settle in your seat and stretch. sighing, you shuffle through the pile of case files sitting on your desk and stuff several into your shoulder bag. you tie up your hair and take out a pen from your pencil holder. once again exhaling with a deep sigh, you flip through the remaining manila folders, ready to document all of the evidence after today’s investigation.
“you’re coming, right?”
you crane your neck to your left to identify the source of the voice and see morgan, hands on his hips as he scans your face for your usual smile teeming with enthusiasm. you offer a feeble smile instead, shaking your head as you point to the case file you’re working on.
“i’d really love to, but… this paper isn’t going to write itself.”
“oh come on, not again. when’s it due?”
“tomorrow noon,” you mumble, gently rolling your head to the side to relieve the pain that’s been begging for release.
“you’re kidding. well, text me if you need a hand, or if you just want company.” morgan pats your back and turns around to leave, but not without first flashing you a wink. you watch as he slings his arm around garcia’s shoulder and as the rest of the team follow the pair out of the office, each giving you a wave before they disappear into the elevator.
“you’re not going?”
you turn around to see spencer, who’s just coming out of hotch’s office and holding a case file of his own. he turns off the lights upstairs and walks down the stairs, stopping once he’s in front of your desk.
“oh, um, no. i just need to finish writing this up really quickly, and then i’ll head back.”
you brush a strand of hair behind your ear and turn in your seat to get back to work, but spencer pulls up a chair beside you.
“that’s the third time in a row you’ve said no to them. you okay?”
you sit still for a second, unsure of how to respond. when spencer leans his elbow on the side of your desk, you know he’s not going to leave without an answer, so you look back at him hesitantly.
“yeah, i’m good. what’s keeping you here?”
“i just left a request to take two days off.”
“oh, nice. yeah, you seriously deserve a break,” you nod and offer a small smile. despite your friendly expression, the tiredness in your voice overrides your genuine words. before you can expose any more of your sluggish lethargy, you revert your attention back to your documents.
“yeah, and so do you.”
you turn to meet his gaze. a serious expression overtakes his usually lax face, tense facial muscles raising his brows and clenching his jaw.
you don’t know how to dispel the air of its building tension so you chuckle, playfully hitting him in the arm and shaking your head. “oh no, that’s- that’s not necessary. i’m fine, spence. besides, i took a break pretty recently.”
you rub your forehead tiredly as you speak and cock your head to the side, as if waiting for spencer’s dismissal so that you can get back to work.
“you haven’t requested a day off in 102 days. that’s 2448 hours.” spencer lowers his chin and studies you with his unwavering eyes. you feel your heart flutter alarmingly at his stare; you swallow slowly.
of course he’d be the one to count the days, no, the exact hour, since your last break. you try to play it off again by nudging him in the elbow, but he looks way too serious, concerned even. your arm hangs in the air with no warmth to latch on to.
“do you want to talk about it?”
when spencer leans forward, you feel your throat run dry. holding your breath, you weigh your next words very carefully.
“spence, i’m fine. i don’t need the time off.”
“too late.”
“what?” your jaw sets uncomfortably when you hear spencer’s response, and a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes before he quickly narrows them.
“it wasn’t just my request that i submitted. i put in yours as well.”
“wait- wait what?”
“yeah, hotch just wanted me to leave a physical copy for the sake of documentation. but he approved both of our requests before we even landed.”
“hold up… spence, you just… why would you do that?”
surprisingly, you don’t feel mad. yes, he’s just submitted a leave request without your permission, but maybe this is what you needed. someone to force you to take a break, because otherwise, you’d just work yourself to your death.
“like i said, you haven’t taken a leave in 102 days. constantly overworking yourself is detrimental and can lead to burnout because of the buildup of fatigue. in the long run, it can impair your memory and thinking. so,” he says as he grasps the pen out of your hand and closes your folder, “do you want to talk about it?”
as if he’s perfectly hit your pressure point, the tiredness you’ve been masking this entire time instantly unwinds. you let out a deep, weary sigh.
“you know, two weekends ago, when we went down to south carolina to investigate that case? and i stayed back for a few hours?”
out of the corner of your eye, you see spencer nod.
“well, i met up with a friend from college. we just hung out, you know, tried to catch up with each other.”
when you emit a stressed laugh, spencer reaches for your hand. he gently kneads your palm, and you take it as a signal to continue at your own pace. you turn your head to the side so you can take in the sight of him more fully.
“as we kept talking, i realized how she has so many friends, so much fun outside of her work. she’s even getting married in two months. and i just thought… i honestly wished for a second that she was a little more lonely, like me.”
you close your eyes, instantly regretting your confession. are you really making him listen to your childish concerns? you wish he’d laugh at you, dismiss it as plain stupidity and tell you that you were right to keep it to yourself. but he won’t, because he’s spencer reid.
spencer watches you intently, at how you force out a laugh and brush the tears that are welling up in your eyes. he observes the way you shake your head and refuse to look him in the eye.
“i’m so selfish, aren’t i? this whole thing–it’s so stupid. what am i saying, what am i even doing, wishing for something so foul?” your face crumples as you speak, and the words trail off into an absorbed mumble between your sniffles.
“it’s not stupid. you’re not selfish,” spencer hums quietly, lightly brushing his fingers against your cheek and dragging his thumb across your eyelashes to sweep your tears.
a strangled sob spills from your throat, and you lean into his touch, burying your cheek further into his palm. spencer waits patiently for you to recollect yourself, and coos a constant stream of it’s okay in your ear.
“at first, i thought it was the job, spence,” you finally utter your broken thoughts with a dry laugh, “but then i saw how everyone else was dealing with it. emily, jj, garcia. and then i realized, it’s me.”
spencer swivels your chair and draws you closer to him, so your thighs are lying between his legs. like a confused puppy, you let out a small yelp of surprise.
“you need to understand, y/n, that it takes time to find your rhythm, whether that’s at work, with your social life, or just a new place. so don’t compare yourself to others, because we’re all worried about something, and we’re all at different stages of coping.”
his longing glance breaches your lips, and you lower your eyes shyly. his soft-spokenness, undivided attention, and effortless verbal magic read your emotions like an open book. you don’t have to hide. the tears fall, fast and hard.
“let it all out. it’s okay. it’s always okay to cry, but you know what’s not okay? bottling it up all the time.” he pats your knees and rubs his palms across your trousers soothingly.
“bottling your feelings constantly, it’s what psychologists call repressive coping. numerous studies have found that repressive coping has been linked to a less resilient immune system, higher vulnerability to cardiovascular disease, as well as proneness to certain mental health conditions, including anxiety and depression,” spencer continues while looking at you sympathetically with his soft brown eyes.
slowly, you coil your arms around his neck and hold him in a tight embrace.
“you’re not really fair, spencer, you know that?”
“what do you mean?”
“you can’t just cite all these cool facts when you speak. i don’t have an argument to toss back at you.”
spencer pulls away from the embrace slightly, and looks down at you with eyes full of mirth. he bursts into a small spate of giggles, and it’s contagious, because you also exhale a bubbly laugh.
“i can’t help it,” he breathes quietly, and the air that exits his lips tickles your eyelashes.
spencer continues to watch you with the same stare a sculptor would possess over a block of marble, and breathes warmth into your body. you finally let your arms loose and withdraw from the hug, grinning shyly.
“let me finish this report, and i’ll head back with you. what am i even going to do with the two days off anyways?”
“i was thinking that we could check out the steam engine festival that’s happening downtown? the 611 is actually the sole surviving member of fourteen class j locomotives produced by the norfolk and western railway, and there’s going to be special excursions reserved for interested passengers.”
you laugh as spencer happily goes on his ramble, and you go back to writing your report – this time with a rejuvenated spirit.
“be honest, spence. you submitted my request because you wanted someone to go with you to this festival, didn’t you?”
“what? no!” spencer shakes his head, but your suspicions only grow when he starts fidgeting with his fingers.
“if you say so,” you grin cheekily, “but i could really use a drink tonight. you coming?”
spencer nods. he waits for you to finish up your edits and sign off the last page of the document, and helps you pack the rest of your belongings into your bag. with a boyish smile, he offers you his elbow, and you loop your arm in his.
there’s a lot to be thankful for, a lot to be hopeful for, and a lot to love spencer for.
“spencer?” you ask quietly. spencer hums back in response.
you don’t know why, but a sudden wave of confidence washes over you, urging you to say your next words without holding back.
“i like you.”
you thought your years spent concealing your feelings for spencer would have culminated in a much more formulated confession, but it’s too late to retrace your steps.
almost immediately, spencer looks at you with widened eyes. you’re almost scared he’s going to abandon you and run away in a nervous flight, but he stays put, his cheeks flushing with the shade of deep red.
“y-you can’t be drunk already,” he stammers and then abruptly chuckles, making you wonder if he’s just attempted to respond to your confession with a joke.
but maybe you are drunk, drunk from the hazy feeling of love and the highs of spilling the emotional torrent earlier. you furrow your brows and fix your stare on the office floor.
“no, spencer, i like you as in i really like you. like, romantically.”
spencer hesitates this time, moving only to press the elevator call button. you think you’ve just screwed up, right then and there, because his brows shoot up in surprise while his lips thin into a line.
but then slowly, he smiles, his hazel colored eyes light up, and his gaze darts left and right excitedly.
maybe all of the stars have aligned perfectly, because the air starts to collapse in on itself rapidly, and he stoops down to press a shaky kiss on your lips. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever shared with him, so different from when he hugs you, when he ruffles your hair, when he pats your back. it’s so tender and he leaves you to glow in the warmth of his lingering touch.
it’s only after he does this that you realize that you’ve actually just confessed to your coworker, the man you’ve had a crush on for so long, the reason why you show up to work with a smile. before you can second-guess anything, spencer grabs your wrist and pulls you in. it starts with small pecks, but then he works up to a bigger kiss; by the time the elevator arrives, you’ve fully melted into his arms.
“2190 days.”
you look up to meet his blissful gaze with your own love-tainted eyes. “hm?”
“that’s the number of days that have passed since i first met you and started to work with you. i uh,” spencer swallows, toying with the strands on his leather bag nervously.
he opens his mouth, only to shut it immediately after. he looks at you with a shy smile, the bashfulness dimpling his cheeks, and then clears his throat.
summary: what surprised the unit chief was that your head, as if drawn by an invisible string, had laid rest on spencer's shoulder—a stray strand of hair tickling his cheek. and not only that, spencer didn't seem to mind, not one bit. or, you fall asleep on spencer's shoulder and the rest of the team sees.
genre: fluff
word count: 1.3k
author's notes: back with another spencer fluff! i miss seeing my baby on my screen. i had to rewatch old episodes right after seeing the new ones because i miss him so bad. anyhow, enjoy reading this one.
RAIN LASHED AGAINST THE WINDSHIELD, BLURRING THE NEON GLOW OF THE CITY LIGHTS INTO A SMEAR. Inside the car, the air was filled with the silence of exhaustion. The BAU just narrowly captured another unsub—fortunately, just in time to save the most recent victim. Hotch, who was driving, glued his eyes to the rearview mirror. He had caught a glimpse of the scene unfolding behind him.
Spencer, usually busy poring through whatever piece of literature on his legs, was nestled into the corner, his head resting against the cool glass of the window. While, you, the newest member of the team, sat beside the male, curled up in the backseat, and brow furrowed in light sleep. Hotch recalled earlier how you were fighting back a yawn and wasn't surprised that he had found you passed out cold.
What surprised the unit chief was that your head, as if drawn by an invisible string, had laid rest on Spencer's shoulder—a stray strand of hair tickling his cheek. And not only that, Spencer didn't seem to mind, not one bit. In fact, a faint blush had dusted his cheeks, and his own eyes, momentarily fluttering open, held a hint of something akin to fondness.
Hotch watched, a small smile tugging at his lips. You and Spencer had been partnered for a particularly grueling case—a string of arsons with a unique signature. The long hours and emotional toll had clearly taken their toll.
Yet, even in exhaustion, an intimacy has bloomed between the both of you. Spencer, ever the gentleman, hadn't moved a muscle, seemingly content to act as a human pillow. On your part, like magnets, you had unconsciously gravitated towards his warmth, your breathing slowing into a peaceful rhythm.
Beside Hotch, a knowing grin spread across Morgan's face in the passenger seat. He glanced back at you and Spencer through the rearview mirror, catching the tender scene. He stifled a chuckle, it was endearing to see the boy genius to be intimate with someone, knowing that he wasn't known to be keen on physical affection.
With a playful nudge to Hotch's arm, Morgan kept his voice low. "Looks like someone found a comfy pillow, Hotch."
Hotch chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving the rearview mirror. "Seems so, Derek. Seems so."
But Morgan, ever the tease, couldn't resist adding another jab. "Just don't drool on him, kid," he called back in a mock-serious tone, knowing full well you were fast asleep.
Hotch shot him a withering look, but a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. He knew Morgan wouldn't disturb the peaceful tableau unfolding in the back. They all needed a moment of rest, a stolen fraction of comfort in the storm.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain. It was then, with a slight bump in the road, that the car dipped, causing Spencer to jostle ever so slightly. His head, as if following the car's movement, dipped as well, and his hair brushed against yours in a soft, unexpected touch.
You stirred in your sleep, a frown momentarily creasing your brow before smoothing out again. Spencer, wide awake now with a jolt of surprised awareness, froze. His hand instinctively reached up to brush the stray strand of hair back from his own face, but his fingers lingered in the air, hovering just above your head.
Heat flooded his cheeks as he realized the intimate position you had found yourselves in. He wanted to apologize, to gently move away, but a strange sense of peace settled over him. You looked so peaceful, nestled against the cool leather, and your brow finally relaxed. The exhaustion of the case seemed etched on your face, a shared burden they both carried.
With a silent sigh, Spencer decided against disturbing your slumber. He leaned his head back against the window, his gaze fixed on the blurry cityscape outside.
The car continued its journey through the city, the gentle sway a lullaby against the harsh symphony of the storm. You drifted deeper into sleep, the weight of Spencer's head on yours a grounding anchor.
As dawn painted the horizon with streaks of pink and orange, the rain finally subsided. Hotch, ever vigilant, announced they were nearing the precinct. Morgan, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, nudged Hotch again. "Think they'll wake up before we get there?" he whispered.
Hotch chuckled. "Knowing them, they'll probably jolt awake the second we stop. But for now, let them sleep."
The car pulled into the familiar parking lot of the BAU headquarters. Hotch gently nudged the brakes, careful not to disturb the peaceful scene in the back.
A trace of sunlight peeked through the clouds, illuminating the interior of the car. It danced across your face, warming your cheek and causing your eyelids to flutter open. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the events of the previous night flooded back.
A blush crept up your neck as you realized your head was resting on Spencer's shoulder. You were about to mumble an apology when you noticed his head turned towards the window, a thoughtful expression etched on his face.
Gathering your courage, you cleared your throat softly. "Spencer?"
He turned his head slightly, a surprised look flickering across his features before a gentle smile softened his expression. "Good morning."
You felt a tug in your chest, a mixture of awkwardness and something else, something warmer and more exhilarating. The sound of the car door opening startled both of you. Spencer's eyes flew open, a look of surprise mirroring yours.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
You felt a renewed warmth bloom in your cheeks. "I… I think so," you stammered, suddenly self-conscious. "How about you?"
Before you got the chance to hear what Spencer had to say, Morgan's voice boomed from behind you. "Well, well, well. Looks like someone slept well."
You scrambled to sit up straight, your face burning. Spencer mirrored your movement, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Uh, good morning, Morgan," you stammered.
"Morning, kids," Morgan chuckled. "Hotch is grabbing coffee. You two coming in, or are you planning on catching some more shut-eye in the parking lot?"
You stole a glance at Spencer, who was gathering his things with a focus that seemed almost deliberate. The memory of his hair brushing against yours sent a shiver down your spine. You weren't sure if it was the exhaustion of the case or something else entirely, but the shared touch felt undeniably intimate.
"We're coming, Morgan," you called out, your voice a little shaky.
As you were about to exit the car, Spencer held the door for you with a shy smile. "Thanks for letting me, uh, borrow your shoulder," he mumbled, his cheeks dusted with a faint pink.
"No worries, Spencer," you replied, forcing a casual tone. "We both needed the rest. And thank you, as well. I used your shoulder first, so I guess it's only fair I let you borrow mine."
Spencer chuckled at this which caused your cheeks to pinken.
"About earlier," Spencer started. "When you asked me how I'm doing? Much better than I expected, considering the circumstances," he admitted with a hint of a chuckle.
The air crackled with unspoken words, a tension that felt both electric and strangely comfortable. You stole a glance at his profile, the way the soft morning light highlighted the planes of his face.
"That's good," you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper. "We should probably get going."
Spencer seemed to hesitate for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Right. We have forms to fill up."
Before you could unbuckle your seatbelt, Spencer beat you to it—his hand brushed against yours for a fleeting moment. It sent a jolt through you, a silent echo of the intimacy from the night before.
Stepping out of the car, you took a deep breath of crisp morning air. The city stretched out before you bathed in the golden hues of sunrise.
"Ready to face another day?" Morgan uttered loudly ahead of you, his voice laced with amusement.
You turned to face him, sighing at his teasing. You weren't oblivious to the fact that Morgan liked seeing you and Spencer together. "As ready as I'll ever be, Morgan."
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