(5 times people wrongly assume that Spencer and his best friend are a couple, and the 1 time they actually are)
spencer reid x f!reader ft jemily if u squint
(she/her pronouns used for reader-insert)
5+1 best friends to lovers - fluff
wc: 900
my ao3 // my mastertag
1. When Spencer first started at the BAU, he didn’t bring any decor for his work desk. He claimed that it’s not necessary for his job performance and that it would only be a distraction. Eventually, he brought a few figurines and a singular framed photo. Derek pointed at the picture, one of Spencer grinning at a woman with her tongue stuck out, and asked him about his girlfriend.
Spencer furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
2. Rossi hosts a birthday party for Aaron and encourages the team to bring anyone and everyone. So I can send more people home with leftovers, he’d said.
Spencer brought his best friend, and it’s the first time he’s introducing her to the team. As is every event that Rossi throws, the dress code is formal, so she’s wearing a dress and heels. Spencer has a suit on, with a tie that matches the color of her dress. She holds onto his arm as they ascend the front stairs to the house.
Emily and JJ are in the foyer, helping each other remove their coats, as she and Spencer enter. He introduces her to them, and she shakes their hands while keeping one on his forearm.
Emily asks, “How long have you guys been dating?” and they laugh like she’s told a joke.
She looks over at JJ with perplexity. The blonde woman just shakes her head.
3. At the FBI/Secret Service softball game, she comes to cheer them on wearing a shirt that says Go FBI! on the front and Reid on the back. She shouts and claps for everyone, but she’s especially loud for Spencer. After his first attempt at bat results in him striking out, she shouts, “It’s okay! You’ll get ‘em next time!”
Spencer’s cheekbones are flushed, certainly just from being out in the sun, as he sheepishly waves at her from the dugout.
A woman next to her in a Secret Service T-shirt leans over and asks her what it’s like to be married to an FBI agent, and she laughs and shakes her head, “Oh, we’re not together.”
She misses the bewildered gaze the woman gives her. She’s too busy wordlessly asking Spencer if he needs more water.
4. They’re sitting on a quilted blanket in the park, pulling sandwiches and cubed fruit out of a picnic basket. It’s a beautiful Spring day, one of the rare ones where the frigid Winter cold has worn off and the deep heat of Summer hasn’t set in yet. They both brought books to read, but they’ve been abandoned next to them as they talk and laugh around bites of their lunch.
An elderly couple approaches them and tells them how sweet they look, and the man shares that this park is where he took his wife on their first date fifty years ago.
They smile politely and inform the couple that, no, we’re not dating, and they chuckle and shake their heads at them.
The man looks pointedly at Spencer, “Don’t waste any more time, son.”
Spencer stutters, “Y-yes, sir.”
5. Spencer is away on a case, somewhere. He can’t remember where. The last thing he can recall is trailing behind Derek as they entered an abandoned house. There was a loud noise, possibly a gunshot, before Spencer collapsed and everything went dark.
When he opens his eyes, everything is blurry. He’s surrounded by EMTs, being wheeled on a gurney, and the bright flashing lights of the ambulance are hurting his eyes. Around the oxygen mask, he starts mumbling unintelligibly.
A woman near his head tries to stop him from pulling the mask off and hears a woman’s name coming from his mouth just before she reorients it.
“You’re okay – someone will call your girl at the hospital.”
He’s so out of it that he doesn’t think to try to correct her – he just nods and sighs in relief.
*** She steps off the elevator at FBI Headquarters and looks around for Spencer. A smile rises on her face once she spots him, and he hurriedly packs his satchel before rushing out of the glass doors to greet her. Bending down to kiss her cheek, he takes her hand in his before leading her back into the sliding silver doors, talking animatedly about the new spot he wants to try for lunch.
The team watches the scene unfold, and Penelope is exasperated as she throws her hands up and asks, “Are we all seeing this?”
When they return from the new sushi restaurant, they don’t notice that JJ and Emily have just pulled into the parking lot, as well. Their eyes track Spencer as he leads her back to her car with a hand on her lower back, murmuring things in her ear that have her giggling.
The two women climb out of JJ’s SUV, and they can’t tear their eyes away as Spencer softly closes her door and leans his forearms in her open window. Emily gasps as he juts forward to press his lips to hers, and JJ grabs her arm when they hear him say, “I love you. Drive safely.”
They stand a few spots away, frozen in place, as she pulls out of the lot and Spencer waves goodbye. With his hands in his pockets and his head tilted downward, he doesn’t notice his coworkers staring at him until he’s a few feet away. His eyes squint at their incredulous expressions, and he shrugs, “What?”
Emily points to where her car just was, dully saying, “Best friends don’t act like that.”
He laughs and informs them they’re not just best friends anymore. Well, we’ll always be best friends, but she’s my girlfriend now, too.
summary: you finally get cleared to live normally, so obviously, you’re uncle forces you on a lake trip.
word count: 4k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18)
thank you to @ilovesexymenonmytv for this idea, i hope i did it some justice, sorry if it's not the best, read the a/n at the end for an explaination.
_____
August starts to bring back a feeling of normalcy that you’re not sure if you can quite trust yet.
Two months ago, you were lying in a hospital bed with broken ribs, a concussion, and more bruises than you could count. Two months ago, every movement hurt. Every loud noise made you flinch. Every time someone left the room, some small part of your brain wondered if they were coming back.
Now you’re standing in a doctor’s office, listening to the words you’ve been waiting weeks to hear.
“You’re cleared.”
“Cleared?” you repeat.
“Cleared,” The doctor smiles. “You can go back to normal activity. Exercise, swimming, everything. The only restriction is that you listen to your body. If something causes pain, stop.”
Normal.
The word feels almost foreign.
“Okay,” you nod slowly.
The second you walk out of the appointment, your uncle is already making plans.
“We’re going to the lake.”
You stop walking. “What?”
Rossi doesn’t even slow down. “The lake.”
“Did you even hear what the doctor said?” you stare at him.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you already planning something?”
“Don’t argue with me. I’ve already decided.”
“You know that’s not actually how vacations work, right?”
“It is when I pay for the cabin.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
_____
Logan flies in Friday night.
The second he walks through the front door, Rossi gets one arm around him in a hug that Logan immediately pretends to hate.
It’s weird how much things have changed.
A few months ago, the thought of laughing felt impossible.
Now you’re standing in the kitchen with Spencer beside you, your brother is in the living room arguing with Rossi, and for the first time in a long time you feel like yourself.
Spencer spends the night at Rossi’s house so everyone can leave early Saturday morning. Which means, naturally, Rossi finds every possible excuse to make sure everyone is awake before sunrise.
It’s not even daylight outside when he barges into your room, turning the light on, disturbing both you and Spencer from your slumber.
Spencer gets up without any fuss. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s still scared of your uncle, or because he’s used to wakes like these due to his job. Or perhaps a mixture of both. He leaves you alone in your bed, trudging to the bathroom. You let your eyes close again, trying to return to the state you were in before your uncle so rudely ruined it.
You don’t move. You don’t care that there’s a lake waiting for you. You don’t care that your bag is still sitting half-packed on the floor. You are warm. You are comfortable. And you are absolutely not getting out of bed.
A few minutes pass. You hear movement somewhere in the room. Not Rossi, Rossi doesn’t move quietly. You peek out of one eye to find Spencer standing beside your bed. And for a second, your brain takes a moment to catch up.
Because Spencer Reid is awake. Which is normal.
Spencer Reid being awake at six in the morning is unfortunately very normal.
But Spencer Reid standing beside your bed while he gets ready for a lake trip is something you’re not used to.
He’s already dressed from the waist down, wearing brown pants and his worn-in Converse. His hair is slightly messy, like he hasn’t bothered fixing it yet. A T-shirt is thrown over one shoulder, hanging loosely from his hand.
He’s still shirtless.
Not that he seems to notice. Of course he doesn’t. Spencer has never been particularly aware of the effect he has on people, or more specifically you.
“You know,” he says softly, “you still need to finish packing.”
“You’re wearing pants,” you say.
He looks down. “Yes.”
You let out a quiet laugh before immediately closing your eyes again.
“No,” you groan.
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re going back to sleep?”
“Yes.”
Spencer steps a little closer, placing a hand on your back.
“Y/N,” he whispers.
“You’re still shirtless,” you say.
He looks down at himself, a faint blush rushing to his ears.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling his belt through the loops of his pants. You let yourself look at him, starting at the careful movements of his fingers as he buckles his belt, then moving up to his unclothed area.
It’s strange how different he looks without the layers he’s always hiding behind.
He’s still unmistakably Spencer. A little awkward, still standing there like he doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him differently, but there’s something about seeing him like this.
His hair is messy from sleep, his glasses slightly crooked from where he pushed them up too many times, and his brown pants and Converse somehow make the fact that he’s still shirtless seem even more like him. Like he got distracted halfway through getting ready because he remembered he was supposed to wake you up.
He’s lean, not in the way people expect when they picture someone strong, but in a way that makes sense for him. He’s never been someone who spends hours at a gym. He’s someone who runs through airports, chases criminals, and carries too many books at once.
“You’re staring,” he says.
Your eyes immediately snap back to his face. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m tired.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re staring.”
You open your mouth, then close it. Because unfortunately, Spencer Reid is very good at noticing things when he isn’t the thing being noticed.
“Put your shirt on,” you mumble.
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“Soon,” he says, looking down at the shirt hanging in his hand. You roll over in bed, telling yourself that you’ll get up when he puts it on.
_____
The first problem happens while you’re finishing packing on your floor.
“Do you have swim trunks?” you ask him.
“...I think so,” he says slowly.
“You think so?”
“I’m fairly certain.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I haven’t been swimming since I was like fifteen.”
He digs in one of his bags, pulling out a pair of swim trunks that look older than you. You can tell they’re too short for him just from looking, but the waist is stretched out and so frayed that you think they might fall down.
“Absolutely not,” you tell him.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re ancient.”
“They’d still work.”
“Spencer,” you say, taking them from him. “They’re like three sizes too small.”
“I don’t think that’s accurate.”
“You are not wearing fifteen-year-old swim trunks.”
_____
The drive starts with Logan controlling the music. For exactly twelve minutes, until Rossi reaches over and changes it.
“Hey!” Logan protests
“No.” Rossi says sternly.
“You didn’t even ask what song it was.”
“I know enough.”
Logan looks offended. “You don’t know enough.”
“I’m your uncle. I know plenty.”
You end up taking over the music. Mostly because everyone agrees your playlist is better.
Except Spencer.
Not because he dislikes it, but because he’s actually analyzing it.
“You have three songs from the same album.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s good.”
“That doesn’t explain why they’re grouped together. You also have four songs in a row that are in the same key.”
“...neat.”
On the way to the lake, you stop at one of the tourist shops.
The kind that sells everything.
Sunscreen, fishing bait, inflatable tubes, terrible souvenirs, overpriced snacks, and most important to you, swimwear.
Spencer immediately walks toward the plainest black pair of trunks imaginable.
“No,” you say, shaking your head at him.
“Why?”
“Because.”
You disappear into another aisle. A few seconds later, you return, holding two matching swimsuits. Not matching in a cheesy way, just the same pattern. They’re light blue and covered in tiny, multicolored fish.
“Those have fish,” Spencer says, staring at you.
“They do.”
“They’re smiling.”
“They’re smiling because they’re about to be purchased.”
“I don’t know if these accurately represent my personality,” he says.
Logan walks up behind him. He looks between the trunks and Spencer a few times.
“I think they match you perfectly,” Logan says to him.
“How?” Spencer asks, sounding slightly offended.
“Because she’s not worth arguing with,” Logan whispers, but you still hear it.
He’s right.
The rest of the drive passes quicker. The roads weave through forests and hills, the sunlight flickering through the trees. The car gets almost silent once Logan dozes off, his head pressed awkwardly against the window. Rossi drives with one hand one the wheel, occasionally pointing out things outside the window.
Spencer spent nearly twenty minutes explaining why lakes remain cooler during the surrounding area in late summer, which you’re pretty sure is what put Logan to sleep. You listen, not because you’re particularly interested in thermal properties, but because you’re particularly interested in Spencer.
_____
The cabin is smaller than you expected. Not tiny, but for David Rossi’s style, it was much smaller and more rustic than you imagined. There’s only two bedrooms, and of course, your uncle immediately takes the master.
You expected two twin beds in the second bedroom. Or bunkbeds. Or a pull out bed.
Something other than the singular queen bed that stares at the three of you.
“So…” Logan says, looking between you and Spencer. “There’s no couch.”
“I can sleep in the middle,” you offer, sitting your bag on the floor.
“This is stupid,” Logan says, sitting his bag on the far side of the bed. Spencer puts his on the opposite end. “I swear to god, if I wake up to any weird sounds or moan–”
“LOGAN!” you shout.
“I’m just saying,” he argues.
“Stop talking.” you tell him firmly.
“Fine,” Logan says, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m going to the lake.”
_____
You and Spencer follow a few minutes later.
Outside, the water shines beneath the sun. Families scatter along the shoreline, kids splash near the docks. Logan is already neck deep out in the lake, while your uncle is sitting on the dock, reading some old man magazine.
You adjusted the strap of your bag before stepping out from the cabin porch. Spencer followed a second later. The matching fish swim trunks had somehow become even funnier now that he was actually wearing them. Tiny brightly colored fish smiled cheerfully from pale blue fabric that reached just above his knees. They looked ridiculous.
Somehow, he didn't. He still managed to look unmistakably like Spencer Reid.
His glasses sat neatly on his face. His hair was already falling into his eyes despite having done absolutely nothing yet. He kept glancing down at the trunks every few steps like he still wasn't convinced they belonged on his body.
Rossi looked up from unfolding his chair. The second he noticed the two of you together, he slowly lowered his sunglasses. Very slowly.
"I don't know why I thought you two could be normal," he shakes his head.
You laughed. Spencer glanced down at himself again.
"...Nothing is actually wrong with these, right?" he asks.
"Nothing," Rossi answered.
"...That sounded sarcastic."
"It was." Rossi says.
Spencer reached over and effortlessly lifted your beach bag off your shoulder. Then your towel. Then your water bottle. Then, somehow, your sandals.
"You're carrying everything,” he says.
"I noticed you were carrying several things, so now you aren't."
He follows you and Rossi toward the water carrying nearly everything either of you had brought without questioning it once.
Derek was right.
You really did walk him like a dog.
The shore was busier than it had looked from the cabin. Families occupied nearly every stretch of shoreline, coolers sat buried in the sand, and children ran back and forth with inflatable tubes almost as big as they were. You found a spot a little farther away from the crowds where Rossi had already claimed a pair of chairs. Logan was already out in the lake.
You knelt beside your bag and dug around for sunscreen. The bottle had somehow migrated to the very bottom.
You squeezed some into your hand and started rubbing it across your face. A shadow crossed over you. Spencer.
"Hold still,” you tell him, standing from your couched position to be able to reach his face better.
"...What?"
"You need sunscreen, you’ll burn.” You tell him, reaching toward him. Your finger brushed the bridge of his nose. You rub it down, not realizing you had some on your pinky finger.A thick white streak spreads across one lens of his glasses.
"I'm sorry,” you apologize, holding back a giggle.
"It's okay,” he says, taking his glasses off. “I can clean them when we go back to the cabin.”
“You can put them on top of my bag, I’m going to the water,” you smile.
You expect him to sit his glasses down and follow, but halfway across the dock, you look behind you and realize he hasn’t stepped on it. Instead, he’s standing perfectly stair near the end wearing a bright orange life jacket.
"Why are you wearing the life jacket already?" You shout at him.
"Because we're near water,” he answers.
You start walking back on the dock, going to get him.
"We're thirty feet from the water,” you say once you reach him.
"Exactly."
"Come on," you say, pulling his arm forward. He doesn't budge.
"A single milliliter of lake water can contain anywhere from hundreds of thousands to several million bacterial cells depending on nutrient availability, temperature, and seasonal turnover. That's not including protozoa, algae, fungi, microscopic crustaceans, nematodes, or insect larvae.”
"You will be okay," you tell him.
Out in the lake Logan surfaced again, brushing wet hair out of his face. The second he spotted Spencer he grinned.
"SPENCER!" He calls,
"...Yes?"
"GET IN!"
"I'd rather not."
"The water's three feet deep!"
"I am aware."
"YOU'RE SIX FEET TALL!" Logan shouts, dunking himself under again.
Spencer looked back at you. "I don't particularly enjoy swimming."
"I know,” you say.
"I also don't enjoy not touching the bottom."
"You don’t have to go that deep."
“Promise?”
“I do.”
You laced your fingers through his and started walking backward down the dock.
The old wooden boards creaked beneath your feet. Water lapped softly against the columns holding it up underneath. Spencer followed a step behind you. He kept glancing over the edge of the dock every few seconds, as though the lake might suddenly decide to climb out and attack him.
"I don't dislike water,” he says
"No?" you say, slightly disbelieving.
"I dislike not knowing what's underneath it."
"You can literally see the bottom."
"I can see part of the bottom."
You reached the end of the dock, Logan was already floating nearby, watching the two of you with an amused grin.
"I've seen people convince cats to take baths faster than this,” he says.
Spencer ignored him.
You stepped down first, the cool lake water climbing from your ankles to your knees before settling comfortably around your waist. It felt wonderful after standing in the sun.
You turned back toward Spencer. He was still standing on the dock. You held your hand out for him to take.
He looked at your hand. Then at the water. Then back at you. For a long moment, he didn't move. Finally, he reached forward and took your hand.
"See? That wasn't so hard,” you smile
"I haven't actually entered the water yet."
"You will."
"I might."
"You definitely will."
Very gently, you gave his hand a tug. The second the water reached his calves, his shoulders tensed.
"It's cold."
The water reached his knees. He paused again.
"You've got this,” you squeeze his hand.
The lake rose to his waist, the bright orange life jacket bobbing slightly as tiny ripples spread around him.
"There," you said proudly. "You're swimming."
"I'm standing,” he says. A tiny fish darted between his ankles, causing him to freeze. "...Something touched me."
You immediately started laughing. “It was just a fish. It touched me too.”
"Okay.”
The whole time you were in the water, Spencer was right beside you. He never ventured farther than where his feet could comfortably touch the sandy bottom. Every so often he'd glance down through the clear water, making sure nothing unexpected brushed against his legs again.
Logan tossed him a football. Spencer caught it on instinct.
"You know, for someone who hates lakes..." you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “you seem to be having fun."
“I don’t hate lakes,” he argues, looking around. Logan and Rossi are arguing over rules to some game that Rossi does not even care about playing. The sun is setting just above the water, the reflection making the half sun appear whole over the lake. His gaze stops on you, and he smiles. “And I suppose I am having fun.
_____
Once the sun has fully set and you guys have left the lake, eaten dinner, and showered, Rossi insists on going outside to play cards on the patio. And no was not an acceptable answer. Spencer wins game after game, causing Logan and Rossi to get annoyed at him. You get bored of cards easily, instead you sit and watch as your brother gets more drunk, Rossi drinks, but doesn’t get crazy like Logan, and Spencer win another card game.
You smile to yourself, taking a quick photo of them to remember the moment. And for your Instagram to remember as well…
You can’t help but giggle.
"What are you laughing at?" Spencer asks.
"Nothing."
He narrows his eyes. "...That's suspicious."
"Nothing." You smile innocently. He chooses to believe that.
Once darkness fully settles over the lake, Logan drunkenly insists on ghost stories. Rossi tells one first, his sounding like it could be the plot of a novel. Spencer goes next, his version somehow becomes a detailed explanation of sleep paralysis, infrasound, carbon monoxide poisoning, and why human brains evolved to detect faces in shadows.
Logan and Rossi go inside after that. Logan being actually terrified by Spencer’s story.
“Spence,” you say once it’s just the two of you.
He looks over immediately.
“Yeah?”
There’s something about the way he says it that still catches you off guard. Like no matter what he’s doing, no matter what he’s thinking about, you have his full attention the second you say his name.
“Will you sit on the dock with me?”
“Okay.”
You smile back. Of course he says yes.
The dock is quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t get in the city. There’s no traffic in the distance, no neighbors, no sounds of people moving around. Just the gentle movement of the lake beneath you and the occasional rustle of trees along the shore.
You sit beside each other at the end of the dock, your legs dangling over the water. Spencer leans back on his hands and looks upward.
For a while, neither of you says anything. And you realize you like that about him.
With Spencer, silence never feels like something you have to fill. It feels like something you’re allowed to share.
“That’s Orion,” Spencer says out of nowhere.
You follow his gaze. “The one with the three stars in a line?”
He smiles. “Yeah. Technically, those are Orion’s belt. They’re three of the most recognizable stars in the night sky because they’re relatively evenly spaced and nearly aligned from our perspective.”
You laugh quietly.
“That’s actually one of the reasons Orion is interesting. Almost every culture has some kind of mythology associated with it. The Greeks believed it represented a hunter. The Egyptians associated it with Osiris. In some Polynesian traditions, it’s connected to navigation.”
You watch him as he talks. Because this is Spencer. This is the version of him you love the most. The one who gets excited about things most people don’t even notice. The one who remembers obscure facts and somehow makes them feel important. The one who can talk about something as simple as stars and make it feel like you’re learning a secret about the universe.
“And that one?” You point farther across the sky.
His eyes follow your finger. “That’s Cassiopeia.”
“The W shape?”
He shifts slightly closer, looking up. “She was a queen in Greek mythology. Although, historically, the constellation itself is much older than the story attached to it. Ancient astronomers used patterns in the sky to organize observations, but the human brain is actually really good at recognizing patterns even when there isn’t necessarily a connection.”
You smile. He keeps going. One constellation becomes another. Then another. He tells you about distances measured in light-years, about how some of the stars you’re seeing might not even exist anymore because of how long their light takes to reach Earth.
“That’s kind of sad,” you say.
“What?”
“That we’re looking at something that might already be gone.”
Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Not necessarily.”
You look over. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs slightly. “The fact that something changes or ends doesn’t mean it wasn’t real while it existed.”
The words settle somewhere deeper than he probably intended. Because Spencer does that. He says things that sound like simple observations, but somehow they always feel like they mean something more.
The breeze moves through the trees behind you, carrying the cool air from the lake. You, still in your fish bikini top, shiver slightly. It’s subtle, barely noticeable. But Spencer notices. Of course he does.
“You’re cold,” he points out.
“I’m fine.”
His eyebrows raise. Before you can say anything, Spencer is already moving. He pulls off the flannel shirt he’s wearing over his T-shirt and holds it out to you.
“Here.”
You look at it. Then at him.
“You’ll be cold.”
“I won’t.”
“You literally just noticed that I was.”
“Yes, but I’m wearing a T-shirt underneath. You’re wearing–” He stops himself.
You smile. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what were you going to say?”
He looks away. “I was going to say that you’re stubborn.”
He sighs like he’s annoyed, but there’s no actual frustration behind it. “Please just take the shirt.”
You do. Because you know Spencer well enough now to know that once he decides something, arguing is usually pointless.
You slip it on, pulling the sleeves over your hands. The flannel is still warm from him. It smells like him. And somehow that feels more comforting than the actual warmth.
Spencer watches you for a second. Not in a way that makes you uncomfortable. More like he’s memorizing the sight. Then he looks away.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod.
“Good.”
Spencer starts talking again. You ask questions because you like hearing him answer them. Because when Spencer talks about something he loves, he doesn’t just give you information. He gives you pieces of himself.
Your gaze drifts from the sky, down to him. The way his face changes when he’s excited. The way he talks faster when he gets to a particularly interesting fact. The way his hands move as he explains things, like he’s trying to physically map out the universe in front of you. The little smile that appears without him realizing it. The way he looks happier here than he does anywhere else.
"...Y/N?"
You realize he’s stopped talking. “Yeah?”
He’s looking at you now. A small, amused smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re staring.”
Heat immediately rushes into your face. You look away toward the lake. “I’m sorry.”
Spencer’s smile grows slightly. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s something you do a lot.”
“What?”
“Apologize when you haven’t done anything wrong.”
You glance back at him. He says it so casually. Like he hasn’t just noticed something about you that most people never do. You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything. And neither does he.
The lake ripples softly beneath the dock. Crickets sing from the tree line. A fish jumps somewhere out in the darkness, sending rings across the glassy surface of the water. Two months ago, silence meant pain. It meant hospital rooms. Empty chairs. Waiting. But tonight, silence was comforting. It felt safe. Warm. Nice.
And that was all thanks to Spencer.
_____
Read Part 34 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist
All Works Masterlist
_____
a/n: lowkey sorry if this part isn’t the best, i tried, but like ⅓ of the way through my mom called me and told me that my cousin literally went on a psychotic break and is in the psych ward and literally thinks he’s god so now im thinking about that LMFAO
hockey remus ?
HOCKEY REMUS???
any scraps are appreciated. ...please
hockey player!Remus Lupin x fem!reader who's on the social media team [1.7k words]
CW: team chaos, Swedish Remus [as per our hockey au's], Remus has a crush, pre-established relationship, crack/comedy
“No.”
“Please.” Your voice is tinny, muffled through the door that Benji Fenwick has barricaded shut behind him after he fled your proximity.
“Cute, and usually works on me as far as pretty girls go, but my answer’s still no.”
Oliver Woods smirks as he zips up his bag. “You’d think she had been chasing you with a gun.”
Fenwick turns to scowl at him. “Fuck off, Woodsy.”
“Is there a reason you’re hiding from the woman with a camera?” Remus asks casually, more focused on dutifully packing his duffel bag post-practice than the antics of his teammates.
“I’m not simply hiding from a woman with a camera, Loops,” he hisses in response. “I’ll have you know, that’s usually a kink of mine.”
Remus groans. “Gross.”
“Fenz, please add to list of things I do not want to know,” Viktor Krum announces gruffly.
Woodsy—in typical Woodsy fashion—steers the conversation back on track. “Okay, so if the woman with a camera isn’t your problem, what is?”
“I cannot be photographed like this,” Fenwick huffs, gesturing animatedly at the fat lip he received at last night’s game. The vain bastard.
“Fenz, please. You’re just as handsome as ever,” you contend through the door.
Fenwick scoffs, shooting the door a disbelieving look. “Well, duh. That was never up for discussion.”
“Where’s Black?” Remus ventures helpfully. “He’s usually all about the social media presence.”
“Team’s entire feed is Black already,” Krum grumbles. “Asshole is pretty, but not that pretty.”
“Fenwick,” you call out.
The player in question eyes the door warily. “Yes?”
Your question echoes like a death toll. “Who else is in there with you?”
With this, the remainder of the locker room freezes; four professional six-plus foot hockey players hold their breath like terrified rabbits in the face of a prowling mountain lion.
“Fenwick,” Woods hisses. “Don’t you fucking-”
“Lupin, Krum, and Woods,” Benji rapid fires, wincing contritely in the face of his three teammates groaning in betrayal.
“Fenwick, you’re off the hook if you open this door right now,” you promise.
“Benji Fenwick, if you open that door-” Remus starts, only to be cut off by Krum.
“I will string you by testicals to rafters, Fenwick.”
“Guys, I love you, you’re my entire world, I would take 83 slapshots to the ribs for all of you-”
“Fenwick…” Remus pleads again.
“-I cannot be photographed like this.”
Benji—in his final act of betrayal—swings the door open and flies out into the hallway behind you, using your smaller frame like a human shield. And while Remus is surprised by the show of restraint from Krum and Woods, there was never any chance that Remus was going to go shoving past you to get to Fenwick.
No matter how badly he wanted to throttle the sod.
“Förbannada skit,” (translation: fucking shithead) Remus curses under his breath, though even he can hear the resignation in his voice.
You have the grace to smile apologetically at the three remaining players, holding your camera up in one hand and the other in a universal sign of surrender. “Any chance one of you is willing to smile for the camera? I’ll be so quick.”
“No. Russians do not do this,” Krum announces, earning him a glance from Woods.
“Russians don’t what? Smile?”
“Da.”
“Woodsy, you’ve got a nice smile,” Remus hedges cautiously, cautious of drawing attention to himself by pointing it in someone else's direction.
“You do,” you agree, flashing a smile in the assistant captain's direction. “But we’ve got lots of the team captains already.”
Woodsy’s smile is victorious.
“Well, then,” he hums happily, offering the last two players in the locker room a smarmy salute. “Lady, gentlemen.”
Krum mutters Russian profanity under his breath as he finishes up in his own stall.
“Just a picture,” you all but beg, and Remus’ traitorous heart squeezes at how desperate you sound.
It doesn’t squeeze enough for him to willingly place himself in front of your camera lens, though.
“Is never just a picture with you, l’vyónak,” (Львёнок: lionet/little lion, lion cub) Krum argues, but his use of a Russian epithet belittles whatever ire he has with you.
That’s the danger of the team's favourite social media team member. While they all make a point of avoiding you like the plague, there’s something about you that has wiggled its way into the heart of every player on the team. You even managed to win over the prickly Russian goalie and the notoriously aloof Remus.
Especially the notoriously aloof Remus.
Perhaps that’s part of the reason he avoids you so resolutely; he doesn’t want to do anything to draw attention to the fact that he’s really quite smitten with you.
Honestly, when you’re not waving a camera or phone in his face, you may very well be his favourite person on the team’s support staff.
And that’s saying a lot, considering that their PT, Lars, has magic fingers and turns Remus into a certified pile of goo twice a week during their therapeutic massages.
“It must be Loops,” Krum decides, earning him a strangled sound of disbelief from Remus.
“Why must it be Loops?”
Krum shrugs as if it’s really quite simple. “Because, Russians do not do this.”
“Russians smile, Krum. You have a lovely smile,” you argue sweetly, and—dammit—even Krum softens.
“Paper, rock, scissors me,” Krum announces.
“I beg your pardon?”
Krum doesn’t bother responding, merely steps up to Remus with one palm raised flat and facing upwards, the other held above it in a fist.
“Paper, rock, scissors. Da? Scissors me, Loops.”
“Never say that again,” Remus tells him emphatically.
“Why won’t scissors me?”
“Krum, please stop asking me to scissor you.”
Remus loses the stand-off with his starting goalie when he’s distracted by your laughter. Dammit, he wishes Swedes didn’t smile either.
“Okay, it all comes down to a game of rock, paper, scissors,” you announce, holding up your damn camera to capture the moment between teammates. Krum was right; it’s never just a picture with you.
Remus—against all his better judgement—mirrors Krum’s posture and does, indeed, play a round of rock, paper, scissors.
He loses when Krum crushes Remus’ scissors with his rock.
“Best two out of three?” Remus all but begs.
“Net,” Krum declines, slinging his bag over his shoulder and striding from the room. “Smile for camera like good little Swede.”
“Bye, Viktor!” you call out after him.
Krum replies from some distance down the hall. “Goodbye, Львёнок.”
“I’m really sorry, Lupin.” You sound so apologetic, look even more so when Remus removes his glare from the now empty hallway his teammates have abandoned him in to face you. “I know no one likes to get stuck with me, we can be quick.”
And well, now doesn’t Remus feel like the biggest prick. “I love being stuck with you.”
Too honest, dial it back, Loops.
“It’s that” He points at the camera like it might bite. “that I struggle with.”
You laugh good naturedly at him. “Fair enough. Come sit, we’ll be quick.”
It is not, in fact, quick, because apparently all of Remus’ smiles look like pained grimaces.
“You look like you just ate something sour.”
“I don’t look like anything,” Remus argues.
“Yes you do.”
“This is just my face.”
“Your face is usually nicer than this,” you counter.
“Well, now you’re just being hurtful.”
You laugh and look up from your camera; Remus smiling in victory at eliciting it.
“See! Like that. Why can’t you smile like that for me?”
I did just smile like that for you, Remus thinks grimly. It’s the camera I’m not fond of.
You sigh. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
You hum thoughtfully, scrolling through the viewfinder on your camera. You’re silent for so long that he thinks you’re going to dismiss him before you carry on. “What do you think you’d do for work if you were more athletic?”
Remus pauses, his mind like a record, scratching and skipping and trying desperately to feed the needle back onto the thread.
“What?”
“If you were more athletic,” you repeat, still not looking up. “What do you think you’d be doing? Like, a sport, or something.”
“What sport?” Remus clarifies. “If I was…”
“More athletic,” you confirm.
Remus is staring at you open mouthed, confused as to how he’s not possibly missing something in translation here.
“Can you repeat that?”
You’re still looking down at your camera, but your lips purse as if you’re fighting off a smile.
“What kind of sport would you be playing, or job would you be doing, if you were more athletic?”
“More athletic?” Remus balks, disbelief colouring his tone. “I’m an athlete!”
“Well, yeah, sure.” Sure, you say! Like Remus hasn’t dedicated the majority of his life to perfecting his skill, strength, and body to elite levels. “But like, if you were more.”
Remus lets out a startled laugh, and then you finally look up at him.
Your eyes shine with mirth, silent laughter shaking your shoulders as you smirk triumphantly at Remus.
It’s over for Remus then; he dissolves into delighted laughter which only picks up when you join him.
“Unbelieveable,” Remus huffs with a shake of his head.
“That’s me,” you agree triumphantly, lowering your camera until it hangs from your neck. “That’ll be all.”
You don’t end up showing Remus what you managed to capture of him while you made him question all of his life’s work and choices; the picture you ended up posting on the team’s social media was of him and Krum playing rock, paper, scissors, plus one of Remus throwing his head back in defeat and Krum smirking (though certainly not smiling) triumphantly.
It’s only (much) later that Remus finally sees the picture you took of him that day—one of him laughing at your chirping—used as his contact image on your phone.
He’s glad that’s where it stayed; he looks entirely too love sick for that to be posted onto the team’s account.
Summary: Hiding your pregnancy is getting harder and harder, especially when you agree to go to a dinner party and Spencer has to drink every glass of your wine to keep the secret.
Words: 5,4k.
Warnings & Tags: established relationship. reader is pregnant, duh. drunk reid. pure fluff. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note: I’ve had this draft since the start of last year and I’ve only just managed to finish it<3 So enjoy!
David Rossi loved hosting dinners.
Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.
At least for the first twenty minutes.
After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.
“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”
Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.
“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”
Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.
The house was already alive with familiar voices.
Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.
Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.
Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.
“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”
“It was just a lamp until you said that.”
JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.
Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.
Not a minute early. Not a minute late.
His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.
And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.
Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.
You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.
“Perfect.”
The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.
Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.
His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.
So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.
Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.
For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.
And the smells were by far the worst.
It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.
Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.
Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.
Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.
Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.
Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.
Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.
When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.
He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.
“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”
The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.
You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.
An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.
You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.
Positive.
You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.
For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.
Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,
“We’re having a baby.”
The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.
Only the two of you knew.
No one else.
Not the team, your parents, or his mother.
No one.
It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.
God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.
At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.
Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.
You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.
Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.
The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.
Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.
Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.
Because he wanted them safe.
You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.
“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.
You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.
“…Why that one?”
Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.
“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”
You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.
You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.
If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.
You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.
But eleven weeks still felt fragile.
Delicate.
As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.
You knew the statistics.
So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.
The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.
Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.
Smile.
Compliment Rossi’s cooking.
Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.
Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.
Eat dinner.
Go home.
And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.
***
For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.
The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.
Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.
With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.
Your smile froze.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.
Of course. Wine.
You hadn’t thought about the wine.
For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.
Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.
His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.
Then to you.
You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.
Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.
“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.
Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”
The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.
Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.
“She’s driving.”
For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.
Driving? You hated driving.
Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.
Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.
He knew. You knew.
Neither of you dared acknowledge it.
Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.
“Fair enough.”
The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.
Or so you thought.
Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.
“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”
Your heart lurched.
For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.
Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.
“I did.”
Rossi looked between both of you.
“You finished two glasses already?”
“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.
Rossi stared at him.
“You were thirsty.”
“Yes.”
“For wine.”
“Correct.”
For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.
“There.”
Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.
“There we go.”
“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.
Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.
The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.
Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.
No one noticed.
Well…almost no one.
Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.
She didn’t say anything.
She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.
Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.
“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”
He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.
“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”
The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.
You felt your stomach sink all over again.
One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.
Including yours.
Again.
You forced another smile.
“Thank you.”
Your glass remained untouched.
Again.
Spencer noticed before anyone else did.
Again.
Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.
By now he’d finished one glass.
Then two.
Then three.
Now…four.
Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.
For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.
A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.
Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.
“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.
“You drunk, pretty boy?”
Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.
“No.”
He paused.
Thought about it.
Then nodded once with complete seriousness.
“Probably.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.
Spencer looked utterly adorable.
Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.
Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.
She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.
Again.
She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.
Again.
She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.
Again.
Something about the evening refused to fit together.
Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.
But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.
***
By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.
Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.
Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.
Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.
Watching him was almost painfully endearing.
You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.
“You okay?”
He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.
“I love you.”
The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.
You laughed quietly.
“I love you too.”
“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”
Morgan snorted into his coffee.
“Oh, this is priceless.”
Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.
His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.
“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”
Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.
God, he was going to destroy you.
“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.
“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”
“Yes.”
He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.
“Because you couldn’t.”
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.
“Spencer.”
He looked delighted with himself.
“I helped.”
Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.
“So noble.”
“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”
Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.
Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.
“Sweetheart—”
He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.
It wasn’t.
“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.
The entire table continued talking.
No one seemed to notice.
Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.
Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.
“Although…”
Every instinct in your body screamed.
“Oh no.”
He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”
Silence.
Morgan blinked once.
“A what?”
Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.
JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.
At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.
Pieces quietly clicked into place.
Rossi simply stared.
His mouth opened slightly before closing again.
For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.
Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”
You buried your face in both hands.
“Spencer…”
He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.
“What?”
“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
A long pause.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.
For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Garcia exploded.
The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”
JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.
She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.
“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.
Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.
“I knew something was going on!”
Emily looked at him flatly.
“You absolutely did not.”
“I suspected!”
She folded her arms.
“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”
Morgan hesitated.
“I was…close.”
Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.
“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”
His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.
“I have to admit…”
He smiled.
“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”
Even Hotch stood.
He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.
Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.
“I ruined the surprise.”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
You looked up at him.
His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.
A smile spread across your face.
“I’ll forgive you.”
His eyes brightened immediately.
“You will?”
“Eventually.”
The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.
“Good.”
He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.
Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.
summary: your best friend had been secretly in love with you since forever. So when your date stood you up, a run-in with spencer gave him an unexpected opportunity to show you how you deserved to be treated.
warnings & tags: fluff, mutual pining, best friends & coworkers to.. idk, spencer is down BAD, they talk abt 'dating' as a general topic, dry humping, inexperienced!spencer, spencer cums too fast in his pants
w/c: 3.8k
a/n: I've been needing something sickienngly sweet lately, and this is what my brain came up with today
Just like many weekends that were left untouched by the demands of the BAU, Spencer found himself in a familiar state of indecision.
He was left with two options—inviting you over to order cheap takeout while debating the terribly flawed plot holes of a bad horror movie, or retreating to losing himself in his freshly acquired collection of books with the hum of Star Trek playing on his small, boxy TV, alone, in the comforting orbit of his apartment.
Spending time with you was Spencer’s favorite thing to do; it didn’t matter what the two of you were doing as long as he got to do it with you.
So when Spencer’s ‘are you free?’ text was met with the first ever, simple ‘I’m a bit busy’ with no elaboration, he couldn’t help but feel his heart sink. It wasn’t just disappointment; it was a sudden realization of how much he relied on your presence to make his days feel complete.
The books on his coffee table lost their appeal, and all he could do was wonder what you were busy with tonight.
He stared at your text, picked at every letter as if the four simple words held more than their meaning.
Spencer analyzed the abruptness that only he was seeing, and quietly questioned if he had somehow overstepped a boundary he hadn’t even realized was there.
The suffocating quiet of his apartment offered no answers. Surely, Spencer reasoned with himself, he could just go outside and see where the evening takes him with no specific plan.
He told himself he was going to clear his head and pick up some takeout from a nice spot near his place.
He had no idea that his restless feet were taking him straight to the restaurant where you were currently sitting alone, staring at an empty chair.
Pure habit guided him to the small, warm-lit cafe across from your favorite park—a place he frequented because the ambient noise was predictable and the food was always good.
The moment he pushed the heavy glass door open, the bell chiming softly, his eyes wandered around the place before fixing on the back of someone’s head.
He knew it was you. Sitting at the table by the furthest window from the door, everything about you was familiar—your hair, your posture, and the distinct way you propped your elbows on any flat surface in front of you.
Spencer froze, his feet rooting to the floor as he stared at you, completely alone, with a closed menu, and a single glass of water sitting untouched in front of you.
He cursed at himself for not trying to look put together before leaving his apartment, his hair greasy and tucked behind his ears, his shirt wrinkled in a way he’d never allow.
You’d probably seen Spencer in his worst states on exhausting, soul-sucking cases where everyone slowly morphed into hollow, sleepless creatures, or on lazy mornings after spending the night on your couch because the two of you had been lost in conversations that lasted into the early hours of the morning. But standing here while you were dressed up and seemingly waiting for someone, felt entirely different.
You looked just as utterly captivating as ever. He didn’t have to see your face to know that you looked like a breathtaking angel that he wasn’t worthy of staring at.
You were a stark contrast to the dim, soft atmosphere around you, and it made his chest ache to think someone was making you wait.
Before he could think better of it, Spencer’s body was already making its way up to you.
“Hey,” he said softly, your face immediately following the unmistakable sound of his voice as you looked up with glassy eyes.
“Oh my god, Spencer.. hi,” you beamed despite the sheer embarrassment burning in your chest, “w—what are you doing here?” you let out an awkward chuckle with your question.
Spencer’s hand instantly went to the back of his neck, his fingers nervously tangling in his hair as he offered a sheepish smile. “Oh, I— I was just coming in to get some takeout,” he gestured vaguely toward the front counter.
His eyes flicked down to your outfit in between his words, admiring the mini plaid red skirt that hugged your hips beautifully before looking back up at your face.
“You look amazing,” he said honestly, his voice slightly quieter than the first time he spoke. “Are.. you waiting for anyone?” he glanced at the empty seat across from you.
“Um.. yeah— I mean, I was,” you muttered, your hands nervously smoothing out your skirt, “but I just got the ‘can’t make it’ text. Twenty minutes late,” you let out a dry laugh, leaning back against the wooden chair, “and he still had the audacity to reschedule for tomorrow!”
Spencer shook his head, his fingers fiddling on the insides of his pockets, “Wow, that’s.. exceptionally poor etiquette.”
He glanced at the empty seat across from you, then back to your face. His stomach did a violent, nervous flip, but the sight of you sitting there, looking way too beautiful to be left alone, gave him an uncharacteristic burst of bravery, “Y’know, if you don’t wanna go home yet, and since you’re all dressed up.. I haven’t had dinner yet. I know I don’t look very presentable right now, but I can assure you I’m a better conversationalist than an empty chair.” he paused at the faint tug of your lips that formed into a little smile, “I actually haven’t had anything in my system since last night, so you’d technically be doing me a massive favor by letting me join you.”
“Are you asking me on a date?” you teased as you cocked your head to the side.
The question caught him completely off guard, making his soft lips part with no words leaving them as he took in the playful tilt of your head.
He cleared his throat, a boyish, endearing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he dropped his hands to his sides, “No! I mean—yes! If.. if you want me to?”
His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to break his ribs and jump out at any moment.
You nodded, “Of course, Spencer. Sit.”
The simple invitation acted like an instant release valve for the tension coiled in his shoulders.
A soft, heavy breath escaped him as he slid into the chair across from you, his long legs awkwardly tangling with yours under the small table for a brief moment, “Sorry,”
Spencer couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was on a date with you.
He knew that the situation he ended up in was a total coincidence and you probably considered this date a friendly hangout more than anything else. But it still somehow felt serious to Spencer, it was his first date ever.
When the waiter approached the table a moment later, Spencer didn’t even glance at the laminated menu resting between the two of you. He ordered a club sandwich and you decided to get the same order as him before a comfortable yet slightly charged silence settled over the table.
Spencer cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly as if he was treading carefully into the subject. “So, um.. If you don’t mind me asking,” he hoped that you would somehow answer his unasked question, “Who was he? The guy who.. canceled on you. You never really.. mentioned anyone like that.”
“It was our first date. I met him a few months ago at the grocery store.”
Spencer’s heart dropped. Although taking someone’s number or going on a few dates didn’t mean that you were completely off limits, it definitely meant that you were interested in someone else.
He knew it’s your right to find love, but he wanted it to be him.
“Oh, and you guys have been…” Spencer trailed off, silently asking what the two of you were for the past few months.
“This was supposed to be our first date.”
“It took you months to go out?”
“I.. actually didn’t really want to at first.” you stared down at your fingers as you laced them together, “It’s nothing against the guy, but dating was never.. something I put much time and effort into—especially with how demanding work is. So I kinda just abandoned that aspect of my life for the past few years.”
The relief that spread through Spencer’s chest when you said that you hadn’t been seeing this guy for the past few months was almost enough to make him reach over the kiss you senseless.
“I get that,” he said softly, “The idea of traditional dating feels almost.. impossible sometimes. The unreliable work schedule and the exhaustion that comes with it plays a huge part as to why I’ve kept my distance from it, and I’d really hate to be an absent partner..” he bit the inside of his cheek, slowly admitting to things he’d never really shared before, “I know some things are out of my control, but I’d die from guilt.”
Before you could respond, Spencer went on, “But I don’t think that is why I’ve never dated.”
“Then what is?” you tried to catch his flickering gaze and lock it onto yours to let him know that you understood.
“I just.. Never found a reason to try.” he murmured, finally forcing his hazel eyes back up to meet yours.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone who’s worth trying for. I know you will.” you offered him a small, tentative smile.
Spencer was an angel on earth—someone you’d always harbored a secret softness for.
Thankfully, before the silence turned awkward, the waiter came back with your orders, and seeing the perfectly cut triangles of your toasted club sandwich made your mouth water, shifting your focus to eating and enjoying the beautiful view in front of you.
Two more orders of fries and one chocolate ice cream you shared, the two of you were surrounded by completely new faces. People were coming in and leaving the two of you were still at that table.
Spencer was completely in his element now, his eyes focused entirely on you, his long fingers animatedly gesturing as he rambled on about everything under the sun.
You listened, laughing whenever his voice turned to a higher pitch when he got to the frustrating parts of whatever he was dissecting, stealing fries from the basket between you, enjoying the sweet and salty mixture with the ice cream.
As you brought some melting ice cream up to your lips, it slipped off the plastic spoon, dripping on your chin and falling onto the clean fabric of your skirt. “Shit,”
Spencer was drunk off your laughs and mesmerizing voice all night in a way that made him reach over and skim the sweet ice cream off your chin before pushing the bowl closer to you.
“So romantic, Spence,” you properly wiped the excess off your chin, “stealing my ice cream off my face?”
All he could do was sheepishly chuckle.
He leaned forward, his hair falling on the side of his forehead, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
You could clearly tell that this was the most romantic experience of his life, and you thought it was sweet.
His innocence and the absolute sincerity he showed you was unlike anything you’d ever seen before.
After the two of you almost got into your first ever fight over who got to pay, Spencer ended up paying before rushing you out of the place to distract you with the quiet park you so dearly loved.
The two of you walked along the perimeter of the park well over five times as time lost all meaning like it always did when Spencer was around.
You spotted the bookstore you’d visited a few times together, noticing that the warm golden lights were spilling through the windows, meaning that it was open. And looking at books together was something you couldn’t pass up on.
“Look, they’re open!” you pointed at the shop at the very far end of the street, tugging on Spencer’s shirt so he’d look in the direction of the light.
Spencer’s legs immediately followed your lead, all his senses wanting to be as close as possible to you as your sides grazed while walking.
You noticed that Spencer was walking incredibly close to you—much closer than usual, but you didn’t say anything.
The shop was completely empty of other customers, leaving just the quiet hum of a vintage radio playing soft jazz somewhere near the back counter. He looked around the place, then turned his gaze to you, his expression softening into that deep, undivided attention he always seemed to give you.
You grazed the spines of a few books, feeling Spencer attached to your hip, his eyes following your finger to read the titles.
The two of you parted ways at bookstores, exploring new finds and bringing them to show one another, or recommending new reads and giving detailed book reviews to one another, but evidently, Spencer did not want to do that tonight.
“What are we looking for?” he tilted his head toward you. He was so close you could feel the warmth of his breath hitting your face, his eyes entirely on your profile rather than the books on the shelf.
“Just looking,” you whispered, trying to tone down your growing smile that came along with the faint blush spreading on your cheeks.
Spencer let out a soft, barely audible hum before turning his gaze back to the books.
“Ooh look, it’s that rare edition of The Idiot, the pretty one I told you about,” you pulled out the heavy hardcover.
Spencer had gotten that exact book a week ago, only a few days after you’d showed him your worn, heavily annotated copy. He knew you liked collecting different editions of your favorite books, and The Idiot was an exceptional example of that hobby of yours.
Getting a book he’d read a million times just because you loved the cover was something he was never planning to admit.
“Oh yeah, I’ve been wanting to get it ever since you showed me your copy!” he lied smoothly—or tried to, his fingers gently brushing yours as you handed him the book.
“Then this is my gift to you,” you softly whispered, as you looked up from the cover to his face.
“Wait—no, you don’t have to do that,” he stammered quietly.
You let out a quiet laugh as you shook your head, “Just shut up,” you rolled your eyes at his stubbornness, “do you want anything else?”
“No,” he mumbled, a soft smile breaking through his flustered face as he clutched the book securely against his chest.
“Then let’s go,” you patted his bicep before heading to the counter where the cashier was reading under a dim lamp in the corner.
Spencer followed closely, the fabric of his sleeve brushing your side with every step as if he couldn’t bear the thought of putting any distance between the two of you.
After paying for the book and leaving, Spencer was still fumbling with the book in his hands, “Thank you,” he whispered, finally looking up at you, “not just for the book, but for.. tonight. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop thinking about tonight.”
Maybe Spencer was being too honest for his own liking, but you didn’t mind.
“Thank you, Spencer.” you looked up at him, staring into his puppy dog eyes that almost made you drop dead, “I had the best time ever.”
Spencer was terrified of overstepping, or being too much in any sense of the word, so he took a deep breath and snapped back into your usual friendly dynamic.
“Do you wanna head back to my place?” he asked, his voice softening into that addicting rhythm you were so used to, “We can do the usual. Make some tea and watch some Doctor Who.. If you’re not too tired?”
You slowly nodded, “Yeah, Spence. I’d love to.”
The walk to Spencer’s apartment was usually filled with fast-paced debates about random topics you guys picked apart together, but tonight, silence took over, and every breath and brush of his shoulder felt intentional.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll boil some water,” Spencer murmured, quickly setting his new purchase down on the coffee table.
You kicked off your boots and walked over to the couch, smoothing down the back of the skirt he’d been quietly admiring all night before plopping down on the cushions, dramatically splaying out your limbs in tiredness.
Instead of heading to the kitchen, Spencer found himself sitting next to you, his body naturally leaning closer to you in pure need to stay near you.
It was embarrassing, and he hoped you wouldn’t notice, but of course you did.
“I know tonight didn’t start the way I planned.” you twisted your body to face him, “I think I should thank my missing date,” you giggled.
Spencer chuckled along with you, afraid that he’d been misreading you this whole night, because to him, you looked too cool and composed to mean this in any romantic way.
Your smile softened, the playful giggle dying down as you noticed the slight tremor in his hands.
You don’t know how or why, but you reached up, your fingers tucking his soft hair behind his ear before pulling him down to you. His lips were slightly parted in surprise when yours met his, but the gasp that left him was quickly swallowed.
Spencer froze for a moment, and you applied the slightest pressure, he completely melted into your touch.
It was a soft, hesitant kiss.
His hands came up, hovering awkwardly around your head before they finally settled on your face, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real.
It was probably the doing of your suppressed feelings for Spencer, but he tasted so sweet. And as soon as you pulled away, you already wanted his mouth on yours again.
Spencer’s eyes were entirely blown out as he breathed too heavily for a simple kiss.
Did you do something wrong?
“Is.. this okay?”
“Yes. So okay.” he eagerly nodded, “More than okay.” he breathed against your lips that were only a few inches away from him before he slowly leaned back in.
The angle was too restricting, you two were too far apart.
You anchored your hands on his tense shoulders and shifted your weight, swinging your leg over his, your skirt riding up your thighs as you settled over his lap, straddling him.
A low, ragged gasp escaped Spencer’s throat as your weight pressed down against him. His large hands immediately found their way to your waist. He tilted his head backward to look up at you through his lashes, the soft light above you looking like a halo around your head, making you look more heavenly than ever.
“You have no idea,” he whispered, trying to chase your lips, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
You didn’t make him chase you for long. You leaned down, cradling the back of his head as you captured his mouth in a kiss that was much hungrier than the one before.
Spencer’s slender fingers tickled you through the bunched up fabric of your skirt as they slid down to your thighs, gripping the backs of your thighs because he was that overwhelmed.
The friction of your hips grinding on his lap pulled a needy sound from the back of his throat, making his adam’s apple bob as he deepened the kiss.
“Please,” he breathed into your mouth before widening his lips to let your tongue explore his mouth—his entirety completely surrendering to you.
“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” his voice was thick, and incredibly desperate as his hips bucked up instinctively to meet yours.
A tight knot started forming at your center, quickly tightening at the sound of his ragged, broken breathing.
“You’re—” you were cut off by your own moan, “you’re not dreaming.”
Spencer whined at your moan—your pretty noises making him pathetically much more sensitive to your touch.
As you began to move in a steady, slow rhythm on his already very hard bulge, Spencer started to roll his hips up to match your pace, completely consumed by you.
“I’m—” he whimpered, “I’m so close— I’m sorry, I’m just—shit, I can’t” he stumbled over his words as his fingers dug into your sheer tights.
“It’s okay,” you whispered against his mouth, kissing the corners of his mouth before rolling your hips in a tighter, slower circle against his length.
The mere thought of what Spencer was hiding beneath his slacks was enough to make your pussy ache and pulse around nothing.
You could tell that Spencer was big, and the fact that he never got to use his assets somehow added to the excitement of the moment.
But you wouldn’t want to overwhelm this poor man even though he was more than willing to go as far as two people could go right now.
“No—no, I can hold it,” he buried his face in the crook of your neck as he nodded into your soft skin, his mouth immediately finding the sensitive skin on your pulse point.
You loved the way he was reduced to a whimpering mess just for you.
Ignoring his reassurance that he could hold it, you tilted your hips, picking up the pace just a fraction as you pressed harder against his erection.
“Oh my god..” he heaved against your neck, leaving a sloppy trail against your hot skin, “oh my god, keep going..” he pecked your collarbone, “please.. please, don’t stop.”
A ragged sob was ripped from his throat as his hips bucked up hard and disorganized against you as his firm hands pinned your core down on his covered cock, completely helpless against his orgasm.
Spencer completely melted into the cushions, his mouth quickly going back to yours as he kissed you with frantic, bruising hunger, his moans that sounded a lot like cries.
He shot his load in his cotton boxers, unable to stop the damp heat from flooding and spreading under the fabric. His sticky cum added to the pressure against his aching cock that twitched with intense aftershocks.
Spencer was completely soaked.
You could feel him through your slightly damp panties.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to come so fast,” he looked up at you with a pitiful, overwhelmed look.
You stared down at his swollen, pink lips, “It’s okay, Spence.” you wiped away the sweaty strands of hair that stuck to his forehead.
You had no idea you could do this to Spencer.
“Can you still keep going?” you pecked his forehead, looking down at him as he eagerly nodded.
“Yes. I can do anything. You’re.. still not done,” his fingers gave your hips a small squeeze.
You smiled down at him, satisfied with how he cared about getting you off even when he was clearly hypersensitive right now.
⋆.˚ The four times you shot your shot with Spencer Reid, and the one time it worked.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader
⋆.˚ ellie talks- entirely based on this one image I saw on pinterest yesterday and had to write something.
wc-875
cw- s1!Spencer, whole lotta fluff, basically you keep buying socks for Spencer until he gets that you have a crush on him.
⋆.˚Pair One- The Welcome Back Socks.
The bullpen was loud, buzzing with the collective relief of a closed case. But Spencer’s desk was a quiet island of clutter. It was his first day back after a brutal, sleepless week recovering from a concussion, and he looked incredibly fragile sitting beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
You walked over, clutching a small, neatly wrapped paper bag. “Hey,” you said softly. “Welcome back.”
Spencer looked up. His brown eyes blinking behind a strand of hair that had fallen into his face. “Oh. Thank you. Statistically, the transition back to high-stress cognitive environments post-concussion is most successful when-”
“Spencer,” You interrupted gently, sliding the bag onto his desk. “I got you a little ‘glad you didn’t die’ present.”
He opened the bag with precise, careful movements. Inside was a pair of thick, luxurious wool socks, patterned with tiny, anatomically correct brains and stacks of books.
“They’re… wool.” He murmured, staring at them as if they were a rare manuscript.
“They have brains on them,” you pointed out, smiling as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and folded your arms, leaning your thigh against his desk. “Thought they might keep your feet warm in the archives. It gets drafty down there.”
“Actually, thermoregulation is vital for cognitive performance,” Spencer said, his face lighting up with that brilliant, boyish enthusiasm that always made your chest ache. “The sheep wool has natural crimps that create pockets of still air, which-”
“You’re welcome, Spencer,” you laughed, patting his shoulder as you stood. You let your hand linger for just a second too long, hoping he’d look at you, and see the affection in your eyes.
He just beamed at the wool brains.
Shot one, completely missed.
⋆.˚Pair Two- The Birthday Socks.
For Spencer’s birthday, the team threw a small, chaotic party in the breakroom. After the cake was cut, and JJ and Penelope were busy teasing Morgan, you nudged Spencer’s elbow and nodded toward the quiet hallway. He followed you, curious.
“Here,” you said, slipping a small gift box into his hands. “Happy birthday, Spence.”
He unwrapped it to find vintage style socks, featuring retro, 1960’s space invaders and a blue police box. You’d spent three weeks sourcing them online. Along with it was a card that read: For the guy who’s entirely out of this world. I’m glad we share a planet.
Spencer gasped. “Are these… the original 1963 BBC licensed colour palette? The dye consistency on these is incredibly rare. They stopped using this specific thread count in the mid-seventies because of textile manufacturing shifts in-”
“Do you like them?” You asked, stepping closer in the quiet hallway. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your heart a frantic tap dance against your ribs.
“I love them,” he said softly, his voice dropping a register as he looked down at you. For a fleeting, breathless second, you thought he might actually get it. He reached out, gently grasping your wrist. “How did you find these? The probability of locating an intact pair from this batch is less than three percent.”
You sighed, a fond, helpless smile breaking across your face. “I have my ways. Happy birthday, Spencer.”
Shot two, close, but still entirely platonic in his brilliant, stubborn mind.
⋆.˚Pair Three- The Mid-Flight Constellations.
It was 3:00 AM on the BAU jet. The cabin was dark, save for the single reading light casting a warm glow over Spencer’s face. He was shivering slightly, his long legs pulled up to his chest as he tried to read a dusty volume on medieval folklore.
You unbuckled, quietly padding over to his seat. You sat in the space next to him, your thigh pressing against his as you lifted your feet to rest against the table in front of you. “The jet’s heating system relies on bleed air from the engines,” Spencer mumbled, his teeth actually clicking. “It’s notoriously uneven. I forgot my heavy boots.”
“Lucky for you, I’m a mind reader.” You pulled a pair of ultra-plush, navy blue cabin socks from your bag. They were printed with the silver-threaded constellations of the Northern Hemisphere. “I picked them up from that store opposite the hotel. Put them on.”
Spencer stared at them as he reached out, taking the soft fabric into his hands. “Are these… Ursa Major? And Cassiopeia?” He ran a thumb over the constellations. “These are compression-blend cabin socks. They improve venous return and reduce the risk of deep vein thrombosis during long flights.”
“I bought them because they looked like the night sky,” you mumbled, “And because I don’t like seeing you cold.”
He slipped them on immediately, letting out a soft sigh of relief as his feet warmed up, before looking at you, his eyes incredibly dark and soft in the dim light of the cabin. “Thank you, this is incredibly thoughtful. You always seem to know exactly what I need.”
You stared at his mouth, waiting for the penny to drop. Instead, Spencer smiled warmly, wrapping his hand around yours and squeezing gently. “You should get some sleep. Sleep deprivation impairs the prefrontal cortex.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Shot three, deflated.
⋆.˚Pair Four- The Good Luck Socks.
Spencer was pacing the bullpen like a caged animal. He had to testify in a high profile federal case in two hours, and his anxiety was peaking. He was reciting the chemical composition of court approved paper stock to anyone who would listen.
You walked up to his desk and slid a pair of socks over his stack of files. They were deliberately mismatched, one bright yellow with coffee cups, the other teal with Albert Einstein’s face.
“What’s this?” his eyebrows furrowed, picking them up.
“Good luck charm,” you said, straightening his crooked tie. Your fingers brushed his collarbone, and you felt his pulse spike under your touch. You held his gaze, refusing to look away. “You’re going to be brilliant today. Just like Einstein. And you’ll be properly caffeinated. Wear them.”
Spencer gripped the socks like they were a life vest. “Mismatched socks are statistically proven to break tension in formal environments by introducing a mild element of absurdity.” He mumbled underneath his breath. “You want me to be grounded.”
“I want you to know I’m always in your corner, Spence.” You said. Your voice thick with unspoken meaning. “No matter what.”
He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Thank you.”
He wore them to court, delivered a flawless testimony, and later told you the tactile sensation of the reinforced heels kept him from hyperventilating. He thought you were the greatest best friend in the world.
Shot four, a swing and a miss.
⋆.˚Pair Five- The Valentine’s Day Socks.
It was Valentine’s Day, and you had decided this was it. The final, desperate attempt before swallowing the rejection and making an attempt to move on. Before Spencer arrived at his desk, you left a small, beautifully wrapped package. Inside was a pair of bright red socks, patterned with highly accurate, detailed anatomical hearts, complete with pulmonary arteries and veins. Next to them, you placed a card, signed with a ridiculous pun you found by googling ‘nerdy valentines day puns’ the previous night.
Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re Cu-Te!
When Spencer arrived, you watched from the breakroom as he opened the box. His face went entirely pale, then bright red. He read the card once. Twice. Three times. And then his brain completely stalled. You watched him frantically tap his fingers on his desk, his eyes darting around. He clutched the anatomical heart socks, stared at the card for a moment before stuffing it into his satchel as if it were a live grenade. He pulled the socks on, but he didn’t move. He didn’t come and find you, he just stared blankly at his computer screen.
Your heart sank. Shot five. A disaster.
An hour later, Spencer was still staring at his screen, wearing the bright red heart socks, looking like he was trying to solve a differential equation using only his eyes.
Morgan strolled by, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. He stopped, his gaze dropping to Spencer’s ankles. “Nice socks, kid,” he commented, leaning against the edge of the desk. “A little bold for a Tuesday, no?”
Spencer blinked, pulling his eyes away from his monitor. He looked down at his ankles. “Actually, the anatomical representation of the left ventricle is surprisingly accurate for a novelty cotton blend. They were a gift.”
Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. He slowly set his coffee cup down as he glanced over to you in the breakroom, washing your cup. “On Valentine’s Day?” He asked, turning back to Spencer.
“Yes,” Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly finding a paperclip on his desk very interesting. “She also gave me a card, with a… a cute little science pun.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing,” Spencer admitted, clenching his jaw and furrowing his eyebrows. “I didn’t want to misinterpret it. It could be a friendly gift. Statistically, seventy percent of non-romantic acquaintances exchange gifts on holidays to reinforce social cohesion, she’s a very empathetic person.”
“Reid.” Morgan cut him off, deadpan. “I didn’t get socks. Hotch didn’t get socks. Garcia didn’t get socks.” He paused long enough for Spencer to look at him. “She’s been buying you custom socks for six months.”
Spencer froze. His pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the keyboard. “What?”
“The brains? Space invaders? The stargazing ones?” Morgan laughed, shaking his head with a fond, exasperated grin. “Pretty boy, she isn’t trying to keep your feet warm. She’s trying to sweep you off them. She’s crazy about you. Go.”
Spencer’s eyes went wide. The entire puzzle of the last six months suddenly clicked together in his head. The lingering touches, the soft looks, the incredibly thoughtful, highly specific gifts. He hadn’t been receiving friendly gestures. He had been receiving a love letter, piece by piece. “Oh my god,” he gasped, his chair flying backwards as he scrambled to his feet. “I’m an idiot.”
“We’ve been waiting for you to realise that,” Morgan shouted after him as Spencer sprinted toward the breakroom.
You were standing by the coffee maker, staring at the drip of the liquid into your cup when the door burst open. Spencer stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his hair wild, and wearing the ridiculous red anatomical heart socks with his dress shoes.
“Spence-”
“I’m incredibly stupid,” he blurted out, taking three long strides to close the distance between you. “Well, objectively, my IQ is 187, but emotionally, in this specific department, I am operating at a severe deficit. I thought you were just being nice and then I thought I was projecting my own wishes onto your actions because I’ve wanted to ask you to dinner long before the socks.”
Your breath hitched. “You.. you have?”
“Yes! Practically since the day you started working here but I was terrified of making things awkward, and then Morgan pointed out that you were trying to sweep me off my feet, which is a highly effective idiom since you literally bought me footwear, and-”
You cut off his frantic rambling by reaching up, grabbing the lapels of his cardigan, and pulling him down into a kiss.
He went stiff for a fraction of a second before he let out a soft, shaky sigh. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back with a sweet, desperate intensity that made your knees go weak.
When he finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, and a brilliant, breathtaking smile was spreading across his face. “So,” he cleared his throat. “Dinner?”
“Uh-huh.” You hummed, your hand sliding round to the back of his neck to pull his mouth back against yours, his fingers tangling in your hair as he cupped your face, laughing gently against your mouth without breaking the kiss as Morgan whistled from the bullpen.
❥ 4 times you and Spencer pretended to be friends and 1 time it became too obvious.
❥ fluff, workplace romance, idiots in love, secret relationship
Your relationship with Spencer had become the BAU’s collective headache and favorite topic of discussion. Two geniuses, constantly dancing around the edges of friendship, completely oblivious to what was happening. You were both absolutely, phenomenally blind.
Or maybe you were just incredibly good at pretending.
⟡₊ ⊹
It was a rainy, wind-swept wasteland on the outskirts of Seattle.
You stood by the police barrier, clutching your notebook with white knuckles. The weather had turned on a dime—the sky bruised into a heavy slate gray, and a freezing sleet turned the ground into a muddy swamp. You were wearing a light dress shirt, which did absolutely nothing to keep out the damp.
Spencer, who had been studying the UnSub’s footstep patterns, suddenly turned to look at you. His hazel eyes narrowed with instant concern behind his rain-speckled glasses.
"You have a stage-one tremor. Your peripheral blood vessels are constricting to preserve heat for your vital organs. This is highly counterproductive."
Before you could even squeeze a word in, Reid unbuttoned his olive-green cardigan in one swift, decisive motion. He stepped right into your personal space—so close you could smell his cologne, old books, and coffee.
You didn't pull away. Instead, you cooperatively lifted your elbows, letting him drape the oversized, warm knit over your shoulders.
"My, my. So chivalry isn't dead after all," you teased softly.
Spencer`s lips twitched into a tiny, comfortable half-smile as he carefully wrapped the lapels over your chest and did up a couple of buttons. His hands lingered on your shoulders just a beat longer than hypothermia protocol required.
Right at that moment, Derek Morgan stopped next to you.
"Hey, kid," Morgan arched an eyebrow, fighting back a smirk. "Decided to play the chivalrous martyr? That’s... actually pretty sweet."
Spencer didn’t even blink, however he quickly adjusted his satchel strap.
"It’s pure pragmatism, Morgan. Studies show that cognitive function drops by fourteen percent when core body temperature falls below normal. She is the lead analyst on this profile. I’m simply keeping her brain operational."
Morgan nodded slowly, throwing you a highly expressive look.
"Right. Sure. 'Operational.' Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid."
⟡₊ ⊹
The case was brutal. The team hadn't slept in nearly forty-eight hours. The bullpen was a disaster zone of empty coffee cups, scattered crime scene photos, and maps. JJ had crashed on the couch in the breakroom, Hotch and Rossi had locked themselves in the office, and you and Spencer were left staring at the murder board.
You were sitting in one of the office chairs, legs stretched out. Your fingers were lazily and methodically running through Reid’s soft, messy brown curls.
Spencer was currently lying on the floor and holding a tablet, his head resting face-up right in your lap. Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, untangling the messy locks, and Reid`s eyes fluttered shut in sheer bliss every time your nails lightly scraped the back of his neck.
Penelope Garcia, carrying a tray of fresh donuts, froze on the threshold. Her eyes went wide behind her round pink glasses, her mouth dropping into a silent, delighted gasp.
"Oh," Penelope whispered, pressing the tray to her chest. "Am I... interrupting a session of highly intellectual bonding?"
You didn't even take your hand out of Spencer’s hair, just offered a tired, amused smile. Reid, without moving an inch or even lifting his head from your lap, calmly replied:
"No, you're not interrupting anything. She is helping me stimulate my cerebral cortex. It lowers cortisol levels and increases blood flow to the frontal lobes, helping..."
"That's friendly support, Garcia" you chimed in with a soft laugh.
Spencer nodded seriously, but when your fingers scratched a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, a sharp sigh escaped his lips, and the genius melted into your lap.
⟡₊ ⊹
The jet shuddered violently, the cabin walls groaning under the turbulence. Most of the team was dozing off. Rossi was reading a book, and Hotch was skimming through reports.
You were walking, buried in a case file, when the plane suddenly dropped, hitting a massive air pocket. You gasped, the file flying out of your hands as momentum pitched you forward.
Spencer, sitting right across the aisle, reacted with lightning speed.
He caught you by the waist, saving you from a nasty collision with the table, and pulled you flush against him. You ended up sitting squarely on his lap, facing him. Your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders, while his long fingers locked securely around your lower back to anchor you.
The jet kept shaking, but neither of you panicked. It was comfortable, safe, and entirely logical. You rested your hands on his shoulders, while Spencer kept his grip firm and natural, holding you as easily as if you did this every single day.
Rossi slowly lowered his book, peering at you both over his reading glasses. Hotch, too, looked up from his paperwork. A very loud, heavy silence filled the cabin.
"What?" You looked back at them with a straight face.
"Uh, kids," Rossi said smoothly, raising an eyebrow. "I appreciate the safety precautions in turbulent weather, but I’m fairly certain there are still empty seats on this aircraft"
Spencer, whose heart was currently hammering against your ribs at a frantic pace, cleared his throat, giving his voice a lecturing tone.
"According to the laws of dynamics and mass distribution, under angular acceleration, two bodies bound to a single center of gravity experience a significantly lower moment of inertia. We just minimize the risk of closed-head trauma from colliding with cabin fixtures."
Hotch let out a sound that was suspiciously close to a choked laugh, turned a page of his report, and said dryly:
"Just make sure your 'single center of gravity' is buckled in if the turbulence gets any worse."
⟡₊ ⊹
It was barely 7:00 AM. The bullpen was empty, bathed in the soft, pale light of dawn. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and floor wax.
"Spencer, hold still for a second," You called out, catching up with him in the hallway.
You reached up, your fingers deftly catching the cool silk of his tie. Spencer immediately went quiet, his eyes softening as he looked down at you. He stood perfectly still, barely breathing, as you got closer—so close your shoes were nearly touching.
With practiced, gentle movements, you began to adjust his collar and slowly knot his tie. Your knuckles lightly brushed against his collarbone, sending a subtle shiver through him.
"You know," you purred, twirling his tie on your finger, "if you keep showing up looking like you fought a wind turbine and lost, Hotch is going to start questioning your cognitive efficiency."
A lopsided smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Actually, my current state is a direct result of circadian rhythm disruption. And technically, my tie was only skewed at a twelve-degree angle. That's well within acceptable margins."
"Keep telling yourself that, genius," you gently patted his chest, lingering you hands there, right over his heartbeat, which was rapidly speeding up. "There. Now you look like an actual FBI agent instead of a chaotic academic."
"Thank you," Spencer murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze locked onto yours. A quiet, heavy warmth settled between you, neither of you making any move to step back.
"Good morning, early birds," a dry, amused voice echoed from the stairs.
You both almost jumped, but slowly turned your heads. Emily Prentiss was standing there, holding a travel mug. She looked at your hands, still resting on Spencer's chest, then at Spencer’s face, which was now flushing a light pink, and finally at how ridiculously close you two were standing.
"Let me guess," Prentiss said, tilting her head. "This is another friendly thing?"
Without breaking physical contact, you and Spencer answered in perfect, synchronized unison:
"Obviously."
⟡₊ ⊹
The rest of the team had already gone home. The bullpen was dark, and only the deep basement archives, buried under endless shelves of closed cases, flickered with a dim, yellow light. You had volunteered to help reorganize files from a decade-old case Hotch wanted double-checked.
You were standing by the back shelf, stretching on your tiptoes to reach a heavy archive box on the very top rack.
"Need a hand?" a soft voice murmured right behind you.
You spun around, finding yourself pinned between the cold metal shelves and Spencer. He had approached soundlessly and his tall frame completely blocked out the hall light. Reid reached up with a long arm, effortlessly sliding the box down, but he didn't step back.
In the shadows of the archive, his eyes looked incredibly dark. The exhaustion of the last few days, the sleepless nights, the whispered conversations, and all those "scientific" excuses you both used to shield yourselves suddenly evaporated. There was only a heavy, electric silence.
"Spence..." your voice caught.
His gaze dropped to your lips. "I... I know the statistics. The probability of co-workers transitioning into..."
"Screw the statistics, Reid," you breathed.
Something in Spencer snapped.
All his formulas, theories, and defense mechanisms crumbled to dust. He took that final step forward, erasing the last few inches between you. His large, cool hands gently cupped your cheeks as if you were made of spun glass. His fingers tangled deep into your hair, and he leaned down.
The kiss was soft, almost hesitant for a fraction of a second, before bruising into something deep, desperate, and hungry—a dam breaking after months of waiting.
You pressed into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, erasing any boundaries left. Spencer let out a soft sigh against your lips, his grip on your waist tightening.
The sharp creak of the archive door made you both spring apart.
Morgan stood on the threshold, a forgotten jacket dangling from his hand. He froze. You and Spencer were flushed against the shelving—your lips were slightly swollen, your breathing shallow, while Spencer was panting, his tie askew, and a faint smudge of your lipstick marked his jawline.
Morgan’s gaze drifted from Spencer to you. Slowly, the widest, most victorious smirk you had ever seen spread across his face. He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the doorframe.
"Well," Derek drawled, his grin practically split his face. "I'm all ears. What scientific theory explains what I'm looking at right now? Oxygen deprivation? Salivary synchronization? Preventive measures against the common cold?"
Spencer opened his mouth to speak, his eyes darting frantically across the bookshelves. He looked down at you, but you had already hidden your burning face against his chest, sharing his utter embarrassment. For the first time in his entire life, the genius couldn't find a single fact.
"We... we were just..." He let out a breath, nervously adjusting his glasses, and muttered, "Damn it, Morgan, just close the door."
spencer reid x f!reader
(she/her pronouns used for reader insert)
a soulmate au - flangst
wc: 8.2k
read on ao3
She’s wondered and fantasized about who her Soulmate could be since she was a little girl. She’d sit on her grandmother’s lap while she brushed her hair and would beg her to tell the story of how she met her grandfather over and over. She’d ask her what went wrong with her parents — why they weren’t Soulmates and why they decided to get married, anyway. When she caught a glimpse of the woman’s Soulmark, she’d trace over the initials with her fingers until her hand got knocked away because it was starting to tickle. The fascination never faded. The fact that there was a perfect person out there for her plagued her mind and dreams. When would she meet them? What would they be like? What if she never met them? What if they didn’t believe in the legitimacy of the Soulmark?
Spencer doesn’t fully believe in the promise of the Soulmark. He’s researched the concept and has retained the personal accounts and statistics, so he knows that less than half of the world’s population will meet and stay with their Soulmate for life. His parents were Soulmates, technically, and their relationship definitely wasn’t a success story. Diana read him beautiful stories about Soulmates and tried to convince him that they were magical, but he was always skeptical. Aaron and Haley were the most convincing proof of the Soulmark that he had come across, but it was clear that they weren’t perfectly happy. Sure, nobody is, but isn’t it the whole point of the mark that it will lead you to your perfect match? Maybe Aaron would’ve been happier with someone who understood his passion for his work, and maybe Haley would’ve been happier with someone who worked a scheduled job.
Sometimes – rarely – Soulmates have a platonic connection to each other rather than a romantic one. Derek and Penelope decided this when they revealed their Marks to each other. Spencer isn’t entirely convinced by their decision, due to the way they speak to each other and the longing glances he’s caught them making. But it does happen. That’s probably what will happen to him; if it does happen at all, he’s sure of it.
─── ♡ ───
When her Soulmark ignites, signifying that her Soulmate is nearby, she’s packing into a busy Metro car at seven in the morning. She’s on her way to work, and the skin above her ankle starts tingling as she funnels inside. A quiet gasp escapes her as she carefully analyzes each person in the car, but none of them seem fazed.
Everyone around her is in their own little bubbles. Men and women dressed in corporate attire stare out the Metro windows with their eyes glazed over. A handful of teenagers have headphones on. A man is flipping through the pages of a book, sitting diagonally from her. There are older people scanning newspapers. Nobody’s day has been irrevocably changed like hers has. Maybe there’s been a mistake? But the universe doesn’t make mistakes…
She’s hoping to meet the eyes of the beautiful stranger that she’ll get to call hers for the rest of her life, but nobody is as alerted as she is. Tearing her eyes from the crowd, she glances down at her leg, seeing the golden and slightly glowing SR.
Little does she know, her SR is too engrossed in his book to have noticed his Soulmark activating, so distracted that he was supposed to get off three stations ago. He’s capable of getting so lost and entrenched in a novel that a sinkhole could appear underneath him and he wouldn’t notice until the sunlight withered and dark shadows were cast over the pages.
Her heart aches as the Metro pulls away from the station and continues its ascent through the Line. She’s heard about this happening to people, but she never thought it would happen to her. She tries to self-soothe by reminding herself that some people never meet their Soulmate, but it has the opposite effect on her nervous system.
She’s fighting back tears as she exits the car at her stop, pulling at a loose string on her cardigan until it unravels and frays at the edge of her sleeve. As she pulls open the door to her work, the light chime of the bell contrasts with how heavy her heart feels. She barely acknowledges her boss, Beth, as she clocks in and pushes the cart of returned books through the aisles.
Beth is an older woman who reminds her of her grandmother, who died a few years ago. She corners her a few hours into her shift, crossing her arms and intently staring at her over her glasses. “Why the long face?”
She lifts the hem of her dress enough to show the woman her Mark and tears up as she tells her what happened. Beth insists that she’s not doomed, that at least her Soulmate lives in the city. Then, she feels guilty as she recalls Beth’s story of her Soulmark igniting while she was on vacation in a foreign country.
─── ♡ ───
Spencer is in the work bathroom, shirt slightly lifted, staring at the reflection of his Mark on his hipbone. He doesn’t even know when it appeared. It must have happened sometime between leaving his apartment and arriving late to work, but he didn’t feel it ignite. Rubbing a hand over his face, he’s incredulous as he stares at the golden initials.
Derek barrels into the restroom, stopping in his tracks as he catches a glimpse of the golden writing on his coworker’s skin. Spencer yanks his shirt down as the door swings open, but he doesn’t cover himself in time.
“Reid… Is that…?”
As he tucks his shirt back into his slacks, he quickly mutters, “It’s nothing.”
Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “It didn’t look like nothing.” Spencer tries to slip around him, but he’s blocked by the large expanse of Derek’s body. Staring at him pointedly, he asks, “Did you meet your Soulmate?”
Spencer huffs and crosses his arms too. “No.”
“No?”
“No! I missed the Mark igniting and I don’t know when it happened or who was nearby and I might never meet them, okay?!” Derek’s lips part in shock, and Spencer takes the opportunity to escape the restroom.
─── ♡ ───
A few weeks pass before she regains any hope of meeting her Soulmate. She’s been wearing long pants to cover the mark, as catching glimpses of it fills her with dread and despair. Even as it’s gotten warmer out, – a humid Spring settling into the Virginia air – she couldn’t be paid to wear her floral dresses again.
She’s running the register one evening when a cute man enters the store – donned in glasses, a tie, and a leather satchel. Her head had been bored, resting in her hand until he walked in, but the sight of him had her perking up. Even if he’s not her Soulmate (which he likely isn’t), he’s extremely attractive, and she’d love to talk to him. He does look slightly familiar, but she can’t quite place him.
He swiftly approaches the counter, hands gripping the strap of his bag. “Hi–”
“Hi–” she says at the same time.
They both chuckle and duck their heads.
With a flush on her cheeks, she continues, “Hi, how can I help you?”
He adjusts his glasses as he inquires, “Um, I was wondering if you guys have a book I’m looking for? The shop on 4th said you might?”
“I can check for you,” she says as she shifts over to the computer, tapping the keyboard to wake the screen. “What was it called?”
“Thank you, um, it’s Mutus Liber. I really need the first edition.” He nervously bites his lip. “Not even Georgetown or George Washington has it, and I kind of urgently need it for work.”
Her eyebrows shoot up at his obscure request, but she continues typing. “You might be in luck. Beth, the owner, is obsessed with old books and first editions…” She glances up at him as she waits for their dinosaur of a computer to load, and he’s bouncing on his heels and glancing around the store in wonder. He’s even prettier up close.
The computer dings as the results pop up, and she smiles as the book appears in the first line. “We have it downstairs. I’ll be right back.”
His eyes light up, and his shoulders sink in relief. “Wow, thank you so much.”
She nods and turns around to head to the basement door, shifting through the keys on her lanyard until she finds the right one. Glancing back at him again, taking in his pristine appearance and polite attitude, she decides to bend the rules for him. “Do you want to come with me?”
Cocking his head, he asks, “Am I allowed to?”
She purses her lips. “Not technically, but maybe you’ll find something else that could help you?”
His lips turn upward, and he adjusts his glasses again. “I wouldn’t want to upset Beth.”
She chuckles and waves him over. “Please, she will be ecstatic that a customer is interested in her collection.”
Pausing to think for a moment, he fiddles with the strap on his bag some more. Finally, he nods and says, “Okay,” before circling the counter and standing behind her as she unlocks and opens the door. He reaches over her head to grab the edge of it as it swings towards them, holding it open for her.
She whispers, “Thank you,” as she tries to be normal about him being so close to her – so close that she can smell his woodsy cologne.
As they descend the rickety stairs, she flicks the light switch, and the bulb flickers on. He quietly gasps as the shelves come into view, books blanketed in dust cover them from the floor to the ceiling.
She heads to the shelf of first editions as he scans the room with wide eyes and parted lips. Pulling it down, she tells him, “So I can’t let you take it home, unfortunately. But you can stay here and look through it for as long as you need.”
Approaching her from behind, he leans over her shoulder to look at the book. She turns her head to look at him, and she stops breathing as she takes him in. With smooth hair and freckled skin, he’s incredibly beautiful.
She’s forgotten that she said something until he responds, “That’s not a problem, actually. I’ll only need to look through it once.”
“Oh?”
His cheekbones have a dusting of pink as he shyly tells her, “I have an eidetic memory. Once I see it, it’s all stored up here,” and he taps his head and turns to face her.
Their faces are terribly close, and she forgets what she was about to say as her eyes flit over his face. His warm brown eyes and rosy cheeks make her knees feel weak. She catches herself glancing down at his perfectly pink lips and sharply inhales as she takes a step back. Handing over the book, she racks her brain for something to say. “That’s, um… That’s really impressive.”
He gently takes the book from her hands, as if it were made of glass. With pursed lips, he flips the cover open.
As she recedes towards the stairs, she says, “You can bring it upstairs, if you’d like. It’s so dark and gloomy down here.” He nods and follows her back up.
A customer is waiting at the counter as they emerge from the basement, and she beelines for the register to check them out as the cute boy lightly flips the pages behind her.
It doesn’t take long before he’s handing the book back to her and thanking her sincerely for her help. “Oh, no problem. Feel free to come back if you need anything else.” He nods and heads for the front door. She finally introduces herself just before he pushes the door open, telling him her first name, and he mumbles it under his breath before informing her of his name, as well.
“I’m Spencer.”
She smiles and nods, “Bye, Spencer.”
It’s probably just a coincidence that his first initial matches the one near her ankle, she tells herself. But she can’t help from hoping that she’ll see him again, anyway.
─── ♡ ───
The team is grateful and impressed that Spencer managed to find the exact edition they were looking for, and Aaron asks him where he went.
As he explains that he went to the shop across town — a shop that has an archive of old, first edition books in their basement — nobody is surprised at how his expression glows.
Derek watches him carefully, though. Something seems off about his story. Nothing about him going out of his way to find the book is abnormal, but as Spencer recalls the woman who let him see the basement, Derek interrupts the story.
“And who was this woman who led you to this creepy-sounding basement?”
Spencer rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t like that. She was really great- extremely helpful.”
Derek inquires, “Hm, what was her name?”
Spencer sends him a scowl, silently begging him not to bring up his Soulmark in front of their coworkers, as he shares her first name with him.
Derek’s eyebrows shoot up as he smirks, “Interesting name.”
─── ♡ ───
Over a week passes before he comes back to Sherwood Books. She’s in the middle of a conversation with Beth as the doorbell chimes, and her eyes widen as she realizes who it is. Beth gives her a pointed look as she tunes out the woman and watches Spencer walk inside. She waves at him with stars in her eyes, and he returns the gesture before heading for the book displays.
Her boss snaps her fingers in her face, making her flinch and redirect her eyes back to her.
Beth points at her ankle and asks, “Is he the one?”
Shrugging her shoulders, she replies, “I don’t know, probably not… But I wouldn’t be mad if he was…”
Tutting at her and peering over her glasses, she realizes, “Oh, he’s the one you broke the rules for.”
Her heart races as she reminisces on their time in the basement – him standing so close to her and smelling so nice and being so nice and-
“Is that a yes?” Beth interrupts her thoughts.
Sighing, she rolls her eyes and confirms, “Yes.” Beth affectionately squeezes her shoulder before she walks away to her office.
She tries not to stare at him as he peruses the shelves – she really does, but she just can’t help herself. The sleeves of his button-up are pushed up to his forearms, and she desperately scans his skin in search of a Soulmark, but finds nothing. When he senses the weight of someone’s gaze on him and peers around a display, making eye contact with her, her eyes widen, and she quickly turns around, pretending to be busy with a box of books.
Eventually, he approaches the register, and she races to help him before Beth can.
Slightly breathless, she greets him, “Hey.”
With a polite smile, he returns the greeting before placing a book written in Russian on the counter. “Just this for me, please.”
Impressed by his selection, her lips purse as she flips it over and scans the barcode. She asks, “You know Russian?” then immediately feels stupid for asking. Obviously, he knows the language; why else would he be buying a Russian novel?
He chuckles and shyly shrugs, “Yes. I can understand seven languages currently.”
Her eyebrows rise at his admission. “Oh, wow.”
“I do struggle with the pronunciation sometimes, though.” She appreciates his attempt to be humble.
“Well, there goes my plan to impress you by reciting some obscure text in a foreign language,” She jokes, with a smile.
His cheeks flush as he laughs and replies, “You don’t have to try that hard to impress me.”
She’s certain her heart has stopped beating. Was that flirting? Was he flirting with her? She was definitely trying to flirt with him – was that him flirting back?
With parted lips, she feels her face heat as she stares at him. He’s staring back at her with his impossibly beautiful eyes, and she knows she needs to say something. Looking down, she realizes he’s holding his debit card, and she remembers where they are — that she has a job to do.
After rattling off his total, their fingers brush as he hands the card over to her, and her veins buzz. She feels dizzy. This is ridiculous.
Swiping his card, she holds onto it for a moment as the register processes his payment. She looks down at it and freezes as she reads the name. Spencer Reid. SR.
She doesn’t notice his receipt printing and stares at the piece of plastic, dumbstruck.
He asks, “Is everything okay?” waking her up from her stupor.
Quickly, she replies, “Yes. Sorry,” and tears the receipt off the machine, handing it and his card back to him.
He thanks her as he slides them into his wallet, but his voice sounds distant, like he’s underwater, to her clouded brain.
He could actually be her Soulmate. His initials are SR. What is she supposed to do? How is she supposed to bring this up? How does she ask him if he’s gotten his Soulmark yet? Are her initials displayed somewhere on his body? What if he hasn’t? What if it’s just a coincidence?
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She realizes she’s been staring downward at the register with her fingers gripping the counter for an unknown amount of time. She tries to wave it off and replies, “Yes, sorry. I, um, I’m not feeling very well all of a sudden.” It’s not a complete lie. She does feel dizzy, and her stomach is full of knots.
His expression softens with concern. “Don’t be sorry. I hope you feel better soon — I was just saying that you guys have a remarkable selection here and I’ll be back soon.”
Soon. He’ll be back soon. This is good. This is terrible. This is-
“We’d love to have you back. I’m just gonna…” She points vaguely behind her, quickly squeaking, “Have a good day!”
He flinches and steps toward the door, replying with a confused, “You too…”
She bolts into Beth’s office, slamming the door behind her and resting her back against it. Her boss jumps at the intrusion, and the wheels of her chair roll against the tile as she faces her frazzled employee.
Before an inquiry can be made about what happened, her chest heaves as she says, “SR. His initials are SR.”
Beth’s face lights up with a grin as she lifts her glasses to her head. “And you told him?”
Her expression quickly drops as she’s met with the shake of a head. “What if it’s not him? What if he doesn’t have his Mark yet? What if he does, and the initials aren’t mine? Oh my god, I think I’m dying…” She keels over with a hand on her chest.
Beth rolls her eyes and stands up from her chair, resting her hands on the desk, “You’re acting like you’re the first person to go through this. You need to talk to him.”
She straightens her posture and nods her head. “I know. I will… if I didn’t just scare him away.”
─── ♡ ───
Luckily, she hadn’t scared him away. He returns to their store a few days later, and when she catches a glimpse of him walking through the door, she sends a wide-eyed, terrified look to Beth.
She still doesn’t know how to ask him about the existence of his Soulmark. She’s anticipating that he’ll have to let her down. She’s sure he’ll be nothing but polite as he does – as he informs her that he’s not the SR she’s looking for.
Petrified to talk to him, she begs Beth to check him out as he approaches the register. Of course, her boss refuses and gently shoves her towards it.
With a French novel in his hands and a soft smile, he says, “Hey, are you feeling better?”
Her mind blanks. “What?”
Spencer sheepishly raises a hand to the back of his neck. “Um, L-Last time? You said you weren’t feeling well?”
“Oh!” She remembers, awkwardly laughing. She is, in fact, not feeling any better than she was the other day. Honestly, she feels even worse. “I am, thank you,” she lies. “How are you?”
“I’m alright. I haven’t had to travel for work for a few days, so that’s been nice.”
“That does sound… nice.” She wants to bang her head against the register keys. Why is she so incapable of being normal around him?
He chuckles, “Yes.”
As she scans his purchase, she asks, “Do you travel a lot for work?”
Nodding, he says, “I do. All over the country, actually. And I rarely ever know where we’re going until we’re headed there.”
“Oh, wow.” She astounds. “I don’t know if I could do that. I try to go with the flow, but… I prefer if the flow follows a schedule.”
His lips curve upward as he tells her, “I don’t know if that counts as going with the flow.”
Laughing and rubbing her forehead, she replies, “You’re probably right.” She interjects their conversation by relaying his total, and she hesitates before she takes his card from him.
As she swipes it, she realizes she hasn’t asked him what he does for work, even though it’s come up twice. “What do you do, exactly?”
“I, um, I work for the government.”
“Gotcha, so you can’t tell me exactly what you do?”
Tittering, he says, “No– I mean, yes, I can. I’m with the FBI. We use psychology and behavioral analysis to catch serial killers.”
Her lips part in surprise as she rests her hand on the receipt printer. “Oh, wow. That sounds intense.”
His mouth purses as he nods, “Yes.”
As their casual chat comes to a close, the lull brings her inner panic. This is the part where she’s supposed to ask him about his Soulmark.
Okay, here it goes. “Do you… um…”
He gives her an expectant gaze while tilting his head. “Do I…?”
“Sorry, do you need a bag?”
Spencer glances at his singular book that definitely doesn’t require a bag, then shakes his head. “I’m good. Thank you, though.”
Bashfully smiling, she hands back his card and his receipt. “Right. Well, thank you for shopping with us.”
He tells her, “Have a great day,” as he turns to leave, and she wants to disappear as she recalls their last interaction.
Muttering, “You too,” she rotates to face Beth, whose face is full of anticipation. After the door chime rings, she tells her, “I’m a coward.”
Her boss laughs as she agrees, “Yes.”
─── ♡ ───
Derek tells Penelope that Spencer met his Soulmate. Derek told Penelope, and Spencer is pissed. He wanted to deal with this on his own. He didn’t even want to tell Derek, but he was cornered into it twice. He doesn’t even know if she is his Soulmate.
Penelope goes behind his back and finds her social media accounts — solely by knowing what her first name is and where she works. Her skills are frightening at times.
She storms into the bullpen like a neon tornado, racing to Spencer’s desk, gripping a piece of printer paper. Slamming it onto the wood, she screeches, “Is this her?!”
The intrusion has him flinching galvanically, and he scrambles to grab the sheet, holding it to his chest, as he balks, “…No.”
She smiles like a Cheshire cat, “Then why are you holding it to your heart like it’s something precious?”
He grumbles something about privacy and boundaries as he shoves the screenshot of her Facebook into his desk drawer, hoping that Penelope can’t see him biting the inside of his cheek, hiding a smile.
It’s probably not her, he rationalizes. There are thousands of people in this city, and there’s no statistical way she’s the only one with initials that match the ones on his hipbone. It’s incredibly unlikely and would be entirely too lucky for him to have found her. Maybe this is the universe righting its wrongs for putting him through-
There’s no way it’s her.
─── ♡ ───
It’s definitely not her, but Sherwood does have a great selection of books. It’s definitely not her, but maybe they can be friends.
Spencer starts spending more and more time at Sherwood. He’ll pile up a stack of books in his arms and sit in the armchair by the window, reading, until they close and Beth lovingly kicks him out.
The first time he did this, she approached him with a shitty cup of Keurig coffee made from the machine in the office. He accepted it gratefully, fingers curling over hers around the mug. She nodded to the stack of books and asked him if he was planning to get through all of them before they closed in a couple of hours. He laughed and informed her that yes, he was planning to, and that he can read twenty thousand words per minute. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
It became a routine. A few times a week, he’d pop by, meandering through the shelves while picking his selection. After he settled into his spot, she’d bring him his cup of coffee, carefully blowing at the steam while she carried it over to him. He’d sincerely thank her, pretending to be surprised that she’s done it again. She’d ask him about what he’s chosen that day, and he’d animatedly tell her about each book: what he knows about them and what he’s looking forward to. He’d give her thorough reviews before he left, as he returned each one to its rightful place. She insists that he doesn’t have to do that, that he can leave them on the returned books cart and she’ll take care of them for him – it’s literally her job – and he’d refuse.
He asks her what her favorite books are, and when she shyly tells him that her favorite genre is romance, his heap of books becomes a mixture of his selections and ones that she’s mentioned.
She avoids Beth’s gaze when she comes into work one morning with a brand-new coffee machine tucked under her arm. He deserves better than shitty Keurig coffee.
─── ♡ ───
The BAU has a case in Bumfuck, Utah and they’re about to board the plane and he has no way of telling her that he’ll be gone for an unidentified amount of time. He wonders if she’ll worry about him – if she’ll glance at the door each time it chimes, hoping it’ll be him.
JJ watches him forlornly stare out the jet window, narrowing her eyes in confusion.
When they return from Bumfuck, Utah, he goes straight to Sherwood before even heading to his apartment. It’s two in the afternoon, and he’s never gone in at this time. He hopes that’s okay. His duffel bag is hanging off his shoulder, and he feels a little ridiculous walking around like that.
She lights up like a Christmas tree when she spots his chestnut hair and sweater vest in the doorway. He apologizes profusely for disappearing, explains that he had to go to Bumfuck, Utah, and shyly asks for her number.
Giggling and pulling a sparkly green pen off her lanyard, she scribbles the digits into the palm of his hand.
─── ♡ ───
He told himself that getting her number was solely for logistical purposes. It was only so he could inform her when he’d be out of town and to ask about the books in the basement. At first, that’s all it was.
Then, she started sending him pictures of new releases and views from the bookstore window that never failed to put a smile on his face. He started sending photos from random states and the jet window in return.
Eventually, he found himself texting her first thing in the morning and right before he went to bed. He’d do so throughout the day, sporadically, as well – as long as Derek or Penelope weren’t nearby.
“Do I want to know why you’re smiling at your crotch?” Derek saunters up to Spencer with a twisted grin on his face.
Spencer shoves his phone under his thigh and purses his lips in feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
─── ♡ ───
It’s raining, and multiple spots on the ceiling are steadily dripping into buckets. She’s spent half of her shift setting up and moving wet-floor signs, and she wishes that she could curl up with a book and a cup of tea by the window. The soft sky and gentle pattering of droplets normally bring her comfort, but today they’ve only brought chaos.
She’s not even as excited to see Spencer as she normally would be. Her hair is a frizzy mess from the humidity, and her mind is completely frazzled.
He’s perusing the shelves for something he hasn’t read yet – a difficult feat – when a customer informs her that the ceiling is leaking in another spot. With a sigh, she goes on a hunt for an additional bucket, passing Spencer as she does.
Her feet skid across the floor behind him, and he just barely sees her lose balance in his periphery. Instinctively reaching his arms out for her, if he hadn’t had an eye on her, she would’ve slipped and fallen backwards.
She gasps. “Oh my-” As he pivoted, his hands found her waist to steady her, and hers landed on his chest. “Thanks,” she continues, winded.
Their faces are incredibly close, and she can feel his breath fanning over her face as they just stare at each other. “You’re welcome,” he replies, whispering. Her eyes flicker down to his lips as he speaks, lingering there as they move. His tongue darts out to wet them, and she quickly meets his eyes again, only to find them pointed towards her mouth. His palms feel warm around her hips, and her fingers find the edge of his jacket.
Her heart jumps as he gets closer, seemingly leaning in to kiss her. Is this really happening? Maybe she’s dreaming. Maybe she did slip and she smacked her head and this is a weird concussion dream.
Spencer murmurs, “Could I-”
“Excuse me, ma’am, do you work here?” She flinches and turns around to find an older man awkwardly staring at them. Spencer’s hands slowly fall from her hips, and he takes a step away from her. If her entire body weren’t on fire, she’d feel cold from the absence of him.
She’s breathless, and her mind is reeling as she smooths her shirt, hoping to calm the butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach.
Clearing her throat, she shakily responds, “Yes.”
The customer is holding a children’s book that has a Jolly Rancher stuck to the front cover. “Can I get a discount on this?”
She flattens her lips to smile politely, “I’m sure we can find one that isn’t damaged,” and leads the man to the kids’ area. She can’t help herself from looking back at Spencer one more time, where she sees him watching her wistfully.
─── ♡ ───
It’s getting too hot for her to continue wearing pants, so she wears her dresses again, but with socks long enough to cover her Mark. She’s standing on a ladder, stocking the top shelves, when he comes in again. He doesn’t stray from his usual uniform as Spring fades into Summer. The most of his skin that she’s seen is his forearms, and she feels like a creep wishing to see more of him bare.
He always smells so good, and his clothes look so soft. She wonders how they would feel against her skin – how it would feel to lay her head on his chest, inhaling his cologne and listening to his heartbeat.
His eyebrows furrow as he glances around the store, looking for her. He smiles and waves politely at Beth when he catches her eye, and her heart flitters as she watches this from above. He’s so courteous and sweet and lovely. When his eyes trail up the ladder and find her, they soften and glisten.
Walking up next to her, he cranes his head to see the books she’s stocking and asks her about them. “Cookbooks?”
Glancing down at him with a smile, she says, “Yeah. We just got a new shipment.” She has to force herself to look back at the box in her arms. He looks especially pretty from high up. “Do you cook?”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he replies. “I can, but I don’t do it enough.”
She tsks at him and jests, “Busy FBI agent too busy to boil water?”
As he laughs, she bites her lip to hold back a celebratory grin. He replies, “Something like that. It’s just easier to order in… Do you cook?”
She nods and says, “As often as I can. I’m often only cooking for myself, though, so it can be hard to get the servings right. I find myself begging Beth to take some of my leftovers like every other week,” while giggling. She’d love to cook for him sometime. She wonders what he would like, what he grew up eating.
As she descends the ladder, he holds out a hand for her to hold. She quietly thanks him, slightly lifting the hem of her dress as she steps down. She doesn’t see his eyes flicker to her ankle, where the top edge of her Mark is peeking above her sock.
“I- Um- I have to go.” He abruptly announces, with a perturbed look in his eyes.
“Oh-”
Rubbing his mouth, he murmurs, “Sorry- I… Bye,” before bolting out the door.
She glances over at Beth in confusion, who’s looking back at her with a similar expression.
─── ♡ ───
“She has her Soulmate already,” Spencer tells Derek while sulking at his desk.
Derek frowns and squeezes his shoulder, “I’m sorry, man.”
Spencer shrugs, “It’s fine. I don’t care about it anyway.”
Derek stares at him while he maintains his focus on his desk. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying,” Spencer defends, pursing his lips.
Derek narrows his eyes and tilts his head accusatorily. “Then why do you look like a kicked puppy?”
“I don’t,” Spencer responds too quickly.
Derek pesters him, asking what happened, until Spencer folds and tells him.
Derek speaks slowly, and it makes Spencer feel dumb, which greatly annoys him. “So you didn’t see the initials properly?”
“No.” He confirms.
“So, for all you know, they could’ve been yours?”
“Not likely, but yes, I suppose.”
Derek flicks him in the forehead, and Spencer yelps in pain. “What was that for?!”
“For being an idiot,” he replies, rolling his eyes before walking away while shaking his head.
─── ♡ ───
Almost two weeks after last seeing him, she runs into him at the grocery store. The store closes in thirty minutes, and she’s only there to buy ice cream.
She’s certain she’s hallucinating when she sees the back of his head at the end of the aisle. How pathetic is it that she misses him so much that she’s seeing things — applying his caricature to someone else?
Her breath lodges in her throat when he turns around, and it actually is Spencer who’s staring at the frozen waffles.
She’s as frozen as the food around them as he makes eye contact with her. For a moment, they stare at each other like two figurines trapped in a snow globe.
He raises his hand to wave perfunctorily before turning on his heel to walk away. She frowns and finds herself chasing after him.
“Spencer- Wait-“
Part of him wants to ignore her and just keep walking, but she didn’t do anything wrong and doesn’t deserve that. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for treating her that way. Halting his movements, he slowly turns back around to face her. How does she still look so beautiful under the harsh fluorescent lighting?
“Hey, we’ve missed you at Sherwood.”
He winces, “Yeah… I’ve, um, I’ve been busy,” and raises a hand to the back of his neck.
She nods, averting her gaze to the wall of sliced cheese behind him. “Right, of course. I didn’t mean-” Wringing her hands, she looks back at him to ask, “Did I do something wrong?”
His heart wilts at her inquiry. Her voice sounds so small and timid, and he hates himself for causing her to feel this way. Eyes softening, he takes a step towards her as he says, “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She really didn’t. It’s not her fault that she’s already met her Soulmate. It’s his fault for naively thinking that she could be his.
She absentmindedly nods, and they both know she doesn’t believe him, but she’s trying to absorb his words anyway. “Okay… good. That’s good.” Turning to point at the breakfast foods aisle, she dumbly says, “You didn’t get your waffles.”
His lips part, then shut, then open again. “Um… I realized that I already have some.” He’s lying, and they both know it.
The words fall out of her like a torrential downpour. She can’t control it, and she doesn’t have an umbrella to protect them with. “I have this recipe that makes exactly two waffles – I could send it to you if you’d like? I put a dash of cinnamon in mine, but you don’t have to, but I’ve found it adds a nice flavor-”
“Sure.” He interrupts her nervous rambling with a tense, closed-lipped smile. “I have to go. I’ll try to stop by Sherwood soon.”
Before she can respond, he’s already turned around and bolting to the checkout. Her eyes burn as she watches him go. She sends him the stupid recipe with blurred vision. He doesn’t respond.
She buys two pints of ice cream and eats half of both.
He does make the waffles when he gets home. It was the main reason he went to the store that late — a need for something sweet to drown his sorrows in. Something to drown in syrup while he tries to pay attention to a documentary.
His waffle maker sucks, so the first one comes out burnt and ruined. He only gets to eat one. It’s the best waffle he’s ever had, yet his chest aches with every bite.
He remembers when she said that she mostly cooks for herself, and thinks that her Soulmate is an idiot for not enjoying her cooking.
─── ♡ ───
Beth has had enough. She’s had enough of the sulking, downturned expressions, and half-hearted conversations with her employee. Books are being shelved incorrectly, and the front door didn’t even get locked last night.
She approaches her with her arms crossed. “Call him.”
She doesn’t even look up as she mumbles, “He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Beth scoffs, “Look, honey. This has gone on for far too long. You need to tell him about your Mark. You’ll regret it if you don’t,” and she stands there, eyes flicking down to her dress pocket, until she relents and yanks her phone out of it.
“Fine. But I’m not doing it out here,” She says before walking towards the office door.
Her thumb hovers over his contact as she shuts the door behind her. Closing her eyes, she dials him and begins pacing as it rings, biting the skin around her thumb.
It rings for so long that she’s certain it’s about to go to voicemail when his light and airy voice enters her ear: “Hello?”
She takes a rattled breath. “Hi.”
For a few moments, the only sounds they can hear are each other's breathing.
He clears his throat before he asks, “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Well, no. I think we should talk.”
He hesitates before he answers, thinking that she’s going to continue, but when she doesn’t, he says, “Okay-”
“Can you meet me at Shady Park today? After work? I mean…” She shakes her head and drops into the desk chair with a hand on her forehead. “Are you in town?”
“Yes, I’m in town,” Spencer confirms. “And yes, I can meet you at the park. Is everything okay?”
“I just need to talk to you, and I don’t want to do it over the phone.”
“Okay… That makes sense… I’ll meet you at seven? Or does it need to be after Sherwood closes?”
“Seven works.”
“Okay.”
She rushes to conclude the call, “Okay. I’ll see you then. Bye,” and hangs up before he can respond.
As she emerges from the office, pale and breathing shallowly, Beth looks at her expectantly from across the store. She tells her about their plans and tries to pull out her phone to cancel on him three times before Beth takes it from her and hides it.
A few hours later, she’s sitting on a bench in the park, watching the ripples in the river as it rushes by. The sky is gray and lifeless, and she should’ve checked the weather before planning to meet here.
Spencer approaches her from the side, and she catches a glimpse of him in her periphery before she stands to greet him. Why is she standing to greet him? That’s so strange. This is so strange.
He looks tired and sad, and she hates it. Pointing to the empty side of the bench, he says, “Hi. Can I sit?”
She overexerts a nod as she sits back down, whispering, “Please.”
They sit in silence for a while because neither of them knows how to start the conversation. They haven’t spoken in weeks, and the air between them feels abnormally heavy. Or maybe it’s just the humidity from the impending rain. They’re sitting close enough that she could lean over and rest her head on his shoulder, but there’s a metaphorical boulder separating them.
She blurts out, “I got my soulmark a few months ago.”
Spencer sighs, adjusting his posture on the bench. “I know. I saw it.”
She wasn’t really sure what he was going to say to her confession, but that wasn’t it.
Turning to face him, she’s appalled. “Wait, you saw it? So you know?” His gaze remains straightforward.
His voice remains flat and even, as if he’s sharing a mathematical equation. “Yes, I know that you already met them.”
She stutters, “W-Well, I’m not entirely sure who it is.”
He finally turns to look at her with furrowed eyebrows, “What?” and a raindrop falls onto his shoulder.
She focuses her gaze on the damp circle as she tells him, “I don’t know if you’re my SR, but I really wanted you to be.”
His heart sinks at her use of past tense. Wanted.
He barely heard her say his initials before she’s pushing down her sock and gesturing to her Mark. Spencer’s lips part as he stares at it properly. He’s certain his heart has stopped beating in his chest. He can’t wrap his head around this; his brain is struggling to make any conclusions, especially as more raindrops fall from the sky – getting caught in her eyelashes and rolling down her temples.
He suddenly starts loosening his belt, and her eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
Spencer frantically mumbles, “I need to show you something.” Her eyes dart around them as he pulls on his waistband. Surely he’s not- “Look. Please.”
Looking back at him, she finds him carefully watching her. Her eyes trail down his body to his waist, where he’s exposed a sliver of skin by his hipbone. A sliver of skin that has her initials branded into it.
Her jaw falls open. She can’t tear her eyes away from it. The rain is pouring down around them now, and she’s barely taken notice of it. She’s unsure if her eyes are burning from the droplets, her makeup, or tears brewing. Her voice trembles as she asks, “When did you get that?”
“A few months ago. I was running late for work, and I didn’t notice it until I got there. I was-”
“On the Metro? The Purple Line?” She frantically asks.
“Yes,” he sighs in response, while readjusting his pants.
“Spencer, I-”
Boom! A crack of thunder crashes around them. They both flinch at the intrusion, suddenly hyperaware of the downpour surrounding them. Spencer rises from the bench, grabs her hand, and leads them under a nearby tree. The covering of leaves does little to protect them from the rain, but the damage has already been done anyway — they’re soaked to the bone.
She asks, “Should we be under a tree when it’s storming?” glancing around at the sky in search of lightning.
His hands lift up to her cheeks, angling her head towards him. Stepping closer, he murmurs, “We’re fine.”
Her breath hitches as his face nears hers. Electricity crackles under her cheeks where his thumbs brush the skin. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Surely, she shouldn’t leave them just hanging by her sides, but before she can decide anything, he’s pressing his lips to hers.
She completely melts into him. Somehow, her arms end up wrapped around his neck, and she’s pulling his body into hers. She can feel him everywhere.
Another crack of thunder sounds throughout the sky, and this time it’s closely followed by a flash of lightning. She gasps, and he takes the opportunity to swipe his tongue into her mouth, sending heat into her belly and numbing her fingertips.
Finally, Spencer wises up when he sees another flash behind his eyelids, and he reluctantly separates his lips from hers. With a sly smile, he grabs her hand and points toward the parking lot. “C’mon, I drove here.”
She giggles as they run through the damp grass, puddles splashing up their ankles and their bodies drenched.
Once they reach his car, he mumbles under his breath as he sticks the key in the door, fumbling to unlock it. She thinks she hears him say something about a stupid old car.
They fall inside as the rain patters against the roof and windows, and he quickly starts the ignition to get the air blowing. They’re shaking and shivering, and she has goosebumps on her arms. She’s not sure if they’re from the rain or from him.
Looking over at him, she laughs at the sight of his hair matted to his forehead and his soaked clothes. She’s sure she doesn’t look much better. The warmth in his eyes floods her bloodstream, thawing her from the inside out as he turns to look at her.
He leans over the center console and grabs both of her hands in his, thumbs rubbing over the backs of them. With averted eyes, he tells her, “I’m sorry for how I acted.”
She had almost forgotten that he’d iced her out for weeks prior to this. She’s grateful he didn’t let her. Whispering, she responds, “It’s okay,” and he immediately shakes his head.
Making intense eye contact with her, he asserts, “No, it wasn’t. I-I really missed you — please know that…” He squeezes her hands. “I really liked you. I really like you. And I tried telling myself that I didn’t care about Soulmarks, that if ours didn’t match then we could at least still be friends, but when I saw yours I… I panicked.”
“I really missed you too. I wanted to ask if you had gotten yours, but I chickened out every time.” She purses her lips, then lightly laughs, “Beth wanted to strangle me each time you left Sherwood, and I still didn’t know.” He chuckles at that, too.
For a moment, he just stares at her, unashamedly. Her eyelashes have clumped together from the rain, and her hair is a mess, honestly, but it’s endearing, and he can see the reflection of the droplets smacking and rolling down the car windows on her skin. He notices the chills on her shoulders and urgently sits straighter, letting go of one of her hands to search his backseat. “I think I have a sweatshirt back here…”
“Oh, that’s okay-“ She’s interrupted by him presenting it to her, a tattered grey thing with CalTech embroidered on the front. Gratefully accepting it, she slides it over her head and revels in the comfort it brings her.
He gives her an imploring gaze. “You look beautiful.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure I look like a wet rat.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, lifting his palm to the side of her neck. Without thinking, she leans into him. Tilting her head towards him and leaning closer, his lips brush hers as he says, “Not at all,” before softly kissing her again.
─── ♡ ───
The following day, Beth watches as she flits around the bookstore. Her employee is biting back a smile and humming under her breath, and the woman’s eyes fill with tears.
Down the road at FBI Headquarters, Derek nudges Penelope’s arm as Spencer walks past them. Derek gestures at his own neck and nods his head in Spencer’s direction. Penelope’s eyes drag from Derek’s collar to Spencer’s, where the edge of a lovebite is peeking above his shirt, and her eyes widen as she squeals.
─── ♡ ───
hiii i started brainstorming for this back in may and it's finally done! i hope u liked!! pretty pls interact if u did!! reading y'all's comments and reblog tags make my entire day <3
warnings: an insane amount of fluff. like maybe call your dentist before reading
“It doesn’t have to be exact, Spence,” you giggle and playfully knock your hip into him. Spencer stood over the counter, a kitchen scale, butter knife, measuring cup, and bag of flour beneath him. He was meticulously measuring the exact amount of flour. You couldn’t help but smile at him, so smart, but so oblivious to the leniency in the world of baking.
Spencer looks up at you, his lips curing into a shy smile. “I know, but I want them to be perfect.” He finally levels out the flour and dumps it into the metal bowl. “Baking is a science, after all.”
You laughed and shook your head. “It’s more of a chemistry I think. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it’s okay to just have fun.”
His eyes soften as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I am having fun. Especially because I get to make them with you.”
You can’t help but fall into his touch when such sweet words are leaving his lips. His smug smile makes you want to collect yourself though, not wanting to give in to his cockiness. “Alright then, Dr. Reid, these better be the best damn cookies to ever enter my mouth.”
You and Spencer continue to mix the ingredients. His attention to detail and your more relaxed approach meshed perfectly. Always a perfect duo, you and Spencer were. Whether it be your brains on a case, your love for one another, or apparently, your baking skills.
You poured in the chocolate chips directly from the bag, a clear overshot of the recommended amount. You turned around to toss the empty bag in the garbage, but apparently, you were much faster at this than Spencer thought you’d be.
“Stealing ingredients now, are we?” you ask him, catching him red handed popping a small handful of chocolate chips in his mouth.
Spencer grinned mischievously as he chewed. “Well if you’re going to add three times the amount the recipe calls for surely a few can be spared.” He giggles and grabs another chocolate chip from the bowl. “Here, have one,” he holds it up to your lips.
You open your mouth allowing for him to gently place it on your tongue. You lock eyes, his filled with a sweetness that went beyond the chocolate. You lean in and kiss him, tasting the lingering chocolate on his lips. He hovers over your shoulder as he watches you scoop the dough into small balls on the baking sheet, reaching around your waist to put the pans in the oven. He sets the oven timer before turning to you and pulling you into his arms.
Spencer stood there holding you for several minutes. He buried his head in the crook of your neck and pressed his body firmly against yours. You held him silently, unable to speak even if you wanted to. Your face was pressed to his chest, fingers rubbing his back gently. He was in a t-shirt, which was quite rare for him as usually if he wasn’t in his work attire he was either in his pajamas or cozied up in a sweater.
He lifts his head from your shoulder, arms still wrapped around you. “I never thought I’d find someone like you,” he whispers. His gaze is so adoring.
“And I can’t believe I found you,” you say as you place a hand on his cheek.
He rests his hand atop yours, fingers between your knuckles. “I love you Y/n,” he says, pulling you impossibly closer with the arm still around your waist.
“Spencer, I love you so much,” you respond. You pull him down and nuzzle his nose in an eskimo kiss, which causes him to giggle. “But we should clean up before the cookies are done.”
“Do you think we can get it done in the four minutes and fifty-seven seconds left on the oven timer?” He asks, stepping away from you and running water from the sink over a cloth.
He rings the rag out and tosses it at you, leaving the water running and adding soap to the sink. He begins taking the dishes over as you wipe the countertops.
You notice a small glob of dough on the edge of the stovetop and collect it on your index finger. Turning around to face the sink- and Spencer’s back- you tap his shoulder with your clean hand. He notices the cheeky grin on your face which causes him to smile as well.
“I got something for you,” you say, bringing your finger up to his face and smearing the dough on his nose.
“Hey, no fair!” he playfully pouts. “My hands are wet, I can’t get it off!”
“Aw, isn’t that unfortunate,” you grin, turning back around to finish cleaning the counters.
beep
You dropped the rag on the counter and slid an oven mitt over your hand. You sat the fresh cookies on the stovetop, stopping the timer and turning off the oven as you did so.
The smell of fresh cookies filled Spencer’s apartment; if they weren’t clearly piping hot, they’d all be gone right this moment. You approach Spencer who was nearing the last of the dishes and lean your head onto his shoulder.
“Well well well,” you say, “what do we have here, slowpoke?”
“I could’ve been done in time if you wouldn't have distracted me,” Spencer argues.
“You can tell yourself that, pretty boy,” you say and plant a kiss on the underside of his jaw.
You transferred the warm cookies into a container and brought the baking sheet- the final dish- over to Spencer. He quickly scrubs it, then dries his hands.
He gives a satisfied sigh. “Alright,” he says, placing a hand on your lower back to direct you to the stove with him. “Ready to try them?”
He picks one up from the container and breaks it in half, handing you the slightly larger piece. He watches as you take a bite from the corner, anticipating your reaction.
“These are really good,” you say, taking another bite. He takes his first, nodding in agreement as the flavor sets in.
“Dare I say perfect?” He says, a nod to your earlier comment about them not needing to be.
“They are,” you agree. “Probably because of me.” You smile at him.
“Oh whatever,” he says with a sassy tone, rolling his eyes as he takes another cookie from the bowl.
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next chapter: Q is for Quite the Gentleman
other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist
view the masterlist in a calendar version!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: this part is kind of just a filler lil blurb. im working on some larger story elements, and am writing a part that actually takes place within an episode of the show with y/n written in as a character. assuming that part does well, i’ll probably be doing some more of those because its actually a ton of fun. anyways thank you all for the suggestions and support!!
read this for information regarding my use of the term “eskimo kiss” in this part
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Summary: Spencer bails on your birthday for a case. It just may be the straw that breaks the camel's back.
WC: 3,244
Warnings: Angst, Mentions of child kidnapping.
AN: This is the first fic I've written and posted in like 3 years, I think. Writing a fic is kind like going through TSA. You know you don't have a gun but now you're wondering if you do... writing a fic is like... I know I speak english, but now I'm wondering if I do. 🩵 Anyways, I did proof read this but it's also 3:30am where I am so who knows atp.
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Spencer’s nerves have been building since the little grey letters that spelled ‘Read 7:45am’ under his text first appeared. Minutes tick by and he forces himself to focus on the case. Work had always been an easy distraction for him. Each investigation requires his full attention, letting him get lost in what he feels most comfortable in — numbers, facts, and puzzles. But how can he do that when the only number he can think of is the number of hours since you read his text, the only fact he can focus on is the fact that you haven’t texted him back, and the only puzzle he wants to solve is 800 miles away celebrating a birthday alone?
Despite his head being in the clouds, the team wraps the case in a few hours and brings the missing little girl back to her parents. It’s a happy ending.
“Reid!” Spencer hears Emily shout through the low hum of the plane engine, pulling him from his faraway stare.
“What?” He asks casually. Turning his attention to the pair sitting across from him. Emily laughs.
“We’ve been calling your name for the last ten minutes.” Derek says.
Spencer looks around the cabin to see Rossi sitting beside him filling out a crossword puzzle, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose, and JJ leaning in from behind Emily’s aisle seat, also staring at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement.
He looks back to Derek. “We haven’t even been in the air for ten minutes.” He points out.
“What’s been up with you, Spence?” JJ asks. “You’re usually our resident computer but you’re…glitching today.” She jokes lightheartedly with a chuckle.
“Sorry…” Spencer mumbles, picking at the thread on his coat. He hesitates before being honest. “It’s Y/n’s birthday today and I bailed last minute.”
“For the case?”
“Yeah, we had a bunch of plans but I didn’t make it to any of them.” He confesses quietly.
“Spence, you could’ve taken this one off. You know Hotch is really understanding about our personal lives.”
“I would never forgive myself if I didn’t go and that little girl died.”
“You can’t save everyone, Reid.” Emily says gently.
“I can try.”
“You can’t lose yourself trying.” Rossi chimes in. Spencer glances at him.
“Did you give her a heads up?” Derek asks.
“I left before she woke up but I sent her a text.” He explains, glancing at his phone again. “She hasn’t messaged me back.”
“It sucks when plans get canceled at the last minute but surely she understands. I mean you guys have been together for two years. She knows how it goes.” Derek comments bluntly with a shrug and Emily rolls her eyes.
“She understands but I don’t know… it feels like something else.” Spencer mumbles, still deep in thought.
“You think she’s cheating on you?”
“What? No. Why would you say that?” Spencer defends, slightly annoyed by Derek’s brashness.
“Derek, you’re not helping.” JJ scolds. “Don’t put those thoughts in Spencer’s head. Y/n would never do that.”
Derek holds his hands up in defense.
“Ignore him. What makes it feel different?" Emily asks, nodding her head up. Spencer is aware that you and Emily are close so he knows her questions about you are always genuine.
“I missed our anniversary dinner last year. And a few months ago I missed Valentine's Day because of the Kentucky case.”
“So, a few rainchecks don’t hurt. An unpredictable schedule is a casualty of the job.” Derek argues again.
“It’s only truly unpredictable for so long. Then it becomes predictably unpredictable and takes over your life.” Rossi adds again, not looking up from his booklet as he presses the blue ballpoint pen into the thin gray page. “Four letter word for German wine?”
After a quiet moment, Spencer says “hock.”
Emily’s phone buzzes and she glances at it. She has a good enough poker face for everyone else but Spencer is a Las Vegan. She types on her phone and then avoids Spencer’s gaze for the rest of the flight.
After two hours of nothing but turbulence, they land with tired eyes and day old clothes. Spencer is the first one to stand and exit the plane. The tiny space has been growing tinier and tinier with each mile closer to the airport.
The bright tarmac lights illuminate like Christmas all around the ground crew. Men and women in orange reflective vests work to cart luggage and wave light-up wands to communicate with the pilots. The breeze catches his brown curls and Spencer pushes his hair out of his eyes before checking his phone again. The screen shinning onto his worried face.
Nothing.
He opens the message bar under your name, his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment until his eyes catch sight of those grey letters again and he huffs before shoves his phone back in his pocket.
From behind him, he feels a hand on his shoulder and he turns around. “Reid, I know it’s not any of my business but I watched my job destroy my marriage for years. If I could go back, I’d do anything Haley needed from me to fix it.” Hotch says.
The cold air bites at Spencer’s skin. “Would you have left the BAU?”
“Yes but Y/n would never ask you to do that.” Hotch answers plainly and looks over Spencer’s shoulder to see the team chatting as they walk out of the plane. He lowers his voice. “The first few months after returning to the BAU, I almost quit. It felt impossible to do this job properly while raising Jack but I realized that it’s not about every second of your life being in your control — nobody in the world has that. It’s about using the time in your control in the right ways. When you can do that, being away from home isn’t so hard.”
“But how do I do that?” Spencer mumbles.
“You’ve gotta ask her.” Hotch walks away, lingering behind the team.
The metro ride from the airport to his usual stop down the street from your shared apartment is empty and quiet. He spends the shaky, fluorescent bleached ride replaying his conversation on the tarmac with Hotch. He wasn’t sure where to start. His eyes ache with a longing for sleep or better yet, something to rest them on — you.
Eventually his tired feet bring him straight to the door he’d walked out of this morning. The metal key in his fingers clinks against the scratched door. He slips into the apartment fully expecting you to be asleep. He’d planned to crash on the couch but as his sock covered feet slip out of his shoes, he hears rustling in your shared bedroom.
For a second, he lets Derek’s off handed comment about you possibly cheating, get the better of him. With a scoff, he refutes the idea and hangs his work bag on the hook by the door. You would never do that. Spencer knows that for certain.
A small smile grows on his face, happy you’re awake and ready to take Hotch up on his advice. Making the time he has control of matter more than the time he doesn’t.
The hinges squeak with age as he swings the bedroom door open. Spencer is wearing a careful grin but his face falls when he sees you standing by the bed, next to a half packed bag. The only lights on are the small lamps next to the bed.
“Y/n?”
You jump, clearly very frightened. You hadn’t even heard the apartment door open.”Spencer!” You shout in fear.
“Why are you packing?”
“I didn’t think you were coming home until Wednesday.”
“We finished early.” He mumbles, looking back down at the pile of clothes on your side of the bed. “Why are you packing?”
In a small, nervous voice you reply “I think I need some space…” You look away, too scared to see the look of devastation he must be wearing.
Spencer’s whole body feels numb.
“In the closet?” It was a stupid question, Spencer knows that but his heart still skips a beat when you shake your head.
“From me?” His voice cracks.
Your heart drops to your feet and tears prick at your eyes. Your jaw feels heavy and your teeth feel too big for your mouth as you admit “from us.”
The knot in Spencer’s tie digs into his neck. “From us?’ His voice trembles with impossibly more devastation. “Why?”
“Spencer… you know why.” You say quietly.
“Are you cheating on me?”
Shock over takes your features and you flinch at his accusation. “Are you serious?!” You say louder than necessary. Spencer curses himself for letting Derek get in his head.
“I’m sorry.” he says softly and earnestly. He steps forward. “I’m sorry.”
Your hard expression softens. “For what?” The sharp edge that was in your voice is gone but your spine stays stiff.
Spencer takes too long to answer and you humorlessly chuckle.
“I’m not gonna apologize for taking the case, Y/n. The first 48 hours are crucial. We needed to be there as soon as possible. We were working the whole flight over. You have to understand that it was an emergency.” Spencer has a bad habit of thinking emotions can be explained away, he knows this.
You shake your head, offended that he would even think you don’t understand the severity of the situation. Your body drifts closer to him, your weapons down. “Spencer, there is no reality in which my birthday dinner is more important than finding a missing 12-year-old girl alive, I know that. And I love that you have decided to use your limitless genius to help people. The way you care for these victims is more than just extremely attractive — it’s admirable. Everything about you is admirable. But…” You take a deep breath, almost ashamed to say your next words out loud. “I am constantly comparing the best days of my life to someone else’s worst day of theirs. And I never win. It sounds so selfish and petty but just because I understand the importance of your job doesn’t mean my feelings go away. It still sucks to cry in the restaurant by myself on my birthday.”
“You cried?”
You ignore his question. “We’ve missed Valentine’s Day two years in a row, you flew out on Christmas in the middle of opening presents and you didn’t get back until the new year, we never made up our anniversary dinner, and last week you bailed on our first scheduled date night in three months because you guys got a case.”
Spencer sighs. He’d never realized how much he was missing.
“All I could think about today was what I would tell our child if they were asking where Daddy was on Christmas morning, or their birthday, or their soccer game.” The mattress sinks as you sit on the end of the bed.
Spencer’s heart hitches at the news that you think about having a family with him. Tears well in your eyes and he joins you on the edge of the bed, sitting carefully next to you.
“I don’t want my job to hurt you.” He states. It’s not defensive, it’s honest. It feels like he’s trying to break ground on an open conversation. He turns to face you and places a hand on your knee.
“And I don’t want you to feel like I’m mad at you for doing good in the world.” You say tearfully.
“I don’t feel like that, baby.” Spencer shakes his head. “I just wanna know how to fix this.”
“I think… I just need some space to figure out if this is what I really want.” You confess and a tear falls directly off your bottom lashes, onto Spencer’s hand.
He swallows a lump of nerves and the sudden urge to vomit at the thought of being not what you want. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You cry quietly, your posture giving away more as you sniffle and wipe at your wet eyes.
Spencer shakes his head and the wrinkled covers on the bed shift as he moves closer. His arms wrap around your crumpled frame. “Don’t apologize. Don’t apologize.” He repeats.
“I love you.” You remind him, one of your hands resting on his arm.
He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, baby.” He says earnestly, afraid this might be the last time he’ll ever get to say it to your face, holding you in his arms. His eyes glass over but he blinks the tears away. He kisses your hair again and holds you tighter.
“I’m so sorry, Spencer.” You say again and sniffle.
“Stop that.” He feels you pull slightly and he loosens his hold on you. You sit up and he catches a glimpse of your stricken face — eyes red and watery. He pushes some tear soaked strands of hair off of your feverish cheeks. You look up at him and through his pained expression, he offers you a small smile. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “We’ll get through this, Y/n. Okay?”
You nod with low energy, closing your eyes for a moment and taking in a deep breath in an attempt to calm your shaky hands.
Spencer rubs your back, trying to comfort you but his kind gesture only makes everything so much harder. His other hand pulls your hair neatly off your neck and he places a chaste kiss against the skin of your shoulder.
You sigh heavily and use every ounce of strength left to raise to your feet, pulling yourself out of Spencer’s arm. The loss of contact is devastatingly heavy.
“I’m gonna stay with Emily for a while. She’s picking me up.”
Spencer’s throat bobs as he gulps. His eyes fall down for half a second, then back up to you. He nods. “Sergio will be happy to see you.” It’s an olive branch in the hurricane.
You chuckle quietly. “Yeah…” You agree.
Neither of you could make eye contact while you put a few things in a small bag. With a mixture of not wanting to smother you and not wanting to be smothered by the godawful thick sadness in the air, Spencer stepped out of the room. He sat on the edge of the couch in the living room, his muscles tense — ready to stand at any moment. The bones in his fingers ache from the nonstop wringing of his hands and his bottom lip stings from his teeth chewing it raw.
The sound of drawers opening and closing, your padded footsteps across the tattered rug, the zipping of small cosmetic bags, plastic racks clicking against each other as you shuffle through the closet. He tried to keep his eyes trained downward but every so often — at a new noise — they would flicker up to your moving figure as you paced around the room then he’d blink hard and look away again.
Each second that ticks by on the clock mocks him. The longer you take to pack, the longer you must be planning to be gone. Spencer squeezes his eyes closed and runs his hand over his face. He can feel a migraine coming on.
“Spencer?” Your quiet voice calls from the open bedroom door.
His head jerks up and he stands to his feet immediately. “Yeah?” His voice cracks and he clears his throat.
“Do we have extra toothpaste?” You mumble.
He slouches a bit. “Um, w-we don’t have any. Just take the one we share. I’ll get another one.”
“I’m sure Emily has extra.” You politely try to dismiss his offer.
“You need the one for sensitivity. Please take that one.”
You shuffle awkwardly. “Okay.” You whisper before disappearing back in the bathroom.
Spencer doesn’t sit back down. His knees feel like they’re locking and his lungs feel like they’re shrinking.
“Okay…” You announce quietly as you step back through the threshold, this time with a full bag.
You want to shrink yourself away under Spencer’s longingly stare. Leaving a bad man is rewarding. Leaving a good man is remorseful. Leaving a man like Spencer — the most beautifully layered, thoughtfully loving, good hearted, gentle, patient, and perfectly everything man — feels impossible. Even if you manage to pick your feet up off the floor and drag your beat up sneaker bottoms to the old wooden apartment door, the look he’s giving you will still haunt every room you enter for the rest of your life. Every morning coffee you’ll make, you’ll reach for his dorky chemistry pun mug too. Every time you laugh, you’ll look to your left hoping to see him there. Every hard night will feel heavier without his gentle reassurances and soft kisses. Every book will smell like him and every record scratch will sound like his quiet humming along to an old James Taylor song. Spencer is part of your life no matter what you decide to do during your time at Emily’s apartment.
He watches you like his soul wants to leave his body and attach to yours.
You move towards the door and Spencer mumbles something about helping you but you politely decline, telling him that you’ve got it.
He steps in slow pace behind you.
The dimly lit space near the door feels claustrophobic, like being trapped in a raging sea of white water at night.
“I’ll do anything…” Spencer confesses, heartbreak lacing his words. His eyes flit across your face.
His heart slows for a second as you drop the bag at your feet and step forward. He melts into you as you wrap your arms around his neck and embrace him tightly. The soft material of your shirt brushes his skin as his arm snakes around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head. He buries his distraught face into your neck, a few of his tears slide down the strands of your hair. Your bodies are flush against one another and he hears you softly say “me too.”
A moment passes and you pull back. You brush his hair back, gazing into his tearful eyes. He leans into your touch as your thumb wipes the glistening streaks of tears off his flushed cheeks.
“I’ll do anything.” He repeats. “Just tell me.”
“I’ll tell you what I need when I figure it out.” You whisper. He nods against your hand before turning his face and placing a kiss against your palm.
His hand reaches up and grasps yours, pulling it into his chest between the both of you. His eyes stay locked onto yours, afraid that even with an eidetic memory he’d forget them.
Your hand slides off his sweater vest clad chest as you step backwards, closer to the door. Your interlocked hands slowly and delicately pull apart. Spencer watches you pick up your bag and before you can talk yourself out of it, you open the door.
With a few minutes left in the day, Spencer quietly says through choked back tears “happy birthday, Y/n.”
Your heart can’t take anything else. You quickly step into the hallway and close the door behind you. Both of you pretend to not hear the other cry from the other side.
content — fluff. humour. fem!bau!reader. casual mention of sex. loosely based on season four episode nine. case talk. nondescript injury to reader.
you explain to spence the difference between a nice guy and a ‘nice guy’.
“i don’t understand this.”
morgan spun on his chair, “what’s that, wonder boy?”
the files he was flicking through were baffling him. each of the interview transcripts read the same sort of thing. ‘oh, he was a textbook ‘nice guy’ you know’, or something to that effect.
you were the one conducting that set of witness interviews, and the text before him showed no confusion on your part as you continued your original line of questioning. concluding this meant you understood, spencer ignored derek’s response and instead got up to find you. predictably, in garcia’s office, watching unreleased films, seeing as your paperwork was long completed.
“can i ask you something?” he interjected, causing penelope to throw popcorn at him as a consequence of her surprise.
“can you knock?” she quipped back, but he wasn’t really listening to her. spencer could become pretty single minded when he set his focus on something, especially if it was something he didn’t understand.
you excused yourself and followed him into the hall. the simple window on your right showed nothing but the clouded night sky, meaning only a few people lingered in the office now. spencer turned the light on by reaching past your head to the switch, while you tried to ignore the way your stomach felt upon having him lean over you.
clearing your throat, you addressed him, “what did ya need, spence?”
he showed you what he’d been preoccupied with, “what does this mean? we profiled our unsub as desperate, creepy, and we were right. why did they all describe him as a nice guy?”
you pondered for a moment on how best to explain it to him before you answered.
“they’re kind of being sarcastic. a textbook ‘nice guy’ is a guy who really pities himself, quotes ‘nice guys finish last’, that sort of thing. he thinks he’s so kind, and for that women owe him sex, so when they don’t meet that standard, he just believes women only like jerks. he sees himself as good, but he doesn’t comprehend why women would take offence to his sexual reward system for human decency.”
spencer frowned, “there are enough of them that women have a collective name for this?”
you nodded, “trademarked and everything.”
“really?”
“no, kidding.”
he smiled at you and you returned it, his curiosity fulfilled and his faith in humanity slightly lessened, as it was case by case.
a few days later, you were all jetting off to another police department, examining files and bouncing theories. spencer sat on your left, the only one close enough to hear the low rumble of your stomach. chuckling to himself, he produced a breakfast bar from his satchel and slid it over to you. the overjoyed expression on your face at food, and food in your favourite flavour, prompted him to remember your ‘nice guy’ conversation.
you offered him your thanks and he answered, “you’re welcome. no sex required.”
even though he was half kidding, half sincere, you gave him a whole laugh, easy and unabashed. the smile he donned was satisfied at initiating such glee from you.
as the investigation progressed, the danger became more and more apparent. the team knew someone was going to end up hurt, but it didn’t stop them from flinching as they saw you swinging your legs in the back of an ambulance, taking emergency blood supply. you rolled your eyes at their concern, “really, i’m fine guys. just a scratch.”
they weren’t so quick to dismiss your injury, but they didn’t hover. they had protocol to follow, local cops to brief, and press to alert. the only one who lingered was spencer, awkwardly sitting next to you at your invitation. he thought about wrapping an arm around your bare shoulder as a chill set in the air, but was too afraid to dislodge the tube. you bit the bullet of his worrying and leaned until he was prompted to support you.
“are you alright?” he knew it wasn’t the right thing to ask you, but he wasn’t sure what else to say in that moment, not when you were pressed against him so the warmth from your body bled through his vest to his own skin.
you gave a light shrug, but didn’t comment further, instead saying, “you’re nice, spencer. the real way.”
he hummed, “how’d you know?”
“nice guy trademark would’ve tried to kiss me by now. you’re just holding me.”
he knew what he was about to admit was a risk, but the question burned in his throat, “what if i wanted to? kiss you?”
you looked up at him and his heart skipped a beat. if he tried, he could count every one of your eyelashes, even though a few were clumped together by smudges of mascara that had congealed in your initial reaction to the wound. there was a brightness in your irises that sparked something in his chest. the hand you could move freely came up to his face, which had become flushed. you could feel the heat beneath your palm, but couldn’t make it out visually with his back to the ambulance light.
i would KILL for a spencer reid x bau!reader who greets each other after a case is over like the taylor/travis post-concert video 🙏
Thanks lovely!
Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 453 words
By the time he gets off the jet, Spencer’s exhausted. The team had spent all of the previous night working the case and then arresting the killer in the early hours of the morning, and he hadn’t even been able to catch a wink on the five-hour flight back from California. The sun is too bright, his back hurts from hunching over a desk all night, and he really, really wants to demolish some takeout from the Chinese place across from his apartment.
None of that matters when he enters the building and sees you already on your way to greet him. Your walk turns smoothly into a run as a smile breaks out on your face, and even though he’s ready for it, Spencer makes a little “oof” when you throw your arms around his neck.
You squeeze him tight, an almost inaudible squealing sound coming from the back of your throat as you press your head into his neck for a split-second before pulling back and kissing him. Spencer smiles against your lips, and you have to stop when it catches, your teeth clacking together.
“Missed you,” you say, beaming up at him.
He keeps one hand around your waist while using the other to clear the hair from your forehead, dropping a kiss there. “Missed you more.”
“Not possible.” You give him another squeeze, going up on your tiptoes to hook your chin over his shoulder.
“Does this have to happen every time?” Prentiss asks, brushing past the two of you.
Spencer can feel your silent laughter under his palm. “Only as long as I’m on desk duty,” you say. You lower yourself to the ground to send a pointed look in Hotch’s direction.
He doesn’t look up from his phone, large fingers punching comically tiny buttons as he texts. “One more week,” he says, going up the stairs to his office.
You’re disappointed but not surprised, frown evaporating when Spencer laughs at you. He palms your face, tilting it up for another quick peck. “Did you really think you were going to sway Hotch with PDA?”
“Worth a try,” you chirp, chasing him for more, but Spencer dodges you and you hit his chin. You’re fine with that, and you kiss it again to show it. “Bribery’s all I’ve got.”
“Once your hip has healed, we’ll be happy to have you back out there with us.”
You hum. “Sure, whatever. Hey, want to grab takeout from that place across the street on our way home? You must be hungry.”
Spencer’s hand traces a path down the inside of your arm until he gets to your hand, intertwining your fingers as you walk towards the elevator. “You have no idea.”
summary: You and Spencer are caught going out by an all-too-familiar face, causing the two of you to have a talk about the logistics of your relationship.
word count: 1.1k
warnings: the fluffiest fluff anyone has ever seen
“Hey hey, put that wallet away,” Spencer says as you pull your wallet out from your purse. He never let you pay for dinner, even though you begged every time. You will admit, it is nice to always have your dinner paid for, however, you felt bad having him spend so much money on you.
“No. I want to pay tonight. You always pay,” you said and opened your wallet.
“My payment is having the world’s prettiest girlfriend. I’m paying for dinner, that's final.” He gently grabs your wrist from across the table, stopping you from making any further moves with the wallet. “Got it?”
“Fine, but I’m buying you a coffee in the morning.” You put the wallet back in your purse and give Spencer a smile. You playfully click your shoes with his underneath the table and take a final sip of your drink. Spencer places a credit card on the small black booklet on the edge of the table.
The waitress comes and collects the booklet, giving the two of you a quick smile and says she’ll be right back.
Spencer hands her a five dollar and two one dollar bills as a tip, and she makes her way to the register.
Spence lets go of your wrist and points his finger at you. “You,” he says, waves his finger at you as he says the words, “should come hang out at my apartment tonight.”
The waitress comes back and hands Spencer his card. “You guys have a good night,” she says as she backs up to let the two of you out of the booth then proceeding to clear off the table.
Spencer laces his hand with yours as the two of you weave through tables to exit the restaurant. “We can watch a movie or something,” he leans into your ear as you walk.
“I would love to, Spence,” you say and open the door to exit.
“Spencer Reid?” a familiar woman's voice says as the two of you walk out hand-in-hand. You feel his grip tighten.
The woman was blonde and very pregnant. She was with a thin goateed man.
“Oh, hey JJ,” Spencer says, stopping his step. “How’s it going?”
“Great, I can’t believe you have a girlfriend and didn’t tell me!” JJ looks at you, her mouth immediately becoming agape. “Y/N?”
Yeah, no one knew you and Spencer were seeing each other.
“Hey, JJ…” You say, happy to see her, but in a little bit of an awkward situation.
“How long? How long has this been going on?” She says, looking over at her boyfriend, Will excitedly.
“Um about a month,” you begin to say before being interrupted by Mr. Exact.
“35 days,” Spencer says matter-of-factly.
“That’s crazy! Oh my god I can’t believe this. Does anyone else know?” JJ would probably be jumping for joy right now if she wasn’t 9 months pregnant. Will just looked at her lovingly.
“No, we haven’t told anyone yet, we wanted to wait until our relationship was solid.” Spencer said, letting go of your hand and wrapping his arm around your waist.
“Seems pretty solid to me,” you say under your breath and lean into Spencer.
“You have to tell the team! They’d be so excited,” JJ exclaims.
“Yeah, we’re going to, we’re just not sure when.” Spencer says.
“It better be before I come back from maternity leave. If you guys aren’t BAU official by the Christmas party you will be sorry.” JJ playfully threatens before being dragged to the door by Will who waves goodbye.
You and Spencer begin walking to his car. “You know, That felt good. To finally tell someone,” you said and lean further into Spencer as your steps match up.
“Yeah, it did,” Spencer says, “What movie do you want to watch?”
“The Red Circle is always good.”
“Yeah, but I think I want to watch more of an immature movie. I need a break.”
“How about WALL-E?”
“WALL-E sounds awesome.”
Spencer let go of your waist when you reached his car. He opened the passenger door for you, helping you in by your hand, then hurried around to get in the car himself.
_____
“I think we should tell the team,” Spencer says. You were sat between his legs on his couch leaned against his shoulder. One of his arms was wrapped around you, the other hand was playing with your hair. He halted his movements once the words came out of his mouth. It was almost as if he didn’t mean to say it outloud.
“What?” You ask, turning to look at him. The lighting from the t.v. hit his face, bringing attention to the rosy blush bleeding through his cheeks.
“I um… I want to tell the team we’re together,” he repeats. Your mouth falls open, unsure of what to say. “I know it’s early, but I just, I don’t want to have to hide you from them. You’re so special to me.”
“Spencer…”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to yet, I know it could put a lot of pressure on a new relationship, but I…”
You need to shut him up. You lean in and plant a kiss on his lips, letting your breath linger on his mouth. “No, if you’re ready to tell everyone, I’ll be there every step of the way.” His eyes light up. He looks so happy.
“I’m so lucky to have you.” He leans his head into your shoulder and gently pecks a kiss on your collarbone. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He looks up at you and smiles, resting his chin against your chest.
You loved when he let you baby him like this. It took him a while to be comfortable enough to let his guard down like this around you, but once he was able to, he basically never stopped. He loved being able to have someone to care for him as it was something he never experienced, even as a child.
WALL-E is playing in the background, the scene where he is showing EVE around his house illuminating the room. Spencer looks up at you, eyes glowing. He nuzzles into your chest, careful not to bump your breasts. He was so respectful; the sweetest boy.
“What, Spencer?” you ask, keeping your voice smooth and calm. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but you had to make sure not to seem annoyed as he was sensitive.
“You’re so pretty,” he says, then buries his head in the crook of your neck.
That’s not what he wants to say, but you comb your fingers through his hair and say, “thank you.” You feel him mumble something into your chest. “What, baby?” you ask him.
“Y/n,” he says, you hum in response, “I think I’m in love with you.”
You can’t help but smile. “I think I’m in love with you, too, Spence,” you say, grabbing his chin and leading his face up to kiss him.
_____
next chapter: J is for "Just So You Know"
other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist
view the masterlist in a calendar version!
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BUY ME A COFFEE
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a/n: hiii :3 i'm currently on break from school and have the next two days off from work, i'm going to try to grind so hard and try my best to get the christmas part out on the 25th, but if that doesn't happen please don't get upset at me... it will 100% be out in december, as the new years part is for sure being posted on the 31st. have an awesome night guys !!
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Content Warnings: Family court discussion, mentioned verbal/domestic violence
Part Two
Spencer didn’t talk too much about the separation between him and his ex-wife anymore, just that she was verbally abusive and one day, she just said something she couldn’t take back. Something unfixable. He didn’t like to hash the whole thing out anymore, not since custody court three years ago, but times like this were unavoidable.
“Baby, tell me what’s wrong.” You sit beside Spencer on the couch, squeezing his hand. You guys had been dating for almost two years. God, you lived with him and Beth now. His daughter, Beth, was nearly six and you’d watched her grow from a wobbly three year old to a smart, independent first grader with a good heart.
“I have to go back to family court.” He sighed. Just about the last thing you’d expected from him.
Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of him having to relive family court. It was hell for him to have to drive his daughter to court and listen to her mother badmouth him in front of her. “Why the hell would you have to do that again?” You asked, frustrated with the government he worked for.
“Beth’s mom was arrested. I think they’re charging her for domestic violence against her new boyfriend.” Spencer said, hanging his head low. You wrapped your arm around his shoulder, scratching his head. “They’re going to give me full custody of Beth, at least for now.”
His last comment made you sit up. “Well that’s kind of great, Spence.” You said, brimming with an excitement that was clearly unmutual.
“I don’t know.” Spencer sighed, running his hands through his hair then turning to you. “It sucked not having Beth around on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, but realistically, it worked out. I can’t take care of her week-round, it just won’t work with my job.”
You saw how badly it killed him, having to choose between Beth and his job. His baby or his work. “Baby, I live here. I’ll take care of her, I do all the time. It’s really okay, our lives will be the same. I’ll just drive her to school and home before and after my shifts at the bookstore.” You explained, lightly twirling his curls around your finger. All it was was a small schedule change.
Spencer looked at you again, but with a tear running down his cheek. “I can’t ask you to do that.” He shook his head.
“You’re not asking me to. I’m doing it.” You assured him, brushing his hair out of his face. “Spencer,” You never called him Spencer. Only when things were really serious. “I hope you know I think of Beth as my own daughter. I don’t just live here with you, I live with her too. I make dinner for both of you, we watch movies all together. We’re a family.”
He broke down at the realization of it. You were a family. “Spencer,” You drew in a long pause, “You have a family.” You told him again. This was his family. And he needed to know that you were going to operate like one, too.
Even though tears spilled from his eyes uncontrollably, something like a smile was across his face. He curled up on the couch, laying his head in your lap as you scratched his back lightly. His eyes were closed when he was met with little hands wiping away his tears.
Spencer’s eyelids opened slowly to see Beth holding his face. “Why are you sad Daddy?” She asked, already in her pj nightgown.
Spencer sat upright, “I’m not. I’m happy,” He said with a smile, “I’m very happy, actually.” He looked at you, wiping away the last of his tears as Beth climbed in between you and Spencer.
“Then why are you crying? You’re not supposed to cry about happy things, Daddy.” Beth told him, giggling at the thought.
Spencer shook his head, laughing too. “I don’t know.” You were almost sure Beth had never heard him say that.
“I thought you knew everything!” Beth laughed as you picked her up and placed her in Spencer’s lap.
“I think we should watch a movie tonight since there’s no school tomorrow.” You suggested, grabbing the remote and logging into Disney+.
Beth loved the idea of that, watching you scroll through the movies until she decided on Enchanted. “That one with Giselle!” She pointed.
You pressed play and pulled a blanket off of the end of the couch. You laid the blanket over you, Spencer, and Beth’s laps as Spencer wrapped an arm around you and one around his daughter. You snuggled closer, watching the movie until you heard Beth’s little snores begin.
“Hey, I’m gonna tuck her in.” Spencer whispered, gently carrying her to her bedroom.
Spencer laid her in her bed, careful not to wake her, but his efforts were useless. Beth was a light sleeper. “Hi Daddy.” She whispered.
“Darn it, I woke you up.” Spencer smiled, sitting at the edge of her little bed.
Beth shook her head, “It’s okay, I can fall asleep again.” Beth smiled up at Spencer and just for a moment Spencer had completely forgotten about all earlier events, but Beth hadn’t.
“Daddy, do you have a secret?” Beth whispered, grabbing hold of Spencer’s hair and twirling it around her tiny fingers.
Spencer sighed, questioning whether or not he should tell her. He figured it was sort of now or in court. “Well you know how you stay with mommy for most of the week?” He reminded her and was met with a cute nod. “We’re going to have to go back to court on Monday because Mommy’s got to go away for a little while. You’re gonna say bye-bye to Mommy because she might be gone for a few months. While she’s gone, you’re gonna stay here all week and weekend.” Spencer told her, lightly swiping his thumb over her cheek just in case she might be upset by the news.
“The whole time Mommy is gone, I’ll be here?” She asked, with a dull face. Spencer really couldn’t tell whether or not she was upset.
Nervously, he replied. “Yes. But everything will be okay. When I’m at work, Y/N is going to take care of you.”
“They’re taking Mommy because she’s mean, probably. Does that mean Y/N can be my mommy now?” Spencer was taken aback by this. He thought Beth didn’t really notice the things her mom did. But he also knew he didn’t want her to think her mother was a bad guy, even though Spencer thought she was.
“Mommy is not actually mean, she just said things that were mean.” Spencer cleared the air, yet still avoided addressing Beth’s question.
“Daddy, I think you’re wrong for once.” Beth said with a smile, almost giddily.
Spencer threw his hands up with a laugh, “How am I wrong?” He asked, tossing a soft stuffed animal at her in defense.
“Don’t you know Mommy is mean to you? She says mean things about you and to you. You’re wrong. But that’s okay because Y/N can be my mommy while she’s gone, right?” She persisted on Y/N being her new mom again. Her words struck Spencer so deeply, though.
That bitch said things about him to his daughter. Maybe you were right. Maybe this was for the better. “Mommy is going to work on being nicer, okay?” It killed him to sit there, looking at his innocent daughter, knowing how much she knew.
“Daddy,” Beth laughed tauntingly, “What about Y/N? You love her, can she be my mommy?”
Spencer smiled, a little more choked up than he’d liked to admit. “I think…” He had to choose his words carefully, “You already have a mommy, but Y/N can be your mom.” Spencer suggested, with a giddy smile.
“I like it.” Beth said, laughed as Spencer tackled her with a big hug.
Just as she tried to hop on top of him you flicked her bedroom light switch on. “Longest goodnight ever.” You laughed, walking towards the other edge of Beth’s bed.
“Sorry, we were talking. You’re my mom now, Y/N.” Beth said happily, sliding back under the covers. Your whole face blushed at this random comment.
“Oh?” You turned to Spencer, not sure if you were allowed to accept this title or not. Spencer nodded softly. “Okay, that sounds good.” You agreed, tucking her into the blanket, then laying one kiss on her forehead. “Goodnight, Beth.”
You Spencer made your way to the door about to close it when you heard Beth’s little voice, “Night-night Daddy! Night-night Mama!”
summary: a gideon hasn’t stepped foot in the BAU since jason disappeared. you’re his niece, fresh on the job, and you step in carefully and calibrated with steady shoes and an intention to separate yourself. you expect to see a singular face you know and for your last name to precede you. what you don’t expect is to spend the whole day almost meeting a man in scuffed Converse and then learning, right on your way out, that that man is the face of a name you’ve already known for years.
genre: angst (kind of, not really? near genre-less intro chapter lol) | w/c: 5.5k
tags/warnings: reader is jason gideon's niece, reader's first day at the BAU, derek morgan being a flirt as his natural base state but dw he and reader are NOT and never will be interested in each other, being lowkey rude to spencer reid and then dipping, mentions of gideon's disappearance and Ruminating On It Against Reader's Will ™️, ignoring emotions, no use of y/n
a/n: here she comes world, pls be kind to her... gideon!reader you are already so loved by me <3 i'm soooo excited to finally share chapter one after sharing the meet the reader post like six weeks ago lol. intro chapter! meeting everybody! let's get it started!!!
gideon!reader masterlist 🕊️
The first time you wore heels - real ones, with the small, skinny stiletto, the ones that take some effort - you were nineteen. A college student, going on a first date to a restaurant just off campus, and you were wearing classic black heels your mother had gifted you for your birthday earlier in the year. Simple. Normal. Easy.
You met him at the restaurant, the heels in your bag. Changing into them just around the corner made the most sense. You took five steps rounding the curb before losing your balance and slamming your thigh into the corner of a small, metal table. He wasn’t looking, thank god he wasn’t looking - and you wobbled your way slowly, painfully to the front where he was standing. You said hello, you hugged, he said your dress looked nice.
Your dress. And he hadn’t even glanced down at your shoes once. You’d know - you’ve known your entire life how to track a person’s eyes without ever intending to know it, one of many things you learned to notice and never unlearned - and the heels didn’t even register to him. You hobbled, endured a few hours of arch pain, and collected a bruise on your leg for nothing, and doing things for nothing was never something you were particularly good at.
The heels made their way back into your bag just around the same corner and into the depths of your closet on campus. They followed you move after move, apartment after apartment, just in case you needed them; your mom always said it was good to have a reliable pair of simple heels on hand, just in case. Your uncle always preferred to stick to the same three pairs of shoes. These ones know my feet, he would say. You have a closet full of shoes - way too many pairs of overworn sneakers, boots for any occasion, a ratty pair of flats when the occasion requires something a little more formal - and you never understood what he meant by that sentiment more than after that date.
The last time you wore heels - real ones, with the small, skinny stiletto, the ones that take some effort - you were nineteen. They have existed in the depths of many closets in many apartments since.
It makes sense. It’s always made sense. You’ve always preferred the ground to be steady underneath your feet, at least as much as you could guarantee.
So, when you walk into the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico on your first day, 7:45 AM exactly, you show up in loafers. Dark ones with a slight platform underneath them - not a heel, too stable, too easy - sturdy, dependable, clean, ones that only slightly give off your heel with every other step. Ones that could know your feet if you gave them the chance to. You step out of the elevator on the sixth floor, across the small hallway bank, and through the glass doors with your gaze focused low, silently scanning the other footwear choices you see to plan ahead for how likely it is that you can get away with a more casual choice in the future. Or how likely it is, god help you, that you’ll need to fish out the fucking heels.
It’s cool and white and bright, brighter than you expected. You remember your uncle’s complaints about the sulphurous yellow overheads and wonder if he was still here when they evidently changed the lighting.
“Dr. Gideon.” You’re broken out of your thought and your eyes draw to the source of who just called your name, but not before a brief flicker of another musing - I wonder when someone last said the name “Gideon” in here - crosses your mind. It’s Aaron Hotchner, Hotch, and it’s a face you haven’t seen in a long while - the only familiar face you’re expecting to see, the only familiar name you’re expecting to hear. He’s visibly older since the last time you saw him - unsurprising, it’s been a number of years - and something in your chest tightens at the sight. A reminder of how things used to be and an indicator of how they are now. “Welcome in. Come up to my office.”
You pull your bag - black, worn with patina on the straps, nearly hanging on for dear life - tighter over your shoulder and walk across the bullpen, along the side and up the small ramp, pointedly ignoring the eyes you could feel flicker up to you at the mention of your name. When you step into his office, you shut the door behind you. Always assume a closed-door conversation unless you’re told otherwise, you hear from a voice in your head. You have a feeling you’ll be hearing that voice more now, and it’s fine - you’re not sure you’re even remembering it right anymore, anyway, so it’s not quite as cutting.
“Hotch,” you greet, professional and not too warm, not too familiar. “Good to see you.”
He’s standing to the side of his desk with a demeanor that you’d expect from the Unit Chief of the BAU, a demeanor distinctly different than the off the off-the-clock one you remember from years ago.
A sliver of that version breaks through, and it almost seems out of place - his face softens and he gives you a smile, fond and small but undeniable. “It’s good to see you. I won’t undermine your first day by welcoming you with a hug in front of the team.”
You laugh, surprised, and drop your head - it’s the first sense of calm, however fleeting, you’ve felt about this entire situation in days. “I appreciate it,” you say, relaxing just a notch. “I’m already mentally preparing for the name preceding me out there.”
“You’ve earned your place here,” he says, retreating to behind his desk and back into the work persona he almost seems more comfortable in. “Don’t doubt that, and don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.” He nods at the window overlooking the bullpen. “Nobody out there wants to see you fail. You may see some familiar faces, and they’ll certainly want to see you thrive.”
“You’re the only familiar face, to be honest,” you say ruefully, thumbing at one of the straps of your bag and glancing down at his desk. “I knew names. Not faces.”
And it was intentional. Your uncle would always tell you stories about the team, the cases over the years, the different agents that came and went through these very doors, and never once did you see a photo. It was your preference - it was more fun to craft a story in your head, to imagine what these profilers looked like, to profile them yourself based on the details you had, and never once check to see if you were right. But you know Hotch. You’ve known him for years - nearly a decade of seeing him at your uncle’s house, from a freshly minted BAU agent to becoming the Unit Chief, and seeing all of the pressure from that reality melting away with a scotch in his hand in Jason’s second armchair. He would ask where you were thinking of going to college and offer a letter of recommendation, what you were thinking of studying and be entirely unsurprised by your answer of forensic psychology, what you thought of a case long closed and share a look with your uncle across their glasses that you learned to read as she’s like you. And that notice, that connection, used to make you brim with pride.
Now, it’s tinged with a sour taste that you’d rather not look at all too closely.
“Well, familiar names, then,” he amends, grabbing a file from his desk. “At any rate, I’m glad you’re here. I’d give you a rundown, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be anything you haven’t heard before, and I trust you read the paperwork sent to you ahead of time.” You did. Of course you did. You’re an academic at heart; there’s not a single line of a single paper that comes your way that you don’t read, and read again, and read a third time for subtext. “I just wanted to greet you first before the welcoming committee does.” He looks up again with another smile, humorous but fainter this time, one so slight it wouldn’t register as such to anyone who didn’t know him. “Go get settled in; your desk is roughly in the middle with what seems to now have a small plant on it.” You turn and look through the glass to see a succulent sitting in the center of a desk roughly in the middle and a woman in a pink dress and - god damn it - heels that are at least three inches high scurrying away.
With a raised eyebrow and an amused twitch of a smile, you turn back to Hotch. “Welcoming committee?”
He exhales something that someone might argue could almost be a laugh. “Something like that. Don’t be alarmed if you have a basket or twelve on your desk by the end of the day.” You let out a breath of a laugh of your own and turn to the door; your hand just gets to the handle when he says your name and you turn around. “You’re here for a reason. You probably recognized your vetting process was a bit expedited, but that doesn’t make you any less qualified for the job. I knew what I was doing when I prioritized your application. You’re also not the first person to receive an exemption from some of the requirements.” And when he looks up at you, there’s that Unit Chief demeanor, the one you anticipated, the one you’re sure you’ll see nearly exclusively after today. “Don’t make me regret it.”
You nod once with a tight-lipped smile and push down on the handle. “I won’t.”
“He’d be proud if he knew you were here.”
And there it is. You’re halfway out the door, turned away, when he says it, and you pause. You falter for just a fraction of a second before schooling it back - a tick of the jaw, a blink, a swallow, and an exhale - and responding drier than you mean to before walking back out into the white of the bullpen. “Yeah. If he knew.”
݁⋆⭒˚.⋆
“Did I hear Hotch right earlier? We’ve got a Gideon back in the house?”
You’re sitting at your desk for no more than two minutes, the succulent with its accompanying Welcome, new agent and friend! note pushed gently to the side, when you look up to find the source of the voice.
You don’t bristle - it’s not something you like to do if you can help it, and you can help it, you have plenty of experience helping it - you just give a smile that you hope isn’t as forced as it feels and stand as you reply, “You heard right. Nice to meet you.” And you extend your hand, giving your name, title and all.
The man whistles low and shakes your hand - strong, firm. “Another doctor. I might be outnumbered one day.” He drops his hand and flashes a smile, warm and welcoming. “Derek Morgan. Brains, but not that kind. Just brawn, mostly.”
“Don’t flirt with the new girl,” a new voice says, and you turn to see a woman with dark hair and a wry smile walking over. You glance down - black booties with a tall heel. Shoe analysis sample subject two - results unclear - leaning towards a negative outcome. “Don’t mind him. He can’t help it.”
“I’m not flirting,” Morgan argues, and you’re really not all that convinced. “Don’t mind her. Ninety percent of what comes out of her mouth is giving me shit.”
The woman, who’s fully made her way over to your desk now and is leaning her hip against it, exhales a laugh with a smirk. “The other ten percent is invaluable life advice. I’ve heard it’s confusing to tell which is which,” she replies drily. She extends her hand to you. “Emily Prentiss. Welcome to the team. Don’t report him to HR - that’s just how he sounds.”
You laugh and shake her hand, mentally noting the two names you remember and trying not to let it show. “Noted. I won’t cause a scene on day one.”
“Don’t write it off so early,” Morgan says, grinning. “The morning is young.”
“The morning is about to get started,” you hear, and the three of you turn your attention to see Hotch standing outside his office. “We’ve got a case. Remote consult for now, but we’ll see how it progresses. Conference room in five.”
Prentiss sighs audibly and gives you a look, equal parts sympathetic and intrigued. “So much for a slow start.” She pushes off the desk and nods behind her. “C’mon, Gideon. Let’s get you a coffee before you’re thrown to the wolves.”
݁⋆⭒˚.⋆
Three minutes later, with a coffee that serves only as a means for caffeine in your hand, you and Prentiss walk into the conference room - large glass windows, a roundtable in the center, a display screen on the far wall - and see a new face sitting - blonde hair, kind eyes, and small kitten heels.
You briefly, painfully, think to yourself that you’re going to need to request desk duty, lest you twist your ankle on the field.
“You must be the new agent,” she says, smiling, standing and leaning just enough to offer her hand. “Jennifer Jareau. Everyone calls me JJ.”
You go through the motions - same introduction, same handshake - and when you say Gideon, something brief flashes in her eyes. You remember her name. You know she is - was, apparently, if she’s sitting here with files in front of her - the team’s media liaison that worked with Jason for several years, and that she’s relatively young, probably only a few years older than you. You know she, like the others you already met this morning, is on the long list of folks who were left behind, left to wonder.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, warmly, and you can tell she actually means it. “Welcome to the team. If you need anything, genuinely anything, let me know. It can be a lot, and a lot of questions can seem like they’re not worth asking when they actually are.”
Your lips twitch up in shy amusement before you can help it. “Is it worth asking if I need to wear heels to the office? Because nobody needs to see that, but the women here are three-for-three so far, so the odds seem against me.”
She laughs, bright and surprised, and shakes her head as she sits back down. “Absolutely not. I’m used to running around in these things,” she wiggles her foot back and forth, “but there’s really no dress code here besides looking put together in whatever way that means to you. Hotch wears suits and dress shoes daily. Prentiss wears a blazer or a tee, depending on the day. Morgan wears henleys so tight they may cut off his circulation.”
“I haven’t heard any complaints,” Morgan replies, striding into the conference room. He glances down at your shoes. “You could wear orthotic slip-ons and be fine. If you can run in ‘em, you can wear ‘em.”
You sigh in relief, audibly, and sit in a chair on the other side of the table. “You both just removed sixty percent of my stress for the day.”
“If that’s all it takes,” Prentiss says, sitting next to you, “you’ll be just fine.”
Hotch and the woman from earlier - the one you assume left the succulent and promptly scurried away - walk in, with him settling in at the head of the table and her spotting you and pausing just past the doorway.
“Hello, hello,” she starts, and from the tone in her voice coupled with her outfit, you feel pretty confident that you know who she is immediately. “You must be Gideon.” She says your first name, like it’s a critical piece she meant to say out loud, and hurries to drop her things on the table by the screen. “You’re a doctor. I’m telling you information you already know about yourself - it’s part of my whole thing - I’m the only one who knew exactly who was coming besides Hotch, background checks and all that, and I am so excited you’re here.”
“And you must be Garcia, I assume,” you say, smiling gently, tentatively. “I’ve heard you have enough information to be scary but enough personality to negate it.” You pause, and your face falters slightly. “Sorry. That was- that was supposed to be a joke, but in a complimentary way. Like-” you cut yourself off and sigh and visibly deflate an inch in your chair. “Nevermind.”
And in response, Garcia just laughs while she walks over to your chair. “That is extremely complimentary, and I knew exactly what you meant, and I’m thrilled my legacy expands beyond these spectacularly spooky walls.” She leans down and hugs you from the side of your chair, and you physically freeze for half a second before reaching back up and returning it in perhaps the most awkward hugging position you’ve ever been in. “Again, so happy you’re here. The more, the merrier, and we need more merry in this place.” She lets go and backs up, seemingly unfazed by the awkward angle, before click-clacking her way back over to the screen.
“Let’s get started,” Hotch says, and you’re grateful for what seems to be the end of the first-day introductions. You never were good at, or fond of, icebreaker pleasantries. “Has anybody seen-”
“The kid’s been in the file room for thirty full minutes looking for something,” a new voice says, but it’s familiar. You could place it, you think, if you thought about it hard enough. “I just buzzed down to him; he’ll be up in a few, but he can catch up. Always does.” The voice walks in and when you both look at each other at the same time, something in you falters. Because of course you could place that voice. But it’s a voice you haven’t heard in years - at least fifteen, you think - and it’s a face you, quite frankly, didn’t prepare yourself to see.
Because last you heard, David Rossi retired. Evidently, that was short-lived. Evidently, one of the earliest ghosts from your uncle’s life in the BAU has come back to haunt the place once again.
He looks at you and says your name like you’re the last person he expected to see. Not disappointed, not glad, just- unexpected. Hesitant, uncharacteristically so. Like he also thought that the last time he saw you - still a child, still listening to stories about how the BAU was founded from two of the very founders like you were hearing superhero stories before bedtime - was the last time he would ever see you. “It’s been a while.”
You exhale a near-laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Something like that.”
The hesitance evidently passes as quickly as it came, and he gives you that nod of acknowledgement you remember all too well before sitting. “Welcome to the team. This room could deeply benefit from some good old-fashioned nepotism knowledge transfer.”
And you know it’s not even meant as a slight, coming from him, as much as it may sound like one. You know Rossi - you at least used to. It’s a compliment wrapped in his dry tone, a kind acknowledgement in fewer words and more deniable language. You give him the same nod back and turn your attention to the folder that’s been placed in front of you.
Hotch pulls the room back to focus. “It looks like you’ve all met Dr. Gideon already. She’s joining us from Georgetown and the DC field office with a specialized focus on criminal psychology and scene analysis - MO, signature, the works.” He looks at you and nods once, which you return, before turning his attention back to the room. “Garcia, you can begin.”
And she does, and for maybe four minutes, you fall into the comfort of analysis. Problem scoping. The beginnings of falling into the work, into the unanswered questions, that you’ve always loved.
Four minutes of comfort, it seems, is all you’ve been allotted.
The door creaks open and another agent - the kid, you presume, mentioned earlier - hurries into the conference room, murmuring a small apology as he finds an open seat across the table from you. The first thing you notice is how young he looks, Rossi’s nickname really wasn’t kidding; he’s got an almost boyish face with brown hair that looks like a hand’s been run through it too many times. As he folds himself into the seat, shoving a weathered messenger bag under his chair and dropping a pile of files and books onto the table in front of him as silently as possible, you also notice how uncharacteristically non-FBI he looks. It’s not the height that gives you pause; it’s the almost apologetic nature with which he seems to shuffle through the room, his long limbs seemingly just along for the ride. You wonder if he’s new, too; maybe another recent hire still fumbling his way around the department, finding his footing, learning how to carry himself. He crosses one leg over the other and grabs the pertinent file for the case, and you clock the scuffed Converse he’s wearing. A twitch of a smile starts on your face, and you make a mental note to wear your own tomorrow; at least you won’t be alone in it. He catches your eye and gives you a small, almost awkward smile, and you’re sure the one you return is nearly identical.
The initial case brief rolls on for a short while longer, fifteen minutes at most, and it’s mostly preliminary guiding questions and observations, notes and suggestions the team can pass along to the requesting field office before any call is made on officially pulling you all in beyond a consult. The team, you realize quickly, truly does function as a unit; everyone clearly has their specialties and is clearly here for a reason, and the reasons blend well together, even on a surface-level consult case like this. You can’t help but note Converse-guy’s deep knowledge of geographic profiling, and you make another mental note to ask him to give you a rundown of the basics at some point; geography, or the analysis of such, has never been your strong suit.
At the end of the brief, the team starts to file out with no further action for now and the guidance to spend the morning finishing up paperwork from last week’s cases. You and Converse-guy are standing, you tossing your things back into your bag and him nudging his files and books into a manageable stack to carry.
“Gideon,” Hotch says, and you can’t help but notice the almost sharp silence that comes from across the table, the shuffling of the stack pausing immediately. “You can take the opportunity to get mandatory trainings out of the way today. This might be the last slow morning you see for a while.”
You nod. “Noted,” you say, and you tug your bag over your shoulder. You open your mouth to introduce yourself to Converse-guy, figuring you might as well get the whole yeah, Gideon, you heard it right, yeah, Jason’s my uncle, I know, BAU founder, hard to find anyone in this department who hasn’t heard the name even in passing like it seems you must have, out of the way, but he pulls a file from his pile and darts over to Hotch, showing a page of something and murmuring questions. You tell yourself you’ll find him later and make your way out of the conference room, back to your desk, coffee in your hand gone lukewarm already.
݁⋆⭒˚.⋆
Most of the first day passes quickly and painlessly, all things considered. You take your badge photo and finish your trainings just before lunch, which you eat at your desk with a single headphone in; Garcia pulls you into her “lair” in the early afternoon to show you what she can do for you, which, the answer is pretty much anything; Morgan and Prentiss pull you over to review a report they’re writing up and give you a rundown; you avoid eye contact with Rossi, which is not all that hard to do when he’s clearly letting you have it; JJ invites you for a walk and asks about you - where you grew up, your time in the field office and what you did before that, your aversion to heels - and tells you about her life in return, mostly her son Henry; Hotch checks in on you precisely once and murmurs a one-word acknowledgement before going back into his office; and you try and fail to almost introduce yourself to Converse-guy three times. He’s barely been at his desk all day, and when he is and you tell yourself to get up in two minutes and go say hello like a normal new coworker, he ends up on a phone call, or heading to the breakroom for another coffee with a frequency that seems genuinely concerning, or running files in and out of the bullpen. You’d think he was avoiding you if you knew each other already.
The day winds down, eventually. Most of the team has dispersed and gone home for the day, with Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ filtering out and tossing goodbyes your way. Garcia’s down the hall, she told you earlier she’ll be here until you leave in case you need anything, which is a kindness you weren’t expecting but also aren’t arguing. Hotch is in his office, behind a closed door, the sign of a man who doesn’t need a goodbye at the end of the day and doesn’t leave until the work is done. You’re at your desk, filling out your firearms qualification paperwork to get it on the schedule.
Rossi’s the next to leave, and you look up at the sound of him leaving his office before you can help it. You meet each other’s eyes and give each other a single nod, an acknowledgement of a day completed. It’s all he does before looking ahead and keeping his stride, and you look back at your desk, silently grateful.
It is, unfortunately, a short-lived feeling of gratitude.
You hear it when you’re signing your own name at the bottom of the last form, and you have to pause after writing the e because it genuinely stops you in your tracks.
“Night, Reid. Don’t stay here too late.”
Reid.
There’s only one person left in the bullpen besides you and Rossi. Converse-guy.
“You say that every night,” Reid replies, and the sound of his voice lands differently now that you know who’s speaking.
“And I’ll keep saying it until it sticks, kid.” Rossi walks out the glass doors, and you finally bring your pen back to paper, at least for long enough to finish signing your name, the slight disconnect in ink in the cursive of your last name staring back at you like a taunt.
Spencer Reid. You feel like a complete moron for not putting two and two together yourself. He froze when Hotch said your name. His geographical profiling knowledge is something you heard about for years and then, today, witnessed firsthand. He’s visibly young and clearly bright, and you already know he’s two years older than you. Earlier, you’d have thought he was avoiding you if you knew each other already, except you do know each other already, in a way, so he was avoiding you.
You can’t blame him. If you knew it was him earlier, you’d have almost introduced yourself zero times instead of three.
You finish signing and dating each paper and slide them into the folder. You had planned to hand them into Hotch before leaving for the day, but now you can’t imagine spending another second in here today beyond what’s absolutely necessary. The forms can wait. Getting the hell out of here cannot.
The scrape of your chair against the floor as you stand is louder than you intended and you don’t look over to see if he’s noticed. It’s not of interest to you. Nothing about him is. You grab your bag, drop your coffee cup in the small trash can adjacent to your desk, and head towards the bullpen doors.
You make it. You really almost make it.
“Hey.”
You could keep walking. You’re one step from the door, your hand almost at the handle; you could just take the last step and act like you didn’t even hear.
Your body pauses before you make the conscious decision for it to. When you turn, you see Reid spun around in his desk chair, legs crossed in it, facing you. Before you can stop the thought, you wonder how he can even fold his limbs in to fit like that. His hair looks more unruly, and he’s a bit more rumpled, than before; the natural progression of a long day at work that you’re less than pleased you’re still here to see.
He says your name. Just your first name. “You’re–” he pauses, visibly considering whether to continue and if so, how. “You’re his niece.”
His. He can’t even say your last name, or your uncle’s first. You’re not sure you’d want to hear it, anyway.
You nod, twice, and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, failing to think about your reply before it’s out. “You’re his prodigy.”
It lands. You watch it land. If it were anyone else, you’d probably feel bad about it. “That’s-” he pauses, starting too quickly, which you already know is, apparently, his natural state. He’s quieter when he continues. “That’s not exactly accurate.”
“Accurate enough,” you reply with a shrug. You should turn around and leave. “You heard my name and avoided me all day.”
Reid winces at that, almost embarrassed. Good, you think, before you can help it. “I didn’t know what to say to you.”
You take a breath and just look at him for a few quick seconds. He looks nervous, uncomfortable, and curious all at once. You almost wish you cared. You tug your bag tighter again, just to have something to do with your hands. “I didn’t say I minded. Now that I know.”
Now that you know who he is. He shifts in his chair, the discomfort now further manifesting physically, and looks down at his hands in his lap. “Okay.”
You take a beat, standing there, before nodding once and turning back around. The door’s open and you’re halfway out when he adds on, seemingly unable to leave it at that.
“He talked about you a lot.”
The hand you have on the door handle tightens and your jaw tightens before you can stop it. You’re glad you’re facing the elevator. He talked about you a lot. Jason talked about you a lot to his team. Of course he did. He told you he did. He couldn’t stop telling you how proud he was of you, how much of himself he saw in you, how glad he was to tell his team about “the Gideon that would really make the name for the family”. You would’ve asked for details, years ago. You have no interest in details now. You have even less interest in details from Spencer Reid, of all people.
“He talked about you too,” you start, voice even. “He talked about a lot of people.” You, once again, see the clean exit ramp, and you, once again, don’t take it. “I guess that didn’t exactly guarantee a goodbye for anyone but you.”
Without waiting for a reply you don’t want to hear, you make your way out of the doorway, the door falling shut behind you and the elevator waiting ahead. You push the down button and wait impatiently for it to come, to take you away from a first day that went about as far from what you expected as it could have.
You didn’t think you’d have to be reminded, at work, of who your uncle chose instead of you. You didn’t think you’d ever have to put a face to who actually got a goodbye through a letter left in Jason’s cabin.
You decide, as the elevator doors close in front of you, that you’re giving yourself the day to ruminate on it. Spencer Reid has exactly today to infiltrate your thoughts. Tomorrow you’ll show up, and he’ll just be a coworker whose name carries baggage you’re not checking, and you’ll keep to yourself, and you’ll be just fine.
You’re good at being just fine.
༘⋆
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This is Part 30 of my Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Series, however it can also be read on it's own
summary: After you get kidnapped, Spencer calls on the BAU to help find you. By doing that, he learns a part of your life that you had hidden indescribably well, that even a team of FBI profilers, minus your uncle David Rossi, could've guessed.
word count: 11.2k
warnings: fem!reader, rossi’s-niece!reader, established relationship, age gap (26x18), kidnapping, violence, physical assault, blood, vomiting blood, regular vomiting, trauma, dead parents, murder mentions, references to past grief counseling, tobias hankel mentions, drug mentions (dilaudid), references to drug cravings, emotional distress, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, probably some other stuff too
_____
– Your POV –
It was a perfectly normal Saturday morning. You were driving to Spencer’s apartment on the same route you’ve driven so many times before. Spencer would probably know the exact number. You should ask him.
The sun was shining, traffic was light, and you were humming along to the random song on the radio.
Then your car started acting weird.
The engine sputtered. The temperature gauge shot up. You frowned, pulling over to the side of the road. You popped the hood, trying to see what was going on.
Before you could even get a good look, you heard gravel crunch behind your car. You turned around just as a man stepped out of a truck.
“Need some help?” he asked.
Before you could answer, everything went black.
_____
– Spencer’s POV –
She was 15 minutes late.
I check my phone. Nothing. Not a single call or text. She always calls when she was running late or in traffic.
I try calling her. It rings three times, then goes straight to voicemail.
That’s weird…
I try again. This time it doesn’t even ring, I’m just met with her voicemail.
Something is wrong.
I can feel my heart in my throat. And in my wrists. And in my temples. Everywhere. I stand up from the couch and pace the living room, my phone still clutched in my hands hard enough that my knuckles turn white. I feel like I’m going to pass out.
I go back to the couch and sit down. My knee shakes, I can’t stop it.
I call Rossi. He answers after an acceptable number of rings, no voicemail from him.
“Hey,” I say as soon as he answers. “Is Y/N still at home?”
“No? She told me she was going to your apartment,” Rossi replies, his voice calm. I wish I could be calm.
“She should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.”
“Is she in traffic?”
“S-she would’ve called. She always calls. S-something is wrong.”
It’s impossible for him to not have heard the tremors in my speech.
“Reid, slow down,” he says, trying to calm me. I appreciate the effort, but it doesn’t work. My brain is already sending the smell of old wood to my nose and the sound of Russian roulette cylinders clicking against my head to my ears.
I interrupt him before he can finish what he was going to say.
“Her phone is going straight to voicemail, Rossi. That’s weird. I’m going to look for her.”
“Alright, I’ll try to call her too.” His voice is a little more worried, but nothing that I am feeling. “Be safe, kid.”
Kid.
She liked it when Rossi called me ‘Kid.’
I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my ears. The drive along her usual route felt endless. Every red light made my knee bounce harder. Every car that looked vaguely like hers made my head jerk. Every stop sign made my heart sit heavy in my throat. Every mile without seeing her made my stomach feel tighter.
And it all dropped and stilled when I saw her car on the side of the road.
The door was open, all her stuff was still inside. Her keys, her bag, everything.
I slammed on the breaks and jumped out of my car, not even pulling off the road. I cross the street with my phone already to my ear, ringing Rossi.
“Dave, her car,” I spit into the phone.
“What?”
“It… It’s on the side of the road. She’s not in it. All her stuff…her keys…”
My voice cracked on the last word. I was shaking. I could feel it in my hands, my legs, my chest, everything. I started pacing back and forth beside her car, one hand in my hair, pulling at it without realizing.
Rossi’s voice came through the phone, tense this time. “Call Hotch and the rest of the team. I’m heading to the BAU right now. Take pictures of the car and get here as soon as possible.”
“O-Okay,” I say and hang up. This didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.
I took a few quick pictures of her car, my hands shaking still, probably causing terrible quality. I hurriedly get back in my car and drive as fast as I could without putting anyone in immediate danger. I was following traffic laws, but my mind was spiraling.
What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if–
I remember Rossi told me to call Hotch.
“Hotchner,” he answers, sounding the same as always.
“Hotch,” I swallow hard enough he could probably hear it. “I can’t find Y/N.”
“What happened?” His voice still sounds the same, but there is the smallest glint of concern, meaning he’s really concerned.
“Her…car. And her stuff…But…no her. Help.”
That was not a cohesive sentence.
My voice was shaking so badly. I could barely get the words out. I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to keep my mind occupied.
“I’ll call everyone in. You get here and be safe please. You sound a mess,” he says sternly. He was right, but I wanted, no needed to help.
“No!” I rebut. “I can help. Let me help.”
“Okay. You call Morgan and have him call Garcia. I’ll call JJ and Prentiss.”
That’s better than nothing. At least I’m not being completely useless. I compose myself the best I can, which isn’t very well, then call Morgan.
“What’s up, kid?” He answers, his voice calm.
“Morgan, something happened to Y/N.”
“What?” The calm is gone.
“She’s gone. All her stuff is still in her car.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“C-can you call Garcia?”
“Calling.”
I don’t even remember pulling into the BAU parking lot or going inside. All I know is now I’m sitting with the whole team at the briefing table and Rossi is standing above us holding a case file he brought.
The conference room is quieter than usual. Everyone is looking at me or Rossi. Mostly at me. Probably because I look a mess, and Rossi just looks tense. I truly admire his composure. My knee wont stop bouncing. It’s bouncing high enough it hits the table every few times. I know everyone notices.
Rossi cleaners his throat, standing in front of the evidence board. He looks surprisingly put together, but I know him well enough to see the tension in his jaw and the way his grip on the file is just a little too tight.
He clears his throat. “You guys are about to learn a lot about me,” Rossi says, his voice heavy and serious. “And a lot about Y/N.” He looks directly at me. “Stuff not even you know.
I swallow hard. I’m nervous. Because Rossi sounds serious. And this is scary.
My girlfriend is gone.
Rossi opens the file and holds up a photo of a house. “Three years ago, Y/N’s parents, or my brother and his wife, were murdered inside their house in New York. The man who did it, Dennis James, was caught at the scene and immediately arrested. Y/N and Logan came to live with me.”
The room is silent for a moment before Morgan finally speaks.
“Y/N’s parents were murdered?” His voice is low,
Even I didn’t know that.
“Yes, they were,” Rossi continues. “I always suspected a second attacker. My brother was an Elite Army Ranger who would not have been easily subdued by James. This needs to be the first thing we look into.”
“Has anyone checked on Logan?” JJ asks.
“We sent a plane to Spokane, he should be here around 1:30.”
“Good,” Hotch says, leaning forward. “Walk us through the timeline, Dave.”
“Y/N left my house this morning at about 7:45 to go to Spencer’s. Around 8:45, Spencer found her car abandoned on the side of the road. She’d only made it about a quarter of the way there. The door was open and her bag, wallet, and keys were still inside. Reid says there was no obvious signs of a struggle, but we’re gonna get forensics on it.”
“And her phone?” Morgan asks.
“S-straight to voicemail,” I answer, my voice cracking. “She always calls if she’s late. Always.”
Emily looks at me sympathetically. She doesn’t say anything.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know about her parents,” Garcia says quietly. I wonder if she sees herself. I know her parents passed when she was younger.
“You couldn’t have,” Rossi replies, voice steady. “She doesn’t talk about it. None of us really do, but now we have to.”
Hotch looks to the case file in Rossi’s hands. “What do we know about the original case?”
Rossi flips to another page in the file. “Dennis James was arrested at the scene. He confessed and said he did it alone and that was that. But the way my brother was killed…it never set right with me. He was a Ranger. James was a nobody with a petty crime record. I always suspected there was another person, but since James confessed, there wasn’t much more I could do.”
Morgan leans forward, his jaw clenched. “And now that second person is coming after Y/N three years later?”
“It looks that way,” Rossi says. “I let myself believe I was wrong. Garcia, can you start digging into James’s life in prison? Find everything.”
“On it,” Garcia says, standing up quickly. “I’ll find everything, I promise.”
The way Garcia looks at me when she leaves makes my throat thick. The way everyone looks at me makes me wish I was anywhere else. I can barely sit still. She’s been gone for an hour. What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she–
“Reid!”
Hotch’s stern voice jolts me to attention.
“Yes, Sir?” I answer.
“I need your head in this,” Hotch says seriously.
“I know,” I say, voice shaky. “I’m trying.”
I do know. And I am trying. I’m just not succeeding.
Hotch nods at me anyways, ‘I’m trying’ being a good enough answer for him. He stands up and looks around the table quickly.
“Alright,” he starts. “We’re working this as a standard abduction. Garcia is already looking into Dennis James. JJ, I need you to coordinate with local PD and find out if there’s any traffic cam footage from the area. Prentiss, I want you to run geographic profiling–”
I look at him weird. I always do geo profiling. His eyes meet mine, but he just continues talking.
“Rossi, stay here and start building the profile. Pull all you can on the original case.”
“Gotcha,” Rossi says, putting the photos and documents back into the file in his hands.
“Morgan and I are going to go to the scene. Reid, you’re coming with us, is that okay?”
Why was he asking? I nod anyway.
The drive back to her car feels endless. I do not want to go back there. I replay Hotch’s words in my head over and over again.
I need your head in this.
I know he does. More importantly, I know she does. It’s just hard. I keep getting distracted. I keep drumming my fingers against my thigh, trying to burn off the nervous energy. It’s not working. Nothing is working. I can’t stop thinking.
What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s–
“Reid,” Morgan says loudly to get my attention. He’s looking at me through the rearview mirror. He surely can tell that my head is not in this. “We need you with us, man.”
“I’m here,” I say, voice shaking.
I lie.
We pull up to the side of the road. Her car is still there. Her door is still open. Her bag is still on the passenger seat. Her keys are still in the ignition.
It looks like she just stepped out.
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
Hotch and Morgan get out of the car first. I just sit in the back, staring. Thinking. Tapping my fingers. Bouncing my knee. Preparing.
I’ve already been here. I’ve already seen this. There’s no direct sign of a struggle. No weapon, no blood, nothing that suggests she’s… everything points to her having left the scene ali–
I need to get out of this car.
I have to force my legs to move. They feel heavy. Too heavy. Everything feels heavy. My legs, my eyes, my heart, my voice… It’s all so much.
I approach her car. I just stand there. Staring.
The crime scene techs are already processing it. I just stand there. Staring.
Morgan is talking to one of the techs. I just stand there. Staring.
For a long, long time.
Hotch finally approaches me from behind. He comes up and stands directly to my side.
“Do you need to leave?” He asks.
“No,” I say quickly. “I can help.”
But I’m not helping. I’m just standing there. I’m just staring. I should be looking for something, anything, I know I should. But my head and my body are just…stuck.
“I know you’re worried, but you could be helping somewhere. I need you to try to be objective. Please.” Hotch’s voice is calm, but firm. I hate that he’s talking to me like this. Not because I think he’s being rude, he actually is being rather nice considering I’m just standing here doing absolutely nothing, but I just hate that this situation exists at all.
And I hate that I don’t know what to call it other than a ‘situation.’
“Go look for something. Anything,” Hotch tells me.
I nod and force myself to move. I walk around her car a few times, trying to see it as a crime scene instead of her car.
The hood is popped, but not open, almost like she was in the process of opening it when she was–
I open the hood. I look over the inside.
The radiator hose.
It’s cut. Not torn, cut. Cleanly. Like with a knife. Meaning this wasn’t a spur of the moment abduction. It wasn’t someone waiting for an opportunity. It was someone who had created one.
“I think I’ve got something,” I call out to Hotch. My voice is surprisingly more put together than it has been all morning. Hotch and Morgan both come over to me. “The radiator hose, it’s cut.”
“That’s a clean cut,” Morgan says. “He sabotaged the car.”
I keep walking around the car, I notice the tire tracks in the gravel. I look to Morgan who is following me to my left.
“There are two different sizes of tire tracks, but they’re spaced out like they’re from one vehicle,” I tell him.
“Like someone was driving on a spare?” Morgan asks.
“No… I’m thinking more like a heavy duty commercial vehicle.”
I pull out my phone to call Garcia. She doesn’t give one of her quirky greetings. I don’t know how to feel about that. But now is not the time to think about that.
“What? What can I do?” She says when she answers the phone.
“Garcia, I need you to compile a list of drivers of commercial vehicles with alternating tire sizing. Think dump trucks, semi trucks, anything multi-axle,” I tell her.
“On it…453 names.”
“Okay now cross reference those with Dennis James.”
“57.”
“That’s still too many…” I say.
I pull the phone away from my face for a moment. “Can we get a measurement of these tire tracks?” I call out.
One of the crime scene techs comes over and measures. I hover over him, reading the numbers out loud as he takes them, both for myself and for Garcia.
“The front tire is…about 15 inches wide,” I say, tip-toeing to get the best view possible. “The back is…about 22.5 inches.”
“Okay,” Garcia says, a little confused and drawn out. “What do you want me to do with that?”
“I…I don’t know. Can you figure out commercial vehicles with tires that size?”
“I’ll do my very best.”
She hangs up. I slide my phone back into my pocket and stare at the tire tracks again.
My eyes go to her car. I stare at it. I’ve seen it so many times. In her driveway the night we met, at the park we took a walk at the first time we hung out just the two of us, when we used to sneak around and get morning coffee or lunch, the Christmas party, every Sunday dinner, in her driveway when I picked her up for the time we went to the Smithsonian, in the parking lot of my apartment, I’ve seen her car a lot. And I never thought that it would be a focal point of a crime scene.
What if she’s hurt? What if someone took her? What if she’s dead?
The possibility of her being dead hits me harder than anything I’ve ever felt. My stomach twists so violently I double over.
No.
That isn’t possible.
My breathing turns shallow. I press a hand over my mouth in an attempt to steady myself, but my fingers are shaking too much to do anything.
I stagger away from her car, only making it a few feet before everything in my stomach is in a pool on the gravel. I drop to my knees to stop it from splattering everywhere. Another wave comes out. I hear footsteps, but my vision is tunneled.
I can only tell it’s Morgan because of his voice.
“Reid,” he says, his voice thick with concern.
I feel a hand rest softly between my shoulderblades as I cough, trying to catch my breath.
“Give him a second,” I hear Hotch say as he approaches me as well.
I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed.
“I-” I cough again. “I’m okay.”
“No,” Hotch says sternly, but quietly. “You are not.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I’m more embarrassed than sorry, but my brain isn’t working well enough right now to explain that.
“For what?” Morgan asks, shaking his head at me.
I gesture toward the mess in the gravel.
“Kid, you’ve been running on adrenaline for two hours,” Morgan says.
Hotch crouches down in front of me. His voice is incredibly soft, even for him. “What happened?”
I swallow hard, my mouth still tasting disgustingly like vomit.
“He planned it,” I say, looking up at Hotch. “He would’ve had to have done this at Rossi’s house.” I look back to her car. “He…he watched her.”
I can feel tears coming. I stop talking before I embarrass myself more. I stare at the tire tracks. Hotch thinks for a moment, Morgan just stares.
“I have everything I need from you today,” He says sternly.
“I can keep hel-”
“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “I need you functioning.”
“I can function,” I say, taking Morgan’s hand he offered, helping me to stand.
“You just threw up beside a crime scene,” Morgan points out.
“I think I’m aware of that,” I snap. I don’t mean to.
Morgan keeps his voice calm. He pats my shoulder. “I think you need a break.”
“I don’t want a break," I answered quickly. I can’t have a break.
“We’re taking you back,” Morgan insists.
“No!. I can’t. Please.” I’m fighting tears now. I know they can tell. I wish they couldn’t.
Morgan and Hotch exchange a glance. I don’t like it. I don’t like when I’m the center of attention. I shouldn’t be the center of attention now. It should be Y/N. I’m just distracting Hotch and Morgan from getting anywhere. I open my mouth to say something, probably to protest again, but Hotch beats me to speaking.
“Reid.” His voice is stern. I don’t like it. I don’t like it.
I don’t like this.
“I-I can’t go home,” I stutter through a tear falling down my cheek. “I can’t…I can’t sit somewhere and wait. If you guys make me leave I’ll just think…about where she is…or if she’s hurt…or if she’s…” I lower my voice as low as I can. “dead.”
I hate that I just said that. I hate that I even have to think it. I hate everything that is happening right now. I wish I could be more help. I wish I knew how to be more help.
“What can you do?” Hotch asks.
“What?”
“If I let you stay,” he continues. “What can you do?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. I don’t know what I can do. I’m not thinking straight. I don’t know what I can do.
I stare down at the gravel for a long moment.
“T-the files,” I finally say. Hotch waits for me to continue. “T-the original case files. If I could just… If I could read then maybe…” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “S-sorry, my brain is–” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll stay out of everyone’s way. I just…” I look directly into Hotch’s eyes. “Please don’t make me leave.”
I could swear Hotch’s expression softens, something that I’ve seen maybe three times in the four years I’ve known him.
“You’re not staying in the field,” He says sternly. I almost argue. “We’ll bring you back to the BAU.”
Relief floods through me. I can feel it in my body. “Thank you,” I say.
“If you show any signs that you are pushing yourself too far I am pulling you,” Hotch finishes.
“Yes, Sir.”
Morgan steps beside me, guiding me toward the SUV.
“Come on, Kid,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I don’t argue this time.
I don’t have anything left to argue with.
The drive from the scene back to the BAU is almost silent. Morgan drives, Hotch is in the passenger seat, and I’m alone in the back. Nobody turns on the radio. Nobody talks. The only sounds are the tires against the pavement, and Hotch’s phone when JJ and Emily call with an update.
I stare out the window. Everything outside keeps moving. People are walking dogs, someone is mowing their lawn, a little kid is riding a bike down the sidewalk. It’s all a reminder that the world didn’t stop.
But it should have.
My phone is still in my hand. Or, in my hand again. I’m not sure. I don’t remember picking it back up. I unlock it anyway. Her contact is still open. I stare at her picture for a long time. It’s a picture of her I took at a coffee shop before we were even dating. She’s looking up at the camera with two cups, one hers and one mine, in her hand. She’s smiling. I love her smile.
I press call. It goes straight to voicemail. Again.
I don’t leave a message. I don’t even know what I’d say.
‘Please answer.’ ‘Please be alive.” “Please don't be going through what I went through.”
Neither seem particularly helpful.
“You good, Kid?” Morgan asks me through the rearview mirror.
No.
“I’m fine.”
They let me lie.
Hotch’s phone rings again. He answers it immediately.
“Hotchner.”
There’s a pause while the person speaks. I try my hardest to listen to either side of the conversation, but Hotch’s broken responses make no sense when I don’t have the information.
Morgan looks at him as soon as he hangs up the phone, waiting for an explanation.
“She narrowed the commercial vehicles from 57 down to 11,” Hotch explains.
11. That’s progress.
I clear my throat before I speak. I know if I hadn’t the bubble in my throat that is the only thing keeping me from crying would cause a weird sound.
“D-did they find any blood?” I ask quietly. So quietly.
“No.” Hotch says, looking back over the seat at me.
I nod.
No blood. No blood is good.
My brain tries to reassure me. No blood means she could still be physically unharmed. But trauma doesn't always leave blood. My left arm aches where the needle used to stab. I rub the spot through my sleeve before I even realize I'm doing it.
Morgan notices. He doesn't say anything. He just looks away. I'm grateful.
People can survive being kidnapped. People survive kidnappings all the time. Statistically–
I stop myself from thinking that.
Statistics don’t matter when it’s someone you love.
_____
–Your POV–
The first thing you notice is the pain. Not in your head, in your wrists. Whatever is tying your hands isn’t fabric or rope. It’s…plastic. Ribbed plastic. And it’s thin.
Zip ties.
Every instinct tells you to move, to rub at whatever hurts, to free your hands. You have to force yourself to stay still. It’s hard.
It’s quiet in here. All you hear is your own breathing. Slow, uneven, too loud. The air smells…wrong. Not like outside, but not quite inside either. It feels…damp. Like old wood and dust, but wet, and there’s a lingering smell of something metallic underneath it all.
Your eyelids are impossibly heavy. It takes too much energy to open them. But you do. You want to see where you’re at. It’s blurry at first. You blink rapidly to clear your vision. It only works a little.
The walls are unfinished wood, some are warped, leaving thin slivers of daylight between them. They’re almost black near the floor, like they’ve been soaking up moisture for years.
It smells old, like damp lumber and dust that has been sitting undisturbed for years. The concrete beneath your feet is cracked in several places. One corner of the room has a shallow puddle where water must’ve leaked in recently.
You look up. The ceiling is low enough that anyone above 6 feet could probably touch it without stretching. A single lightbulb hangs down from a frayed cord. It sways just barely. Just enough to make shadows crawl across the walls.
There are no windows on the wall. The only exterior light is shined through the gaps in the wooden walls. You catch the faintest strips of daylight through some, others reveal nothing but more wood.
Maybe another room?
The only furniture is the chair you’re tied to and an old workbench shoved against the opposite wall. Its surface is covered in what has to be years of scratches. There’s a small pile of rusty nails, a broken coffee mug sits near the back of the surface, there is a tipped over motor oil bottle that leaked til empty, and a chain falls over the front and onto the ground.
You stare at the workbench longer than you probably should. Even if your hands weren’t tied, you couldn’t reach it.
The walls themselves don’t look insulated. Just plywood over framing. Like a shed, or a detached garage, or maybe a barn?
Somewhere nearby, water drips steadily.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound is driving you insane.
The room feels cold despite it being warm outside. It’s not air conditioned, just concrete holding onto the cool temperature from overnight. The cold seeps through your jeans where they press against the metal chair.
You shift.
The chair scrapes loudly across the concrete. The sound echoes much longer than it feels like it should. Your breath catches, you exhale slowly and quietly, as if the chair didn’t alert whoever was nearby that you were awake.
Your heart begins to pound. Your breathing starts coming too fast.
In.
Out,
In,
Out.
Your vision starts to blur around the edges.
Spencer.
Spencer always counts.
1.
2.
3.
4.
No, not like that. Count your breathing.
Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It doesn’t make a difference.
You hear a sound so faint you almost convince yourself you imagined it. You hold your breath, hoping you did. But there it is again.
Footsteps.
Every muscle in your body locks.
The footsteps are slow. Not rushed or running, whoever it is, they’re in absolutely no hurry.
You can feel your heartbeat in your head. You swallow hard.
Think.
Come on.
THINK!
Maybe if he thinks you’re still unconscious…
You let your head fall forward, your chin nearly hitting your chest. You close your eyes and slow your breathing. You put all your focus into not moving.
Stay perfectly still, and maybe he’ll leave.
The footsteps grow louder. And closer. Each one echoes through the concrete floor beneath your feet.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
He’s getting closer.
And closer.
You curl your fingers against the zip ties that are digging into the skin of your wrists. You fight every instinct to look in front of you.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. The silence that follows stretches for ages. You start to wonder if he’s just standing there waiting on a sound from you. Or maybe he left. You’re too scared to look up and check.
You hear a metallic rattle. Then a click. Then a heavy clunk. Then the sound of creaking hinges and a wave of warm air filling the cold room.
The door opened.
You hear the footsteps getting closer. Slow. Agonizingly slow.
Your breath threatens to speed up again.
No.
Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Control your breathing.
The footsteps stop. Whoever it is, they’re standing right in front of you. You can smell him. He smells like sweat. And diesel fuel. And like old cigarette smoke.
You squeeze your eyes tighter.
Please, just go away.
His shadow blocks the light that’s casting on you from the bulb.
“You can stop pretending.”
Your heart almost stops.
The voice is calm, almost conversational.
“I know you’re awake.”
You don’t move. You stay perfectly still. You keep your eyes squeezed shut.
Maybe if you don’t look at him he’ll lea–
SMACK!
A sharp crack explodes across your cheek. Your head snaps sideways, mouth opening. The pain is instant, hot and stinging. Before you can stop yourself, a gasp tears through your throat.
“There you are,” he says, voice almost warm. Like he’d been waiting for that.
You slowly lift your head, meeting your eyes with his.
“I don’t like being ignored,” he says, crouching until you’re eye level.
Your cheek throbs. You swallow hard, but refuse to look away from him.
He studies your face for a long moment before he reaches out. You brace yourself to be hit again, but instead, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You’d almost rather him have hit you.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he smiles.
_____
–Spencer’s POV–
I’m gripping the edge of the conference room table as Rossi finishes explaining the details of her childhood. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the same spot on the table. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, I don’t really know. Time doesn’t feel real.
Hotch walks into the conference room carrying another file. “We have more information,” he says.
Everyone looks up at him. Garcia is behind him with a stack of papers. “I pulled what I could from her school records,” she says quietly.
Quietly.
That scares me. Because Penelope Garcia is almost never quiet.
“This is counseling information from her school in Virginia,” Garcia says, handing them to me.
I know why I got handed them. I read 20,000 words per minute. Of course I’m going to be handed the paperwork.
But the FBI Academy doesn’t prepare you to have to read through your girlfriend's counseling notes from the months after her parents died while she was missing.
I don’t think anywhere could prepare you for that.
I take the papers, but I just sit them on the table in front of me. I can feel everyone staring at me. Waiting. Waiting for me to start reading, to share any notable information I find. But I can't. I don't want to read them. It feels…wrong.
If she wanted me to know about this, she would’ve told me. I feel like I’m abusing her trust looking into her life like this. This is a major breach of privacy.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. Everyone looks at me, all confused. I can feel tears coming. I don’t want to cry in front of everyone again. “I-I can’t.”
“Do you need to go home?” Hotch asks me.
“No!” I protest. “I just…it feels wrong looking into her life like this…”
Everyone just stares at me. I know they’re trying to sympathize, but no one knows what I’m feeling right now. Not a single one of them. Not even Rossi. Because Rossi at least knew about her parents being murdered. I didn’t even know that. And now they expect me to dig into the entire history of my girlfriend’s life since then? It feels wrong. I feel like I’m violating her.
Everyone else gets assigned new tasks or sent back to the one they were working on. I stay at the table, sitting completely still, doing absolutely nothing. Morgan is the last one other than me in the conference room. I thought he was going to leave. Instead, he walks over to me.
“Hey, Kid,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I look at him. “I know you feel weird doing this…”
“If she wanted me to know she would’ve told me,” I interrupt.
“I know,” he says. “But if you don’t look into her past…” He locks his eyes with mine. His face looks serious. “Then she might not get a future.”
He pats my shoulder twice then turns and walks out of the room.
He’s right.
I open the file. I stare at the first page for almost a full minute before I force myself to turn it. The paper feels heavier than it should.
Maybe because I know once I read this, I can never forget it.
Guardian. It means Dave.
I already hate this. But I keep looking through the files. I have to.
Session One:
Question: How are you sleeping?
Answer: Fine.
Observation: Student appears significantly sleep deprived. Guardian reports frequent nightmares.
Question: How are you feeling today?
Answer: Tired.
Observation: Student pauses for approximately 20 seconds before answering.
She couldn't even hear someone say "parents." I close my eyes.
God.
I flip to the next page and force myself to keep going.
Teacher Report: Student has spoken fewer than twenty words during school hours since enrollment.
Twenty.
Twenty words.
My eyes go back to the sentence. I read it again.
Twenty words.
I can't make it make sense. She narrates everything. She reads books out loud. She hums when she studies. She thanks cashiers twice because she's worried she didn't say it loud enough the first time.
Twenty words.
The thought physically hurts.
Session Two:
Question: Have you made any friends yet?
Answer: No.
Question: Would you like to?
Answer: Maybe.
I smile. Just a little. Then immediately feel guilty for smiling.
Question: Do you miss your old friends?
Answer: I stopped answering the phone.
Question: Why?
Answer: Because they'd ask what happened.
Question: And?
Answer: I didn't have anything to say.
I put the papers down, unable to breathe for a second.
I picture her at 15 years old sitting next to her phone and watching it ring. Because saying the words out loud would've made them real.
I wipe at my eyes. I don't remember starting to cry.
I laugh. Not because it's funny. It's small and pathetic, actually. But because she still eats cereal. All the time.
My chest tightens. I remember making fun of her for eating cereal for dinner a few times. I didn't know. I had absolutely no idea. She laughed at the joke. Her laugh seemed genuine.
I hope she knows I never would've made fun of her if I knew.
I feel like I have to force myself from getting sick again.
Session Three:
Question: Teachers mentioned you played piano.
Answer: Used to.
I furrow my eyebrows.
Piano?
Question: Why did you stop?
Observation: Student became tearful. Session paused.
Answer: Mom taught me.
I didn't know she played piano. I wonder if she can.
Session Four:
Question: You played varsity basketball as a freshman?
Basketball? What?
Answer: Yeah.
Question: Why didn't you try out here?
Answer: Dad always practiced with me.
I actually have to cover my mouth.
Basketball?
Piano?
She never told me. Not once.
I thought I knew everything about her. But I don't even know her favorite sport. Well, what used to be her favorite sport.
It stopped being her favorite sport the day her dad died.
I don't even realize I've stopped reading again until a tear lands directly in the middle of the page. I wipe it away carefully, like somehow preserving the paper matters.
Session Five:
Question: Can we talk about the funeral?
Observation: Student immediately became distressed. Hyperventilation observed. Session paused approximately six minutes.
Question: Why didn't you go inside?
Answer: Because if I walked inside then it meant they were really dead.
I lean forward until my forehead hits the table. I can't stop crying. She didn't skip their funeral because she didn't care. She skipped it because she loved them too much.
I don't know how long I stay like that. Eventually I make myself keep reading. Because Morgan was right. If I don't...
The final page is a discharge summary.
I barely make it halfway through before one sentence catches my attention.
Student has begun maintaining a daily planner to reduce anxiety and establish a sense of control over unpredictable events.
The planner.
It was never because she liked organization, it was because her entire life fell apart on a random Wednesday, and she wanted to make sure nothing ever surprised her again.
It all makes sense. The color coding, the schedules, why she hates being late, why she plans everything...I always just thought it was how she, when actually, it was how she coped.
I slowly close the folder.
The girl I fell in love with didn't exist before she was 15. She built herself completely from scratch, but somehow she still became the kindest person I've ever known.
I press both of my hands to my eyes so hard that my vision goes white.
Please let us find her. Because I need to tell her that I love her. I love every version of her.
Even the 15 year old girl who couldn't speak more than 20 words a day.
I don’t realize everyone else has come back until someone quietly pulls the folder from beneath my hands. I don’t know how long I was just sitting there. I look up to see who’s there.
Rossi.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just glances at the file name and then back to me, knowingly.
“You okay, Kid?” He asks gently.
No.
The room has gone strangely quiet. I can tell everyone else is pretending not to listen. Which is fair, I guess.
Rossi pulls out the chair beside me and sits down, refusing to let me get away with just sitting here quietly and destroying myself with my own mind. The folder sits on the table between us. He looks at me, just waiting on me to answer.
“I always thought…” My voice cracks so badly I have to stop talking and regain my composure. I can’t look at Dave, so instead, I stare down at my hands. “I j-just thought she liked organizing things.”
Tears fall from my eyes. I don’t have the energy to stop them anymore. My voice is thick and nasally. There is no hiding it.
“I made fun of her for it,” I continued. “I used to tease her for having three calendars. I thought she was just o-over prepared.”
Rossi keeps looking at me. His eyes are glassy too.
If he starts crying I am going to lose it.
Everyone is staring at me now. I’m probably speaking loudly. It’s hard to control the volume of your voice when you are this emotional. There’s some tie to your autonomic nervous system there, but I’m too sad to think about it. Which is scary.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know that she played basketball, or the piano, or that she…she skipped the funeral,” I choke on my words. “I-I’m a terrible boyfriend.”
“No, you are not,” Rossi says, wrapping an arm around me.
“I am,” I wail. “I didn’t even know how her parents died…I…I thought I knew her…”
“You do,” he corrects.
“I keep thinking,” I say quieter now, regaining the smallest bit of dignity. “if she had just told me…”
“Would you have loved her more?” Rossi asks.
“N-no, I don’t think I would necessarily love her more…”
“Would you have just hurt for her sooner?"
I nod reluctantly. Because that’s exactly what I was trying to say. But hearing it be said out loud made it seem selfish in a way.
I would’ve loved every version of her.
“Dave,” Hotch says from the back of the room. We both look. “We’ve got Logan.”
_____
–Logan’s POV–
This guy’s office is smaller than I expected. The BAU is huge. I’ve been here a few times, mostly just visiting my uncle, but I’ve never been in the head of the team’s office. For the #1 agent in one of the most prestigious units of the FBI, I expected it to be bigger.
Instead, it feels contained. Everything has a place. There’s a dark wooden desk separating us. He sits in a leather office chair in front of a built-in bookshelf lined with binders and case files. There’s no decorations, aside from a photograph of a little boy, likely his son, near the corner of his desk. There’s a landline phone and a neat stack of paperwork, along with a name plate with Aaron Hotchner engraved in gold lettering.
I sit in one of the visitor chairs with my elbows against my knees. I don’t want to be here, but I know I need to be.
“I’m sorry we’re having to speak under these circumstances,” Agent Hotchner says to me.
He’s stern, professional, almost like a military parent. I would know.
“Me too,” I say, giving a half smile.
“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, “but anything you remember could help us find your sister.”
I swallow, “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”
He nods, a pleased look peeks out through his face. “Good. Tell me about her,” he opens the folder sitting in front of him.
I almost laughed. Not because it’s funny, but because where do you even start with a question like that?
“She’s…” I start, then have to stop and think. I realize I have no idea how to describe my sister. “She’s stubborn.”
“How so?” He asks, writing something down.
“If she decides she’s doing something, she’s doing it,” I say.
“Even as a child?”
“Oh, especially as a child.”
“So what was she like growing up?”
“Happy. She was loud, just always talking,” I smile. “About everything. Dad used to joke that she narrated her own life.” My smile leaves. He notices.
“When did that change?”
“After our parents died.”
He nods again, writing. ‘Did your parents ever mention anyone threatening them?”
“No.”
“Any problems at work?”
“Dad was army, everyone was a problem at work.”
“Outside of work?”
I think for a moment. “N-no? I don’t think so.”
“Did either of your parents ever insinuate that someone was following your family?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“Was there anyone who paid special attention to your sister during that time?”
“She had this b-boyfriend who was kind of a dick, b-but they only dated a few months I don’t think–”
“This man would’ve been older. Around your parents' age.”
“I don’t remember anyone, no.”
“No one at all?”
I think. Hard. I try putting myself back into that time, but I can’t think of anything.
“Wait…Actually…”
______
–Your POV–
creepy old man alert. there is nothing physical aside from some face grabbing and mentions of hitting, but it’s mostly just weird ‘ur hot, fuck me im 40’ vibes
There’s nothing in this world that can prepare you for how intense pain can be. It’s not an umbrella term for anything that hurts. There are layers to it.
Pain is the sharpness in your ribs every time you breathe in too deeply. Pain is the throb behind your left eye. It’s the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. It's the burning in your throat every time you swallow.
Pain is your body’s way of keeping a record.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The dripping that was driving you insane just a few hours ago has become your best friend. You focus on it, because focusing on it means you aren’t focusing on the fact that every time you breathe it feels like something inside your chest is scraping against something that it shouldn’t be scraping against.
You have at least one broken rib, you’re sure of it. Maybe more. Your vision blurs every few minutes, and it’s only worse when you move your head. Your eye is swelling shut, you imagine it is the deepest color purple. You look to your left out of your right eye to the pool of blood that you threw up.
That’s the part that worries you most.
Worried, not scared. You won’t let yourself be scared. Your father always said fear made people sloppy. You didn’t want to be made sloppy.
“You’re quieter than I imagined.”
You look up at him without lifting your head. “Should I be screaming?”
Your voice is snarky. He seems to like that. You don’t like that he likes that.
He walks up closer to you, taking your chin in his hands. You think about biting his thumb, but you figure you’ll let him talk first.
“You’re very beautiful.”
You roll your eyes up at him. “Thanks,” you say sarcastically. You purposely cough up blood and spit it at him. He laughs.
Ew.
“I know a lot about you.”
The way he says it makes something cold settle in your chest. You don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the silence. In fact, he almost seems to be enjoying it.
“I know you hate mushrooms. You always pick them off your pizza.”
Your stomach drops. You feel all the blood leave your face, but you stay silent.
“I know you order the same coffee almost every morning.”
You shake your head at him, in an attempt to call his bluff.
He tilts your face up to look at him. The movement sends a shooting pain through your skull. You wince slightly. He runs a thumb over your lips, pressing onto the hole you bit in your bottom one earlier after he kicked you.
The salt from his thumb stings through your lip. You could bite his thumb off. If you wanted to.
But you think you have a better chance of survival if you hold off on that.
“A medium iced vanilla latte, right?”
You don’t say anything. You can’t. None of this is public information. None of this is something someone could guess that correctly. He’s watching your face carefully, looking for every reaction.
“I know you don’t often sleep in your own room anymore. Thinking of leaving ol’ Dave on his own after he took you in?”
You glare at him.
“I know you sleep on the left side of the bed when you’re at Spencer’s apar–”
“Stop.” I demand. Your voice comes out harsher than you expect it to.
He does stop though, not because you told him to, but because what he wanted was for you to get mad. And he found just the thing that would do that.
Spencer.
“Who are you?”
He chuckles. “You already asked that.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I wasn’t ready.”
He reaches out again to brush another loose strand of hair behind your ear. You jerk your head away, your vision going completely white for a moment.
“Don’t touch me,” you demand.
“You don’t like being touched? That’s sure not what it looks like when you’re in Spencer’s bed.”
The way he says Spencer’s name makes you want to kill him.
He smiles at you. His teeth are crooked and yellow.
“You’re awfully affectionate with him for someone who doesn’t like physical touch. You’ve only been together what, two months?”
Your jaw tightens. You just keep staring at him silently.
“And you’re already spending almost every night at his apartment?” His eyes drift over your face, a darkness in his eyes that makes your stomach feel hollow. “Don’t you think that’s a little…dirty?”
“What?” you say, caught off guard. First he was talking about mushrooms on a pizza and now he’s trying to slut shame you or something? He’s just trying to break you. You won’t let him.
“Being with an older man.”
You almost laugh. He has to be kidding.
“What is he now? 25?”
“26,” you mumble. “He’s not that old.”
“Oh, so you’d go older?”
You stare at him. He waits for you to answer. You don’t. You have absolutely no intention of doing so. He slowly drags his tongue across his bottom lip, an attempt to be seductive. It makes your skin crawl.
He leans down close to your ear.
“Do you think I’m too old for you?”
You shudder. Every instinct in your body screams at you to get away from him. But you can’t, so you slowly turn to him and smile a smug smile at him.
“I wouldn’t fuck you if it would save my life,” you whisper to him.
He looks at you for a moment, before chuckling.
“Good to know.”
The way he says it makes your stomach twist.
“How do you know me?” you ask, hoping to change the subject from whatever was happening.
His smile lingers. “I told you.”
“No, you told me that you knew me. Not how you know me.”
For the first time he doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies your face, almost admiringly.
“You ask good questions.”
“If you’re not going to answer how you know me, can you at least tell me why you chose me?”
“I know your father. I knew him very well.”
“No you didn’t.”
He smiles a reminiscent smile. “Dennis always got the credit.”
Your entire body goes cold.
“Dennis James?”
“Yes, Dennis James.”
“The man who killed my father?”
“You know, you stayed late after school that day? You weren’t supposed to.”
“H-how do you know that?”
“You were supposed to walk through that front door.” Your chest tightens. “You were supposed to be next.”
The room goes silent. You don’t hear the dripping water, or your own breathing anymore. All you can hear is your uncle’s voice from three years ago.
“Something about this doesn’t feel right.”
He was right. He’d been right all along.
You look back at the man standing in front of you.
“Who are you?” you ask.
He smiles.
“My name is Steven Woods. And I killed your father.”
_____
–Spencer’s POV–
If going through her old school records wasn’t enough, now I’m being sent to go through her room. I hope she can forgive me for this. But if she can’t, at least I know it’s because she’s alive.
Walking inside of Rossi’s house feels wrong. There’s no TV playing in the living room while she insists she’s watching it, or laughing coming from her room upstairs. It’s just me and Dave walking through the door in complete silence.
Neither of us want to be here.
We stop outside her bedroom, Rossi stares at the door for a long moment before he reaches for the knob.
“I’ve never gone through her room before,” he says quietly. “Not this deep.”
I get it. I’ve been doing this all day. There’s something that feels deeply inappropriate about going through someone’s things when they’re not there.
Her room is exactly the same as how I know she would’ve left it. Her bed is unmade. A sweatshirt is draped over the chair at her desk. Three planners are stacked neatly beside her laptop. A half-finished novel rests face-down on her nightstand.
Her room doesn't look abandoned. It looks like she walked out five minutes ago. Like she'll come back upstairs any second and ask why we're standing around in her room.
My chest tightens. "This feels wrong," I say.
“I know,” Rossi nods. "But you know she'd rather it be you than anyone else."
I swallow. "I know."
Because I do. Even missing. Even scared. Even if she doesn't know where she is. She would want me looking. So I do.
We separate. Rossi starts at her desk. I move toward the bookshelf. Every movement feels intrusive. Like I'm taking something that doesn't belong to me. I run my fingers over the spines of her books. Most of them I've seen before. Some I've borrowed. One has sticky notes sticking out of almost every chapter. Of course it does.
I smile. Just for a second. Then I hear Rossi stop moving.
I turn. He's standing at her closet.
He has one of her sweaters in his hands.
No.
Not one of hers.
One of mine.
I recognize it immediately. The dark one she always steals because she says it's softer than hers.
Rossi looks at it. He smiles. Then it disappears. Because we both remember why we're here. He folds it carefully and places it back. Then he moves back toward the desk.
And that's when he sees it. The yellow sticky note.
His entire body stills.
I know what it is before he picks it up. I know because I remember writing it.
‘Call if you want to continue the Asimov debate’
Followed by my phone number.
The first time I gave her a way to contact me. Rossi slowly lifts it. His fingers tighten slightly around the paper.
"I forgot about this,” he says, his voice barely audible.
I don't answer. Because I know what happened the last time he saw it.
The argument. The anger. The fear.
"I was so angry,” he says.
I look at him. He doesn't look angry now.
"I thought I was protecting her,” He looks down at the note. "I thought I knew what was best. I thought I was stopping something before it could hurt her."
"Rossi..." I try to stop him. We don’t have to do this right now. I’ve already forgiven him.
"No,” he shakes his head. "I need to say this."
“Okay.”
"I was wrong,” his voice cracks slightly. "I spent so much time worrying about what could happen to her that I didn't see what was already happening."
He looks around her room, then at the note.
“Spencer, I know you’ve learned a lot about her today, but I need you to know that you’re the reason that she was able to hide it so well.”
“I don’t know if that’s neces-”
“No, it is. The night that she met you, that was the happiest she’d been since she moved in with me. And I’m sorry that I kept you guys apart for so long.”
“It’s okay, Dave. I get it,” I tell him.
I do get it. I don’t know what else to say though. Because I don’t know how to respond to someone apologizing for something they can’t undo.
I look away because suddenly it’s all too much. Too many emotions, too many memories, everything is just so much.
Rossi carefully places the note back on her desk, more visible this time. “She’ll want to see this when she comes home.”
When.
Not if.
When.
I hold on to that word.
I notice a box underneath her bed labelled “school”. I pull it out and open it. Inside it’s filled with notebooks, folders, old yearbooks, and at the very bottom, there's an old composition notebook with no title, just visible years of usage.
I open it. The first thing I see isn’t a table of contents, or an entry. It’s a warning.
‘If anybody is reading this aside from me, please stop.’
I immediately close it.
“What?” Rossi says, looking over at me.
“She wrote for people not to read this,” I explain.
“She also likely never imagined someone would be reading it in order to save her,” he says softly.
He’s right.
The first pages of the notebook aren’t journal entries. They’re lists. And schedules. And goals.
Today’s Goals:
speak to one person
eat something (cereal doesn’t count)
stay awake through english
don’t cry at school
My vision blurs as I continue reading. It only gets worse.
Practice:
if someone asks “how are you?” don’t say “fine.”
instead, say “i’m okay.” or “good, how are you.”
It was so bad that she had to practice small talk.
I just want to give her a hug.
Things I don’t want to forget about mom:
she always sang frank sinatra while cooking
she hated mushrooms
she smelled like vanilla, which is funny, because she used coconut scented shampoo
she could bbq better than dad
I stop reading. This is too much for likely no reward. I stand up and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
“You need a break, Kid?” Dave asks, looking at me.
I sit down on her bed. “Hey Rossi,” I say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rossi sits the book he’s holding down and sits next to me.
“Because she finally got to stop being 15.” He gives me a half smile. “She would’ve told you eventually.”
“Are you just saying that?”
“No. She’s slow to warm up.”
“I mean yeah, but I’ve spent almost every day with her for the last two months, and she didn’t even hint at what happened to her parents.”
“Spencer, for the first two months after she moved in she didn’t speak a word to me. Not once.”
He tells me about how all she would eat is cereal. And how every question he asked would go unanswered. He tells me about how she didn’t unpack, and how she slept on top of her comforter because making the bed felt permanent.
He tells me about the first time she spoke to him after moving in. He had burnt a lasagna, and she appeared out of nowhere and told him to cover it with foil. The story makes me laugh. Because even then, without trying, she was funny.
“Rossi, I know what she’s feeling,” I say. “Right now.”
“This job will do that to you,” he says, unknowingly.
I realize that I was so caught up in the fact that neither of them told me about her parents, that I realize that neither of them know about what happened to me.
Rossi could assume. He knows this job, and if he wanted to know, he could find the files. But she had no idea.
And Rossi mentioned me helping her, but I don’t think I’ve given her enough credit for helping me.
My brain takes me to another place. Another time.
Concrete. Darkness. A locked door. A grave yard.
Tobias.
I remember the feeling of not knowing if anyone knew where I was. I remember how scared I was to hear any sound. I start shaking as I remember the feeling of the needle–
“Spencer?”
Rossi’s voice pulls me back. I realize I’m not in the shed. I’m here. I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I didn’t even know I was crying.
“Do you know?” I ask him through my tears.
“About Tobias Hankel?”
The name makes me gasp. I nod, my head falling into Rossi’s shoulder.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I say. “And now she’s in the same position I was.”
Rossi wraps an arm around me. It’s comforting, but not comforting enough.
“You’re here now though, aren’t you,” he says. He has a point. But I can’t stop thinking about her. Her all alone. Or if she’s hurt.
“What if she thinks no one is coming?” I say. And then I immediately find myself sick. The trash can beneath her desk is suddenly the closest thing in the room. I barely make it.
When it's over, I stay there, embarrassed Humiliated.
"I'm sorry,” I say.
Rossi immediately shakes his head. "No."
I wipe my mouth. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize,” he says.
I start to speak, but Dave’s phone rings in his pocket.
It’s Garcia.
“David Rossi,” he answers.
“We got him,” is all Garcia says. And Dave and I are immediately down the stairs and out the front door.
______
–Your POV–
You know he’s angry before he touches you. You’ve picked up on a few of his tells. The way his jaw tightens. The way he stops blinking. The way he goes quiet.
The quiet is always worse.
Because Steven likes talking. He likes hearing himself explain things. He likes feeling important.
And right now, you’ve made him feel small.
"You really think you're better than me."
It isn't a question. You don't answer. That makes it worse.
He steps closer.
“You think you understand everything.”
You look at him through your swollen eye.
“I understand enough.”
His face twists.
“You don't know anything about me.”
“No?” You swallow against the pain. “I know Dennis is the one everyone remembers. You know what I think?” You force yourself to keep looking at him. “I think you’re still angry because you spent your whole life standing behind someone else.”
His boot hits before you can prepare. Pain explodes through your side. A sound escapes you before you can stop it. You hate that. Not because it hurts. Because he heard it.
He smiles.
There.
That’s what he wanted.
Fear. Submission. You refuse to give it to him.
“You’re not scary.”
The smile disappears. “What?”
“You heard me.” Your breathing shakes, but your voice doesn’t. “You’re just desperate.”
He grabs your face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You stare at him. And suddenly you know exactly what to say. “You know what?”
He pauses. “What?”
You let out a small laugh. It hurts. Everything hurts. But you do it anyway. “Dennis never cared about you.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.” His expression darkens. “He used you. You were just the guy behind him.”
His breathing gets heavier. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know he got the credit. The headlines. The fear.” Your voice lowers. “And you got nothing.”
His face twists. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?”
His hands curl. “You don’t know what happened.”
You glance toward the wall. Just for a second. A movement. A shadow.
Someone outside.
Someone looking through the gaps in the wood.
Morgan.
Your heart jumps. But you don’t react. You keep going.
“I know my father fought Dennis. You weren’t the one who beat him.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice is steadier now. “Because my father was strong.”
His anger returns. “He was stronger than you.”
His hand grabs your hair.
You cry out.
He pulls you upright, forcing you to look at him. “You think you know everything.”
“No.” You look at him. “I know one thing, you needed Dennis.”
The wall beside you splinters. Steven turns.
The wood breaks.
“FBI!”
Everything happens at once. Morgan comes through first. Hotch behind him. Emily right behind.
Steven reacts instantly. You barely have time to breathe before he pulls you against him. A gun appears, pressed against your head.
You didn’t even know he had a gun this whole time. Not once did he show or mention it.
Everyone stops. Your heart pounds.
“Back up!” Steven’s voice shakes.
Hotch raises his hands. “Steven.”
“No.”
“Put the weapon down.”
“You don’t understand.”
Hotch’s voice stays calm. “You wanted this. You wanted someone to know your name.” The gun shifts slightly. “You wanted people to see you. They see you now.”
For a second it works. His grip loosens. The gun lowers. And that second is enough.
Morgan moves. He tackles Steven away from you. The gun hits the floor. Everything becomes noise.
Shouting.
Movement.
Then suddenly, you’re free. Emily is there immediately.
“Oh my God.” Her voice breaks slightly.
She cuts through the zip ties. Her hands are gentle. Careful. Like she’s afraid you’ll break.
You try to stand. Your legs immediately give. Emily catches you.
“Nope,” she says, holding you up.
“I can walk.”
“You can barely stand.”
You glare weakly.
Her arm wraps around your waist. “Come on.”
Every step feels impossible. Your ribs burn. Your vision swims.
“I can’t.”
Emily tightens her hold. “Yes, you can.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
Your eyes close. “I can’t.”
Emily looks toward the door. “Spencer is outside.”
That’s enough for you to fight through the near immobilizing pain. For him
The second you step outside you see him. And he sees you. For one second he doesn’t move. It’s like his brain can't process that you’re actually standing there.
Then he runs. He doesn't walk. He runs straight toward you.
Emily lets go just enough for him to reach you.
And then you’re in his arms. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. He just holds you. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like if he lets go you’ll disappear again.
Rossi reaches you seconds later.
“Kid,” his voice breaks. “Are you okay?”
You nod. Just once.
And immediately regret it.
Pain shoots through your body. Your stomach twists.
Spencer notices. “Y/N?”
You try to answer. You don’t get the chance.
You cough. Then again.
And suddenly blood is everywhere.
On your lips.
On his sweater.
On his hands.
You throw up against him.
For a moment, nobody moves. Then Spencer panics. Not because of the blood on him. Not because he’s covered in it.
Because it came from you.
“No.” His voice is hoarse. “No, no, no.”
“I’m okay, Spencer,” you try to convince him. “It’s not the first time.”
“That’s worse,” he says, looking at Rossi, then at the paramedics. “We need an ambulance.”
You try to tell him you can walk. You can’t. Your knees give almost immediately
“I’ve got you, Spencer says, catching you.
Before you can argue, he lifts you. You rest your head against his shoulder. And for the first time since waking up in that shed… You let yourself believe you’re safe.
_____
Read Part 31 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)
Uncle Rossi's Dinner Party Masterlist
All Works Masterlist
_____
a/n: i got this out way faster than i thought i was going to be able to. i was originally going to make it a little longer by having the last scene be everyone visiting reader in the hospital, but i decided that i want to dedicate an entire chapter to that. so next chapter will be that yippee
i really hope you guys enjoy this, i know it's longer than anything i've ever written, but i'm like 92% proud of it.
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