I NEED THIS MAN IN MY WALLS RAHHHHH This Was So Beautiful Maria
I NEED THIS MAN IN MY WALLS RAHHHHH this was so beautiful maria <333
PART I: THE LADY OF SHALOTT
this is what it means to love in verse and violence
part I -> part II
pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: dissociation, detachment, depictions of emotional numbness, exploration of unhealthy coping mechanism, obsessive thought patterns, situationship, canon-type cm violence wc: 1.7k
It feels blasphemous somehow, the serenity of your sleep while he quietly burns up in your atmosphere. Spencer watches anyway, the pain like a necessary liturgy, masochism dressed as ritual.
He thinks of Orpheus. The final glimpse. Desire’s ruinous price. You’re a figure behind glass, beautiful in its fragility, and he presses his longing against it like a handprint left on a window. It won’t hold.
It has to be safer like this. It’s the foundational premise, the condition, the contract he obsessively redraws in his head. You and him, whatever this is — it’s not a relationship. It’s too structured, carefully fenced in. No promises or permanence.
His breath briefly fogging your cold glass before inevitably fading away.
Finite.
But his mind is disloyal to his efforts. It feeds him poetry at midnight, terrible beautiful things about staying, about softness, about wanting. He loathes it. He hates himself more for listening.
Loss is familiar to him. Predictable, even. The reaching, the missing, the grasping for things already halfway gone. Always phantoms. Always slipping.
Better, then, to keep you preserved in a delicate status, sheltered, just outside the reach of the damage his presence seems destined to inflict. Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t survive contact with his hands. It’s a lesson he’s been forced to memorize in painful repetition.
There had been no reckless start with you. No heat-drunk declarations made in the haze of midnight or slurred confessions coaxed out by a bottle of wine.
Just something quieter. Slower. A gradual arrangement built on the architecture of sidelong glances and the language of proximity. It began in simplicity — how was your weekend? — and ended in confessions neither of you meant to give.
Until one day, without ceremony, vulnerability became habit. And intimacy, the kind that asked for nothing but the immediacy of bodies, was already there, waiting to be noticed.
Spencer understood that what he craved wasn’t emotional attachment. He didn’t pretend it was. It was physical. It was just sex. But not for the sake of lust or conquest or even pleasure. It was about what sex offered. The temporary illusion of closeness, the feeling of another person’s heat echoing back into him. Fingers skimming ribs, palms pressed to hips. It was a language that bypassed explanation.
He didn’t need to be known. He just needed to be felt. Needed the proof of another heartbeat beside his own.
He refocuses on your sleeping face, mouth tense like you’re fighting something behind your eyes. He’s grown disturbingly adept at interpreting your facial expressions, a proficiency he never consciously sought.
Usually, he leaves before these things become clear, out the door by two at the latest. Tonight, however, the neon glare of the clock on your wall — 2:56 — declares a harsh judgment.
Spencer knows, in some detached sense, he’s violating a fundamental rule of your agreement.
So why isn’t he already halfway across town, cloistered behind familiar walls?
A simultaneous vibration splinters his thoughts.
You wake with a sharp inhale. Spencer doesn’t flinch.
He reaches his phone first. One look at the screen is enough, but he answers anyway. Prentiss doesn’t waste words. We have a case. Briefing in thirty.
The call clicks off and he glances up — just in time to catch the look on his face. Sleep-blurred, yes, but also uncertain. Your eyes shift to the clock, then to him. Your lips part slightly, like they might form a question, but close again just as fast.
He doesn’t offer an answer. You don’t demand one.
Neither of you spoke on the car ride over. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, just… quiet. Still meandering in that liminal place between sleep and awake, not able or willing to summon the energy for idle conversation.
You had yawned at least four times in fifteen minutes. Spencer had counted without meaning to. He felt the same, half-aware and craving rest he couldn’t seem to find.
His exhaustion had been more pronounced than ever over the past couple months. At his own apartment, he sleeps. More or less. As well as anyone in his position could hope to. Enough hours, no interruptions outside of case hours.
He doesn’t wake to the sound of shouting or scraping medal anymore. A soft bed. No concrete slab. No cellmate shifting in the dark.
And still, he wakes up like he’s been emptied. Like rest is no longer a cure, just a placeholder.
He hasn’t admitted it out loud, but a theory’s been forming anyway. One that begins and ends with you.
The headaches are back too. He hadn’t missed them. They weren’t like before, thankfully, no blinding spikes of pain, no full-body shutdowns, but steady. Insistent. A dull pressure rooted behind his eyes, quietly leeching whatever thin layer of energy he manages to remain overnight.
Even the lights in the office feel hostile today, too bright and too cold. Fluorescence like a blade.
He blinks against it, resisting the childish urge to cover his face with his hands.
Instead, he squints toward the board. Three victims. All women. Early twenties.
“Three different methods. Drowning, strangulation, stabbing,” Rossi says, tapping the board with two fingers. “No clear pattern.”
Spencer frowns, eyes narrowing. “Unless that is the pattern,” he murmurs.
Emily looks over. “You think he’s varying methods on purpose?”
“It’s possible,” Spencer replies, suppressing a wince as the pressure in his skull pulses again. “Typically, yes, killers rely on routine or repetition. But each of these is too precise. Too controlled. If he were experimenting, we’d see hesitation, evidence of trial and error.”
You glance over at Spencer. “Could he be trying to confuse us? Distract us from the real motive?”
Spencer almost reaches for you, just to soften the crease in your forehead. He stops himself.
“That could be part of it,” he says, “but there could be something else. He could be assigning meaning to each method. A symbolic system. One we haven’t decoded yet.”
“So, he’s playing games,” Tara says grimly.
Games.
It lands wrong. He hopes that’s not what this is. He hopes the unsub isn’t clever, isn’t strategic, isn’t the type to leave messages behind like breadcrumbs, dragging them out just long enough to make it personal.
Spencer desperately needs this case to be clean. Not because simplicity implies ease, nor because brutality is diminished by brevity, but because he doesn’t possess the mental bandwidth to endure another protracted game of psychological chess.
He insists, adamantly, that it’s driven purely by morality, by justice, because every unanswered crime feels like a stain that seeps into his conscience.
But there’s another part of him that wonders if he’s simply worn down by impatience. If he wants this to be over so he can rest. Wants the luxury of collapsing into your warmth again, tucked behind the shield of excuses he’s been recycling since the start.
And yet, he’s not naive enough to believe rest will come after this.
There will be another case. Then another.
A carousel of grief dressed in new faces. He wonders, sometimes, where he’s supposed to draw the line. To quit before the work finishes hollowing him out completely.
Maybe then, he could allow himself to love you without conditions.
You would make a good wife. You would make a devastating home out of someone like him. Maybe there’s a version of this world, some other branch split clean at the moment he walked into the BAU, where you and him are just ordinary, happy, untouched by bureaucracy and regret.
Maybe.
But not here. Here, the air is dry, the grass brittle beneath his boots, and someone else’s ending waits in the dirt.
His attention flicks to a knot of wildflowers half-trampled by the path, their petals bruised beneath morning’s glare. They look like devotion offered too late. A gesture turned grotesque by where it landed.
She’s been placed, not dropped — the victim. That much is clear. Her body rests in the field, arms folded, face angled upward. Her hair spreads around her like a halo, washed-out gold against the soil. Despite the violence that ended her life, her face remains eerily serene. Mouth slightly open, as if paused mid-word.
“It’s strange, right? Like… the way she’s posed. It almost feels like he cared.” You glanced down, eyes catching on the blood-dark hole through her sternum. “Almost.”
His eyes trace the curve of her shoulder, the positioning of her hands.
“There’s a difference between cruelty and care,” he murmurs. “But I think some people forgot where the line is.”
Spencer crouches slowly, joints stiff with the cold. His gloved hands hover just above the victim’s frame, careful not to disturb the scene.
Why the effort?
The arrangement suggests something close to tenderness, though the context makes that hard to stomach. Reverence and murder rarely coexist comfortably. Maybe it isn’t about the death at all. Maybe it’s about the preservation. An attempt to suspend something fleeting. Youth. Beauty. Innocence. As if holding her like this could capture forever what can’t naturally endure.
“Do you ever think about how we show up after the worst thing someone’s gone through? And then just… leave?”
He stands slowly, spine aching from crouching too long.
Your face tilts toward the wind and sun catches on a smudge near your jaw. His fingers reach for it this time, brushing over it before the texture of the glove registers.
He drops his hand.
“You had something there.” A pause. “And now you probably have something else.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had worse things on my face.”
“I really hope you mean frosting or face paint,” he mutters.
He knows what you meant. Semantics aside, he’d studied the evidence up close.
The joke had bought him time, but not much. You’d asked him something and he dodged it. Clockwork.
“Yeah. I think about it. Feels like patching bullet holes with band-aids,” he says finally. “Better than letting it bleed out though.”
“Sure.”
The word came out thin, like you didn’t really mean it. He didn’t respond — just watched as techs pass by, then started walking.
The drive back was quiet again. You were scrolling through case notes, thumb dragging lethargic circles over the pages, eyes vacant and half-present.
You never played music. He always gripped the wheel like he was expecting something to go wrong.
Driving made him anxious. Watching you drive made him worse. You hit curbs like they were suggestions and got distracted by things like birds on telephone wires. He’d said once that riding with you felt like tempting fate on purpose. You laughed.
You asked if he was okay somewhere near the overpass. He said yeah, quietly and kept his eyes on the road, didn’t trust his face not to betray the lie. That was enough of an answer.
The rest of the day bled out without resolution. By evening, you were both too tired to pretend the lack of leads didn’t matter.
When you asked if he wanted to stay the night, he knew you expected a hesitation. A caveat. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to. It was another rule you both upheld — not overnights during cases. It was too complicated.
But his agreement came fast. He didn’t pause. Didn’t qualify. He should have. But Spencer’s rules bend with you, and lately, they’ve started to fold, orgami-thin and splitting at the creases.
You step back to let him in, barefoot, already half-undressed in the way you usually were after midnight.
Spencer keeps his eyes open the whole time. It wasn’t necessarily about watching but more so remembering. If this was wrong, he needed to hold onto it tightly enough to justify the transgression.
Your mouth against his, your hands pulling him in, the curve of your throat, the shiver under his palm. All these pieces of proof he’d replay later, alone, dissecting memories in the silence of his apartment.
He’s not sure he’ll ever know what fragments of these stolen moments he’s allowed to believe in.
He kisses your skin, fooling himself into believing it was sufficient, that passion could remain confined.
But even tempered glass has its breaking point.
The mirror crack’d from side to side; / ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried / The Lady of Shalott.
part II
More Posts from G4rvez-r3id and Others
LOVER ATE AND LEFT NO CRUMBS
Reflections
In which Spencer sees himself in a suspect, making him willing to do anything to protect her. Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: crime x angst? x fluff? Content warnings: post prisoner!spencer (but no spoilers bc i'm still on s11 lol, so sorry for inaccuracies), one time mention of suicide and rape (no details), fade to black smut so suggestive content Word count: 3,8k A/n: my own entry for #lovers1kevent ! bit different from what i usually write. didn't exactly turn out like how i had envisioned it, but i'm still very curious to hear your thoughts!
“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. I see my reflection in your eyes.” The sound of a clock striking midnight made you jump in your seat, the plastic stool screeching loudly against the cold, concrete floor. The interrogation room was filled with nothing but the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the pounding of your heartbeat. Everything in this room felt eerie: a harsh light shone down on you, irritating your eyes, and there was no escaping your reflection in the two-way mirror in front of you. You observed yourself through the glass, and to put it simply, you looked awful. The dress you were wearing was crumpled as it hung loosely on your frame, the dark circles under your eyes were noticeable from a distance, and your eyes themselves expressed no spark. They looked dimmed, with no emotion behind the colored irises. Though, that had been so for a while now.
The creak of the door jolted you out of your thoughts. You turned your head, feeling disappointment when the same agent as before walked in. He wasn’t hard on the eyes: dark skin, rolled-up sleeves that showed his muscular forearms, a neatly trimmed goatee covering his sharp jaw, and eyes that looked just as cutting as they darted over you. Maybe, in another life, you would’ve considered dating him. In a life where he didn’t suspect you of killing three men.
He stayed quiet as he made his way over to you, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table. He placed a folder in front of him, shoving it toward you. “Still not going to talk?”
You cleared your throat. Nevertheless, the words came out hoarse. “I have nothing to say.”
He rolled his eyes in annoyance before crossing his arms. “Do I need to remind you of your rights? You can contact a lawyer, or we can get you one.”
“I also have the right to remain silent.”
A small huff escaped his lips, and you noticed the way he clenched his fingers, as though trying to hold himself back from making a comment he’d regret.
His eyes landed back on you, glaring. “A girl like you won’t survive in prison.”
“Well, then it’s good that I’m not going to prison,” you snapped back with a small smile. You weren’t going to let him intimidate you. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet here you were.
“I’d lose the attitude if I were you because it’s not looking good.”
Before you could open your mouth to respond, he cut you off. “Open the folder.”
You inhaled deeply before obeying. You hated the way you couldn’t help the nerves from creeping in. Your hand trembled as you opened the folder. The picture that greeted you was one of three lifeless bodies slumped over each other in an empty alley. A bitter tang formed in the back of your throat, but you ignored it, forcing yourself to look back at the agent.
“Looks familiar?”
Your eyes flicked over the image again. “What exactly are you referring to?”
“The people. Do you recognize them?”
You nodded.
“I want a clear answer,” he said, his voice raised.
“Yes,” you replied, matching his tone. “We went to college together.”
There was no way you could forget them. Unfortunately. The idea that they were wiped off the face of earth gave you a strange sense of comfort. Maybe now you could find the peace you’d been looking for. The peace she was looking for.
The agent seemed relieved to have gotten an answer out of you. “And you met up with them again today. Is that right?” he queried, nodding toward the folder.
You got the hint and pulled the first picture off the pile, revealing another underneath it. It was a selfie taken by two women. You spotted yourself in the right corner by the bar, in conversation with the three men he was referring to. His gaze stayed focused on you, trying to see if you’d reveal any emotion.
“It was our college reunion. As you can see I wasn’t the only one there,” you explained.
“Multiple witnesses have told us you were the last person seen talking to them.”
You shrugged. “Is that something significant?”
“Not necessarily so,” he answered, sitting up straighter. “What is, is that you left through the emergency exit. And what makes it even more suspicious is that you left right after the victims got their drinks served.”
You gave him a blank look.
“The victims were poisoned.”
Ah.
You offered him a tight smile. “I think that’s something you need to bother the bartender about.”
“We checked him out already. The only person we can connect to this case is you.”
A silence followed. It truly didn’t seem like you’d be leaving anytime soon. You rubbed your hands down on the material of your dress, gathering courage.
“It’s an unfortunate coincidence. Like I told you, I had nothing to do with it. I don’t want anything to do with them,” you clarified, the disdain evident on your tongue.
The agent turned his head around, looking at the two-way mirror. The thought of other agents standing behind that wall, all analyzing you full of judgement, made your skin crawl.
“Seems like you’re not too fond of the men.”
You scoffed, “No one is.”
“What about Natalie Fisher?” he wondered aloud. “She seemed close to you. We found multiple pictures dating back to high school.”
Like a gust of wind, the memories came back to you. How you found Natalie standing in front of your college dorm room, smiling brightly as she introduced herself as your roommate. You instantly hit it off: sharing the same humor, the same passions. Only a year younger than you, but a carbon copy. From that day on you were inseparable.
It all came back to that one night — that one time you bailed on her, deciding studying for an upcoming exam was more important than joining her at a frat party. It was only when she called you awake in the middle of the night, her voice shaking as her words tripped over her tongue, telling you she didn’t know where she was and how she woke up in an empty alley, possibly drugged and with her clothes torn — that you knew you made the biggest mistake in your life.
You shook the thoughts away. Pursing your lips as you shrugged. “She was. I don’t know why you’re bringing her up.”
“Her report says she died two years ago from suicide. Or did you kill her as well?”
It felt like he’d knocked the breath out of you. You made a choking sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “You’re sick,” you spat in disbelief.
“I’m sick?” He chuckled sarcastically. “You’re the one who murdered those people.”
“I didn’t murder anyone!”
The sound of your yelling reverberated off the concrete walls, the echo scaring you. You squeezed your eyes shut, holding back tears as you bit your tongue. There goes your attempt at staying calm. He was playing games with your mind. You knew this was all a trick — a way to get you to admit to the crimes he was naming. And it drove you crazy that it was having an effect.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” you muttered.
-`♡´-
Spencer couldn’t tear his eyes away from you as he looked through the glass. You’d been sitting there for three hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-six seconds, counting. He didn’t know what it was about you that made it impossible to look away. Hotch had told him to go home. Hotch was certain that they got the right unsub, and he assured him that you’d confess at some point. But he couldn’t get himself to move. To turn his head even. All he felt was a nagging guilt as he watched you being questioned by Morgan. It was a different experience to see an interrogation when he’s been in one himself. He now understood what it was like. How pressuring their questions can be, how the weight of a sentence is crushed on your shoulders, and how they keep pushing you to the point where you even start doubting your own truth.
All he could think of when he saw you was innocence. A soft, radiant white light surrounded you. You were bright even against the harshness of the room. There was no rational way to explain how he felt, only that he sensed the deepest desire to keep you safe from everything that could hurt you.
“She’s working on my nerves,” Morgan exclaimed, tension visible in his shoulders as he stomped out of the interrogation room.
“We can’t stop,” Hotch stated. “We haven’t gotten an answer out of her yet.”
Morgan let out a deep huff. “It’s clear that she did it.”
Spencer's focus was back on you. Since he’s been to prison he’s been more aligned with his feelings. His heart overpowering his mind at times.
“She’s not our unsub,” Spencer spoke up, surprising even himself with the firmness of his voice.
Everyone looked at him expectantly, waiting for the genius revelation he always had. But the room stayed silent.
Hotch eyed him, “What makes you say that?”
“I just know.” Spencer replied, not caring to elaborate further. He nudged Derek aside and headed for the door. “I’ll take it from here.”
He pulled the heavy metal door open, at once met with your doe eyes as you faced him. For the first time tonight, you didn’t flinch when someone entered.
Spencer had to swallow. His gaze momentarily dropped to the floor, feeling overwhelmed by how beautiful you looked up close. You seemed tired, cold, yet somehow angelic.
His eyes never left yours as he made his way over to you. You held his gaze, observing him with the same intensity as he was. He carried a calm, magnetic presence, which made you feel an unexplainable urge to get closer to him.
“Are you cold?” he eventually asked, his voice gentle and considerate.
You blinked at his question, clearly not expecting it. You remembered how you were only wearing a light dress, noticing the goosebumps that had formed on your bare legs. Inevitably, you nodded.
He surprised you again by taking off his suit jacket and draping it over your shoulders. The fabric felt heavy, enveloping you like a warm blanket.
“Thank you,” you silently mumbled, noticing a small dimple appear in his cheek.
He sat down in front of you, resting his arms on the table between you, as though compelled to get as close as possible. The moment felt intimate, your eyes locked on his tender brown ones, making the world fade around you. “I believe you.”
For a moment, you just stared at him, a frown formed on your face as you realized he wasn’t about to say more. “What?”
“I believe you,” he repeated in the same composed manner. He leaned forward even further, and it was then that you noticed you had subconsciously mirrored his movement, drawn to him like a magnetic pull.
“They suspect you, but I don’t.”
He didn’t need to rephrase his words for you to understand who he meant by them. You could almost feel the other agents’ glaring stares pressing down on you through the glass.
“Try to forget about them,” he reminded you, as if reading your thoughts. You didn’t look up to face him, instead your focus was on the proximity of your hands on the table, his finger just inches away from touching yours. Spencer noticed the look in your eyes, and moved his little finger just enough to brush against yours.
An electric shock coursed through you. Simultaneously, both of you shuddered, stunned as you saw the other wearing the same stupefied expression. Sure, it could’ve been a static shock, but something told you it was more than that. And by the look of the curly haired agent, he felt the same.
“Why don’t you?” you asked, returning to the subject. “Suspect me, I mean.”
Spencer hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. “Because I know what it’s like to be in a situation like you are.” He saw the confusion written on your face, continuing his explanation. “There’s something about being in a room like this — being treated like you’re guilty before you even speak — that makes you start questioning your own truth.”
Questions flooded your mind, but you chose not to press further. You had someone who believed you, you weren’t going to ruin that opportunity by being too curious.
“So, what now?” your voice sounded more sure, hopeful even.
“Usually, we ask people if they’re willing to take a polygraph exam,” he explained. “It can also be referred to as a lie detector test, even though that term is often used incorrectly. A professional will ask a series of questions, and as you answer, the device will measure multiple psychological indicators which are associated with lying, like your blood pressure and pulse. I know it can sound scary, but in cases like these — when there’s no clear evidence — it might be the only thing keeping you from going to prison.”
His words hit you hard, though the gleam in his eyes remained soft. You inhaled deeply before nodding. “I’ll do it.”
-`♡´-
“She’s telling the truth.”
You hadn’t known pure relief until now. Your eyes closed, trying to stop the flood of emotions from flowing in when the pressure cuffs and sensors were being removed from your arms and hands. You didn’t know whether to cry or to cheer, but when you opened your eyes and saw Spencer — who had introduced himself as Dr. Reid, smiling at you, you were sure everything would turn out okay.
“Impossible,” the agent who questioned you earlier huffed under his breath.
The chief who had introduced himself as Aaron Hotchner walked up to you. “For now you’re free to go. However, this case isn’t closed yet. You’ll remain our primary suspect until we find more proof.”
The sharpness in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. You kept quiet as he and the other agents left the room, leaving you alone with Dr. Reid.
He closed the distance between you two, standing near enough that he could see all the details on your face. He fought the urge to tuck the loose strings of hair behind your ear, to hold you and tell you that you were okay.
“You did really well,” he said with a soft smile. “Your heartbeat stayed on an average of 70 beats per minute, only going up to 86 once, which is still in the normal range.”
“Did you peek at the monitor?” you jokingly teased.
“I- uh, no. I just counted.” Spencer shyly admitted, earning a playful grin from you. You took his hand in yours, his palm slightly sweaty, as if he was nervous about the outcome too. Then you placed his hand on your chest, right where your heart was. “What about now? Higher than average?”
He swallowed, a blush creeping up his neck. “95 beats per minute.”
The tension between you was palpable, though his touch felt comforting. Your hand was placed over his, and you could both feel the way your heartbeat steadily decreased as you brushed your fingers soothingly over his.
“Can I drive you home?” Spencer offered.
You bit your lip in an effort to hide your grin, but then the corners of your mouth slightly dropped. “I don’t really have a place to stay.”
His brows lifted in surprise, but an empathetic twinkle appeared in his bambi eyes. “You could stay at my place.”
Spencer wasn’t sure why the words came out, but he meant them. He could practically hear the voices of his team telling him to not get involved with someone on a case, let alone a potential suspect. But it wasn’t like he was the first person to do so. And he wouldn’t waste the opportunity of getting closer to you. Maybe if he could get to know you better, if he could make you comfortable enough to open up to him, he could prove to everyone that you were innocent. Because deep down, he knew you were.
-`♡´-
“Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing, man?” Morgan called out, rushing after Spencer, who had just entered the bullpen to grab his satchel bag before heading out with you.
“Hotch told me I could go home,” he hastily replied, stuffing his papers into his bag.
“Yeah, two hours ago. Before you decided to flirt with a suspect,” he exclaimed in frustration.
“I didn’t flirt with her,” Spencer recounted under his breath.
Morgan let out a dry laugh. “Everyone saw what went on in that room, Reid,” he shook his head in disbelief. “I would’ve least expected this from someone like you.”
“Someone like me doesn’t exist anymore, Derek,” Spencer snapped, a sharp edge to his voice. “I’m not who I was before prison, and neither will I ever be that person again. However, I can help her from turning into someone like me. So, if you don’t mind, I am leaving now.”
He left Morgan at a loss of words as he walked off. You were waiting on him; your posture stiffened as you wrapped his jacket closer around you. Gently, Spencer threaded his fingers through yours and guided you to the elevator.
Once inside, Spencer pressed the button to the ground floor, then leaned his head back to the wall, letting out a fatigued sigh.
“I am sorry for causing you trouble,” you apologized, nervously picking at the fabric of his jacket that hung loosely over your arms.
His gaze softened, and he shook his head before he reached out to hold your hand once more. It was ironic how he longed for your grounding touch. “You’re not causing me any trouble. I’m sorry for the way they’re treating you. It’s our job to be cautious, to not easily trust someone.”
You squeezed his hand. “But you trust me,” you stated, though it came out more as a question, waiting for confirmation.
His other hand lifted up to touch your cheek, and his heart warmed at how you instinctively leaned into his touch. “I do.”
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Can you prove it to me?”
He responded with a soft chuckle, reaching up to cup your face in his large palms. You rose to your tiptoes, leaning in until his sweet lips found yours.
-`♡´-
Spencer had expected to spend the ride home talking to you. Instead, you spent the entire ride trying to resist the urge to climb on top of each other. Once he tasted your lips, he couldn’t get enough, and neither could you.
Your giggle sounded through the dimly lit halls of his apartment complex as he dragged you up the stairs.
“Hurry,” you impatiently chuckled as he struggled to find his keys in his bag. He joined your giddy laughter as you entered the apartment. The second he shut the door close, he gently pressed you against the wall, his lips finding yours again. You let out a satisfied hum, your fingers sliding into the soft curls of his hair, tugging on it as he bit down on your bottom lip.
“Wait—one second,” he murmured.
“No,” you pouted, capturing his lips.
He kissed you back—then again, and again—before finally pulling away. “I just need to put my gun away.”
“Fine,” you mumbled, pressing one last kiss to his lips. “Just make it quick.”
He gave you a big grin and walked to the cupboard, where his safe was hidden behind his jackets and a row of spare shoes. It felt strange to have someone in his apartment. Strange to be smiling so brightly, to feel so much, after the emptiness prison has brought him. But strange didn’t mean bad. It felt new. And new could be good. You could be good.
His fingers pressed down on the familiar buttons: 62383. With a soft click, the lock opened; he took his gun from its holster on his pants and safely put it away.
When he turned back, he saw you leaning against the wall, a sweet expression on your face as you awaited him. He strode toward you, immediately pulling you in and kissing you fiercely.
Spencer was aware of his actions. Aware that he shouldn’t be doing what he was about to do with you. But as his hand made contact with the warm skin of your inner thighs, and as your sweet sounds filled the air, he chose to simply not care.
-`♡´-
The next morning you woke up with messy curls tingling against your face. You chuckled as Spencer lay asleep with his head resting on your chest. Your fingers ached with the urge to graze them through his hair, to press a soft kiss to the top of his head. Instead, you held your breath as you climbed from underneath him.
The golden sun shone brightly through the curtains, illuminating your surroundings. You tiptoed through the room, gathering the items of clothes one by one, until you were fully dressed.
Wearing yesterday’s dress sent a shiver through your body, being reminded of the long hours spent in that bleak interrogation room.
You mumbled a sorry, before opening his closet and fishing a T-shirt out of it, a blue one with a faded Caltech logo, barely visible. You ignored the thoughts forming in your head, the itch to want to know more about the man who was still sleeping soundlessly in the bed that you shared.
Once you found yourself a suitable pair of pants, Spencer started groaning from the other side of the room. You turned around, catching his hand patting down the empty space beside him, as if in search of the heat of your body. It felt irresistible to not check up on him. You slowly made your way to his side of the bed, crouching down and lightly stroking his face. His eyes blinked open, and the way he smiled made your heart churn.
“I need to go,” you softly whispered to him.
His smile faltered. “Where to?” He sat up straighter on the bed, but you gently pushed him back down.
“Will I see you again?” Spencer asked when you didn’t respond.
Your lips curled in a smile, “I’m sure you will.”
And sure you were, because as soon as you left the bedroom, you were headed to the cupboard, pushing aside the jackets that hung on the hooks, until your eyes landed on the shining steel safe.
62383.
The lock sprung open, and in a swift motion you took the gun and hid it in the bottom of your purse. I will be seeing you again, Spencer. Just under different circumstances.
my god this was HOT
𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒏𝒆?
Inexperienced doesn’t mean incapable—especially when you’re bent over and begging him to go deeper.
wc: 2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, rough sex, mild dominance/submission dynamics, inexperienced but eager Spencer, praise kink, slight hair pulling, deep penetration, overstimulation, mild dirty talk
A/N: I’m obsessed with the big useless dick trope from @esote-rika, so here’s my take—featuring a big, useless dick and a loving, overthinking, but oh-so-giving doctor. (not proof read)
Spencer had been so inexperienced when you first got together—hesitant, unsure. Just two partners before you, neither of them pushing him beyond what he knew. He was sweet, generous, and completely devoted to your pleasure, but he was stuck in his patterns. The same three positions, over and over. Missionary, him on top, or you on top—maybe a leg up if he was feeling particularly bold. It wasn’t bad. Far from it. His big, beautiful cock, thick and flushed at the tip, always left you satisfied. But satisfaction wasn’t enough anymore. You wanted something deeper. Something rougher. Something primal.
You kept thinking about last week—when Spencer had lost himself for just a second. The way his fingers wrapped around your throat as you came, his hips snapping into you harder than usual. The look in his eyes after, that flicker of something raw and untamed before he shoved it back down, had haunted you. Left you craving more.
And yet, here you were again, pinned beneath him in missionary, Spencer sweating above you, his breath ragged as he buried himself inside you with careful precision. His movements were deliberate, controlled—too controlled. You could feel the effort, the sheer determination to make you feel good, but somewhere in his need to perfect, to please, he was missing something vital. His strokes were measured and rhythmic, but they lacked the wild, desperate edge you ached for. His eyes were shut tight, damp curls sticking to his forehead, lost in his own head instead of here with you. You loved him—God, you did—but you needed more.
"Sp- Spencer," you gasped, hands trembling as they found his face, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. He nearly stopped, concern flashing in his dark, lust-blown eyes, but you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip just enough to keep him there.
"No, no, keep going," you urged, your voice a smooth plea, even as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly, stealing your breath. Your thumb brushed over his bottom lip, feeling the heat of his breath, the slight tremble in his jaw as he obeyed. A soft, unbidden whimper slipped from him, the sound vibrating against your touch, sending a molten shiver straight through you.
His rhythm faltered, just slightly, when you spoke again. "Spencer, can we try something new?"
His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he leaned down to press his lips to your shoulder, his grip on your waist tightening like he was afraid to let go. He hesitated—that hesitation so inherently him, always second-guessing, always calculating.
But not tonight.
You didn’t give him the chance to overthink. In a swift movement, you rolled out from under him, flipping the balance of power in an instant. "Come on, genius," you teased, your smirk slow, dripping with something dangerously enticing. "You’re always reading. I know you’ve done your research."
His pupils blew wide, and for a moment, he hovered between intrigue and disbelief, his jaw tensing like he was fighting himself. Then, something shifted. Acceptance. Surrender. The sharp edge of arousal overtaking logic.
He swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair before his fingers flexed at his sides. "You know," he started, voice lower, rougher, "research suggests this position promotes optimal G-spot stimulation and deeper penetration." A pause, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smirk. "And judging by your reaction, I’d hypothesize you already knew that."
You let out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering as his hands found your hips, gripping, exploring. "You think too much, Doctor."
"I can’t help it," he admitted, his voice thinner now, like he was barely holding himself together. "It’s kind of my thing."
"Then let’s see if I can make you stop thinking for a while."
His breath hitched, eyes darkening as you crawled onto your hands and knees in front of him, arching your back just enough. Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the way your hips tilted up for him. He stared, visibly collecting himself, and then, in the way only he could, he gave a response that had your stomach tightening.
"Statistically speaking, rear-entry positions allow for deeper penetration and increased stimulation of the anterior vaginal wall, particularly the A-spot and the upper third of the clitoris," he murmured, his voice low, almost clinical, but edged with something rough. "They also offer better angles for prostate stimulation—not that that applies here, but still interesting."
You bit your lip, tilting your head to glance back at him, eyes dark with mischief. "Spencer," you purred, voice low and teasing, "I didn’t ask for a dissertation. Get behind me."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself. But any hesitation he had was gone, burned away by the heat simmering between you. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing into your skin, firm and reverent, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.
“God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, almost like he was speaking to himself, as he lined himself up. The air between you turned electric, thick with anticipation. For a few long, breathless seconds, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, the weight of what was about to happen settling deep in your bones.
Then, finally, he pushed in—slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch. His hands tightened on your hips as a ragged groan tore from his throat.
The stretch had you gasping, your fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure spiked sharp and hot through your veins. Behind you, Spencer let out a broken, needy sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. “The angle really does make a difference.”
A breathless laugh slipped past your lips, dissolving into a moan when he gave an experimental thrust, adjusting his stance behind you. Whatever hesitation he had left melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. He found a rhythm—strong, precise, every snap of his hips hitting just right. It shouldn’t have surprised you—of course Spencer would be good at this, just like he was good at everything—but still, you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into every movement like you’d been waiting for this all along.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers skimming up your spine, sending a delicious shiver rippling through you. “I don’t know why we haven’t done this sooner.”
You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the sensation of him, the way he fit inside you like he was made for it. Instead, you pushed back to meet his thrusts, earning a sharp inhale from him, his grip on your hips tightening.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice rough and desperate. “You like this, don’t you?”
A strangled moan was the only answer you could give, pleasure burning so hot it left you breathless. Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, knuckles white, your entire body trembling with every deep, measured thrust he gave. He wasn’t holding back anymore—wasn’t hesitant. He had surrendered to the need coiling tight inside him, his usual restraint shattered by the slick heat of you wrapped around him.
“Yes,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking on the word.
That single syllable sent a shudder through him, a deep groan tearing from his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him harder, deeper, as if he wanted to lose himself completely in you. The drag of him inside you was unbearable in the best way, his pace relentless but still precise, like he was cataloging every reaction, every sharp inhale, every flutter of your walls around him—storing it all away in that brilliant mind of his, ready to use it against you later.
“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and something almost reverent. “God, you’re so—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he caught himself, the slap of skin on skin filling the air.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him—Spencer, his hair damp and curling at the edges, jaw clenched so tight he looked like he was fighting to hold on, his hands gripping you like he was terrified of letting go. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze locked on where your bodies met, completely transfixed.
“You feel so good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, like it was a confession. “Too good—I don’t… I don’t think I’m gonna last.”
His honesty sent another wave of arousal crashing through you, a desperate whimper slipping from your lips as your body clenched around him involuntarily. The reaction dragged a ragged sound from him, his hips snapping into you harder, his control slipping with every thrust.
“I want you to come first,” he managed, the words punctuated by sharp, deliberate movements that had your entire body winding tighter and tighter.
“You’re— you’re getting close,” you panted, the pleasure building too fast, too intense, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.
Spencer’s hand slid from your hip, tracing up your spine before tangling into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sudden shift, the subtle display of dominance, had your stomach coiling impossibly tighter.
“Then let me take you there,” he murmured, his free hand slipping between your thighs, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves already throbbing from the friction. His touch was precise, practiced, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that had your entire body jolting with pleasure. “Let me feel you fall apart around me.”
It was too much. The fullness of him, the pressure, the heat of his body pressed against yours, the way he was whispering praise into your skin like you were something to be worshipped—it sent you spiraling over the edge in a dizzying, overwhelming rush. Your body clenched down around him as the orgasm crashed through you, your vision going completely white, your mouth opening in a silent, wrecked moan.
Spencer groaned, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him to the brink. His movements grew erratic, his grip tightening as he buried himself deep, his breath stuttering in your ear.
“Fuck—” The word was half a sob, his body tensing behind you as he reached his own release, his hips jerking against you in a few final, desperate thrusts before he stilled, forehead pressing against your shoulder as he panted, utterly spent.
The heat of him filled you, thick and warm, spreading deep, making you shudder in the aftermath. The sensation was almost too much—his release inside you, each subtle twitch of him prolonging your own pleasure, making your walls flutter around him involuntarily. He let out a broken groan, his fingers pressing hard into your waist like he was trying to ground himself, trying to feel every second of it, unwilling to let the moment slip away too soon.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the weight of his body still pressed against yours, the aftershocks still rippling through both of you, making you keen softly when he shifted just slightly inside you.
Then, finally, Spencer let out a breathless laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade. "So, I guess that was a successful experiment."
You snorted, shoving weakly at his shoulder, though he barely budged. His smirk was lazy, smug, just a little bit cocky. "What? You were the one who encouraged me to apply my research."
Rolling your eyes, you stretched out beneath him, still catching your breath. "Never thought I’d see the day Spencer Reid goes hard."
He grinned against your skin, pressing another indulgent kiss to your jaw. "What can I say? The data was conclusive."
he’s so gorg
spencer reid in 7.01
“FERTILISE US!!” screamed my ovaries
the wet hair?? oh im so sick 😭😭😭😭😭😭
Can I recommend Daylight by christmasbarbie
will definitely be adding this one! <3
Bad Day
Boyfriend! Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader
Synopsis: You come home from a really bad day and your boyfriend, Spencer is there to save the day… and hold you while you cry.
Category: Fluff, some Angst
Warnings: reader having the worst day of her life, crying, mentions of having bad days, kissing, spencer being the best bf ever- ig that’d be it 🤷♀️
Author’s Note: hey lovelies! so this is more of a blurb bc i had a bad day today soooo this was the outcome of said bad day and how spencer would be 😌 can you tell i’m projecting again? oops. oh well.
This was probably the worst day of your life. Okay, it may not have been the worst day of your life per se, but it seemed like it was in the top ten at the very moment.
Everything that could’ve happened today happened. You woke up late, causing you to be late to work, you missed the bus on top of that, the customers in the store were horrendous and rude and you’d miscounted the deposit in the store at least a hundred times, causing you to be late to your other bus. Oh, and it was raining. Today was just not a good day.
And after your ten hour shift, all you want to do is just go home and cry yourself to sleep and forget this whole day. You’d arrived back home, holding yourself back from crying until you got into your bed. But you unlocked the front door and came home to a pleasant surprise.
Your boyfriend, Spencer was in the living room, reading a book, feet rested on the couch — showing off his mismatched socks — with a small smile on his face. “Hi, angel!” He diverts his attention from the book to you, closing it as he stood up from his spot on the couch. “How was work?”
You look up at him and his face makes you sad. He’s so happy to see you, so joyful even if he has a job being one of the most important people in the world, catching serial killers. He was a hero, essentially and had seen the worst of the worst out there and still managed to put a smile on his face whenever he saw you.
Your shoulders sank and your head fell against his chest and you began to cry into his sweater. And you cried hard. To the point where you were soaking Spencer’s sweater with your tears. Spencer, being the concerned boyfriend he was frowned and rubbed your shoulders, pulling you away from him so he could see you. “Hey,” He spoke softly. “Hey, honey, what’s the matter? Come here.”
He led you over to the couch where you sat down and he kneeled in front of you. “Are you okay? Did something happen?” Spencer asks as he rubs your thigh soothingly and your eyes are shut as you cry but you can feel him staring at you, awaiting an answer because he hates seeing you in this state.
“Everything that could’ve happened happened,” You sniffle. “I’ve had such a horrible day, Spencer.”
Spencer frowns as he sits next to you on the couch and lets you lean on him as you continue to cry and cry. “It was a bad day, that’s all it was.” He says as he rubs your arm. “Shh.” He says as he holds you close.
Eventually, you’re done letting it all out and take a deep breath and you look up at Spencer. You had kept your feelings in all day today until you got home and the minute you saw Spencer, you broke. Mostly because it was easier to be vulnerable with him. He made it easy to. And you were never afraid to express it to him.
Spencer looks at you with a fond, sympathetic smile as he takes the opportunity to wipe the tears away from your cheeks. “I’m sorry.” You tell him as you looked down at his soaked sweater. “Don’t be,” He assures. “It’s normal to have bad days. Bad days are a common human experience, it happens to everyone. It often stemming from stress, poor sleep, or a series of minor inconveniences and while they can feel overwhelming, they can also be a learning opportunity to build resilience and understand yourself better.” He gives you a tight lipped smile after his little fact. And somehow, it makes you feel better about your bad day. “Do you feel any better?” He asks and you shrug with a sniffle, “A little.”
“Well, then how about you hop in the shower and I’ll get your bedroom made up since I put your sheets in the dryer —” He checks his watch. “A little under an hour ago — and I’ll order us takeout and we can have a movie night. And I’ll put on a Disney movie since those seem to cheer you up a lot. Is that okay?” Hearing him say that just makes you want to cry again. Not because you’re ungrateful but because you feel as if you don’t deserve a kind man like Spencer in your life.
Often, people told you to suck it up and get over it and grow up. But Spencer never did. He listened when you had bad days, he sat there when you vented and needed someone to listen to and vice versa. You’d felt vulnerable with him like he had with you. And at first, you weren’t like this. You never opened up to him because you were scared you’d get the same reaction — telling you to get over it, but he never did. He wouldn’t dare to.
“Please don’t cry, my love. I’m sorry.” Spencer says with a small loving smile, holding your face in his hands but you shake your head as him, “I’m not sad,” You tell him. “I’m just… emotional now because… you are seriously my dream man.” You say to him with a small smile and he chuckles at that and pats your thigh as he stands up and goes to the bathroom to get your shower ready.
After you get out of the shower, you go to your room and find Spencer has made your bed, the takeout is here and your TV is on, ready for any streaming networks.
You get into the bed and Spencer happily joins you, opting to turn on Wreck-It-Ralph since you both agreed on it and as the movie starts, you watch him with a small smile.
As he focuses his attention on the screen, you focus your attention on him. His perfect nose, the way it twitches when he’s happy. His brown-on-the-outside, gold-on-the-inside eyes, always so mesmerized in you. And the way they crinkle up when he smiles. And speaking of his smile, the most perfect you’d ever seen it. Next to his hair, which you are currently raking your hands in and brushing through with your fingers. He was so lovely, in your eyes. He was the flower petals to a beautiful rose, he was your everything. Just as you were his. What did you do to deserve him, you wonder.
“No wonder I had a bad day,” You spoke, causing him to turn his head to you and furrow his brows in confusion. “I didn’t have my lucky charm with me.” You say as you brush through his locks.
Spencer has a baffled look on his face at that sentence alone. “I’m your good luck charm, huh?” He asks, raised eyebrows and a small smile appearing across his face.
“The best good luck charm ever.” You lean close and peck his lips with your own and that’s what you’ve missed this entire time. His lips against yours and you can’t help but smile in the kiss.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, you back away from the kiss but he wants seconds. And he grabs you by the chin gently and kisses your lips one last time, so passionately and lovingly and he waits there after the fact, faces close and looking into your eyes as if you made the world stop turning.
You rest your head on his shoulder as you get impossibly close to him as you watch the movie with him and fifteen minutes later, Spencer looks over and sees that you’ve fallen asleep and he lets you rest. And he hopes that your bad day may have turned into a good one at the end of the night.
Spoiler alert: it did.
ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY
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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader
masterlist
summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?
cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius
tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat
a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff
also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks
slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack
title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.
From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.
And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.
He was also really, really, really hot.
It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.
But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?
He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.
You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”
And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.
It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.
With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.
So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.
All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.
And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.
It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.
Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.
—
The case is going terribly.
What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.
And now she won’t stop calling.
Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.
“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“
“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“
“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”
A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“
“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”
You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.
Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.
The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.
Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.
You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.
So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.
Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.
“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”
“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”
He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.
“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“
“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”
“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.
“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”
You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”
Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.
“You don’t want to see her.”
He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.
It is a fact.
“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”
You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”
He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”
“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”
“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”
He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.
“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”
You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”
His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.
And then it’s gone.
“Of course.”
—
For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.
You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.
Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.
All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.
It’s a win because you saved the evidence.
It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.
Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.
Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.
The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.
“Hotch, I’m sorry—“
He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.
“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”
“I just thought—“
“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”
You frown. “I do follow your orders.”
He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”
That… doesn’t make any sense.
Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”
“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”
Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”
You blink. “Oh.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”
You shake your head, your world turned on its head.
He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“And agent?”
You look up.
“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”
He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.
So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.
So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?
You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.
“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”
It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.
“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”
He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.
Oh shit.
“Sorry, what?”
His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”
You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”
“About?”
See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.
You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”
He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”
You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”
He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”
The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”
“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”
“To help people.”
“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”
“Do I even have to answer that?”
He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”
Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”
He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”
The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”
He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.
A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.
It should concern you, unnerve you.
It doesn’t.
“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”
You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.
“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”
“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”
“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”
“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”
“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”
You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.
But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.
“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”
“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”
You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”
He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”
That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.
You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.
—
You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.
“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”
You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”
Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”
You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.
You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.
You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.
“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”
“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”
“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”
To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.
“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”
“But I’m still coughing.”
“Have you given it any time to work?”
“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”
He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”
You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”
“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”
“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”
“You never joke.” JJ says.
“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.
You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”
“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“
Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”
JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”
Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”
“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“
“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”
“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”
“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”
JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”
You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”
“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”
“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”
“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”
“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”
Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.
Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.
“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”
You frown. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“
“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“
“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”
You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”
He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”
You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”
He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”
The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.
The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.
The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.
“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“
“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”
“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”
He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”
You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”
“Drink it anyway.”
You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.
You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.
With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.
“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”
Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.
“Ah, there she is.”
“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”
“Cold medicine must be working.”
There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—
You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”
“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”
Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—
“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”
You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.
You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”
“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”
“We’re both profilers.”
“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”
“I do not!”
You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.
A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”
If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.
“Who said anything about dragging?”
“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“
“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”
“They keep staring at me.”
“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”
You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”
You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”
Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.
Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?
Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.
You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.
Just for a few minutes.
—
“She out?”
“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”
A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”
A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”
A beat passes.
“You got her?”
“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”
—
When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.
Oh god you fell asleep on the table.
You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—
Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.
Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.
You slept the entire day away.
Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“
The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.
You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.
“Hotch?”
“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”
You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”
He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”
“He bet against me?”
“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”
“How long did you bet for?”
He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”
You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”
“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”
You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.
“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.
You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.
You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)
“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”
He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”
“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“
He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”
“No. Keep it.”
“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.
“I’d be fine with that.”
What. The. Fuck.
You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”
You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.
Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—
No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.
Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.
This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.
You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.
You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.
—
The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.
You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.
Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”
“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.
“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.
You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.
You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”
He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”
“This isn’t your seat.”
“We don’t have assigned seats.”
“No, but you always sit over there.”
“And now I’m sitting here.”
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.
You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”
“Is that even a thing?”
You shrug, eyes falling shut again.
After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.
He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.
The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.
—
“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”
“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”
“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”
“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”
“Ah, the joys of youth.”
A beat passes. Then another.
“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”
“Emily don’t start—“
“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”
“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”
“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”
“…No.”
Silence.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”
—
Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.
When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He nods. “In my office.”
You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.
He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.
“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”
He blinks. “For?”
“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”
Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.
He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.
“Do you know why I chose you?”
“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”
“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”
He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.
Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.
“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”
You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”
He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”
He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”
You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”
“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”
Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.
A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.
“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”
You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”
“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”
“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”
“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”
It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.
“You should go home.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”
“Maybe I am.”
“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”
You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”
“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”
You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.
Stupid genius co-workers.
—
The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.
Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.
Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”
He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.
“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”
“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.
You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.
Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.
The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.
You leave the mug there.
You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.
You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.
You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.
You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”
Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”
Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.
“But… the paperwork.”
“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”
You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.
He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.
“It’s cold.”
“That does tend to happen in winter.”
When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.
“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”
“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”
“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”
“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”
“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.
“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”
“How about Spencer?”
His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.
“…What rhymes with Spencer?”
“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“
“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”
“You know dis comes from—“
“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”
He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”
“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”
He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”
You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.
Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”
You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.
Smooth.
—
The next case is… really rough.
Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.
Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.
No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:
“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”
The son was killed before anyone could intervene.
Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.
A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.
Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.
You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“
“Are you okay?”
You blink. “What?”
“Are you alright?” He asks again.
“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”
Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.
“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”
You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.
You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.
You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.
If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.
You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.
You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.
Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.
Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.
You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.
The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.
You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—
“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”
“I’m fi—“
“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”
“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.
You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.
Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.
A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.
“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“
“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”
You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.
“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“
“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”
He says the last part a little desperate.
You sniff. “Okay.”
You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.
“Let’s go home.”
He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.
He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.
He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.
It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.
He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”
You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”
“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”
You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“
“Please let me do this for you.”
The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.
He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.
“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”
“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”
The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.
You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.
You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.
When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.
You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”
“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”
He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!
You really do tear up then.
He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“
You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”
His face softens. “Oh, honey.”
He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.
Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.
After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.
He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”
You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”
“That’s why we invented washing machines.”
He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.
Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.
When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.
“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”
He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.
He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”
You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.
The muscles in his jaw work.
“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“
You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.
He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.
You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”
He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”
“Crying and sad?”
“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”
You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“
“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”
“Just?”
“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
“And this,”
He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.
“But mostly this.”
He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.
“Really?”
“Really.”
It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.
“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”
“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”
“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”
You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:
“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”
He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.
You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:
“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”
જ⁀➴
I’M ALWAYS A SUCKER FOR POST PRISON SPENCER X SUNSHINE READER 😋
heyyyy
i love love love the sunshine!reader x post!prison spencer fics, they’re so so cute
If you could, could you write one with them where they’ve gotten together recently and they’re coming back from a case that hit reader particularly hard, and she kinda just shuts off which is so unusual for her. So spencer’s so concerned and confused and he wonders if he did anything wrong and when he asks her about it, she just completely breaks down and cries her entire life’s hurt out to him and he finally realizes why she tries to be the sunshine in everyone’s life (cuz she grew up without it) and he just wants to protect her from the world
(im so so sorry if this is so detailed and long) (also i really yearn for angst/ hurt comfort if you cant tell) (you can totally ignore this, i dont really mind <3)
thankyouuuu smm <3
unhappy — spencer reid
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader crying , mention of a rough case , spencer making food for reader a/n: hiii !!! i hope you like this <3 ( also i love flangst too <3 )
Spencer stood beside you in the small kitchenette of the jet, watching as you absentmindedly stirred honey into your tea. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.
“Do you want to solve a Sudoku?”
Normally, it was the other way around—you were the one who pulled out your puzzle book with a bright smile, nudging him until he joined in. But tonight, you hadn’t even reached for it. Spencer had noticed how quiet you’d been since the case wrapped up.
You barely glanced at him before shaking your head. “No, I’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice exhausted. Then, without another word, you picked up your cup and walked away.
Spencer watched you retreat to your seat, concern settling deep in his chest. You were always the one who tried to lift his spirits after a hard case, the one who made sure he wasn’t drowning in his own thoughts. For you to be this withdrawn… it wasn’t like you.
For the rest of the flight, he didn’t press you.
Instead, he simply sat beside you, letting his knee rest lightly against yours—a small offering of comfort. You didn’t react, but you didn’t move away either. He kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, wondering if he had done something wrong. Had he been too wrapped up in the case to notice you struggling? Had he missed something? The thoughts gnawed at him.
When the jet finally landed and everyone gathered their things, Spencer, as always, carried your bag to your car. Normally, you’d roll your eyes playfully and tease him with a “What a gentleman.” But tonight, there was no teasing. No light chatter. Just silence.
Spencer placed your bag down beside you, studying your face as you unlocked the car.
“I came with Emily,” he said carefully. “Is it alright if I drive with you?”
It wasn’t entirely true—he could have easily gotten a ride home another way—but that wasn’t the point. He just needed to be next to you, to make sure you were okay. Pretending to need a ride was just an excuse.
You looked up at him, and the sadness in your eyes made his heart clench. He hated seeing you like this, so unlike yourself.
“Yeah, sure,” you murmured, trying to force a smile, but it faltered before it could fully form. You gave up and just got into the car, and Spencer followed, settling into the passenger seat.
The ride was quiet. Spencer made a few attempts at conversation—small observations about the case, about a book he’d read recently, about how Rossi had nearly fallen asleep with his head against the window—but you only responded with a few short words.
Eventually, he gave up and just stared out the window, worried.
When you pulled up to his apartment building, Spencer hesitated before unbuckling his seatbelt. He turned to you, studying the way your fingers gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly.
“Do you want to come up?” he asked softly.
You blinked, barely meeting his gaze. “I-uhm…” Your fingers tapped absently against the leather of the wheel, the hesitation clear in your posture.
Spencer scrambled for another reason, another way to make it easier for you to say yes. “You can come get that book I told you about,” he added quickly, even though he didn’t really care about the book. He just wanted to get you inside, to keep you from going home alone to sit in silence with your thoughts.
For a moment, he thought you might say no. But then, you let out a quiet sigh, too exhausted to argue.
“Yeah… okay,” you whispered, turning off the engine.
Relief washed over Spencer as he stepped out of the car, waiting for you to follow.
The two of you walked quietly into his apartment. As soon as you stepped inside, you toed off your shoes, your movements sluggish with exhaustion. Spencer set your bag down near the door, watching you carefully.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked gently, already thinking of what he could make you.
You shook your head without hesitation. “No, that’s fine,” you murmured, your voice quiet.
Spencer frowned slightly but didn’t push. Instead, he watched as you stepped toward his bookshelf, running your fingers lightly over the spines of his meticulously arranged collection.
“Which one was it again?” you asked, tilting your head as you scanned the titles.
“The one on the second shelf, third from the right,” Spencer supplied, stepping closer. “But you don’t actually have to give it back. That was just an excuse to get you up here.”
Your fingers froze on the book spine, and for the first time that night, you turned to look at him fully. His honesty caught you off guard.
A small, tired smile ghosted over your lips. “Yeah, I figured.”
Spencer’s gaze softened as he took a slow step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to talk about it?” He watched you closely, his eyes filled with concern, as he waited for a response.
You bit your lip. Spencer could see you trying to hold it together, but he knew you weren’t fine—not by a long shot. Without another thought, he moved closer and gently pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you.
That was all it took.
The moment you felt his warmth, the dam you had built up inside cracked. Your tears came in a rush, soaking the fabric of his shirt as you clung to him tightly. Spencer’s heart tightened at the sight, but he held you even closer, one hand moving to the back of your head, threading through your hair in soft, steady motions.
“It was so awful, Spencer,” you whispered between sobs, your voice shaky as you gripped his shirt.
Spencer pressed his cheek against the side of your head, his other hand moving in slow, soothing circles across your back. He didn’t need to say anything, not yet. He knew you just needed to be held, to let it out.
His voice was gentle when he spoke, full of understanding. “I know," he murmured. "I know. I know it was hard”
You clung to him, your face pressed against his chest. You let out a shaky breath, your voice muffled. “Everything is,” you whispered.
You couldn’t stop the tears. Spencer felt his heart tighten in his chest at the sound of your pain. His instinct was to hold you tighter, to shield you from the world’s cruelty, and he did just that, tightening his grip around you as though he could absorb some of your suffering. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there for just a moment before he whispered, “I’ve got you.”
The simple words were a promise, a vow. And he meant them with every fiber of his being. He didn’t let go of you—not for a second. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to offer solutions. He just held you. Let you cry. Let you feel.
Time passed. Your sobs became softer, less desperate. His hands gently stroked your back.
Eventually, the tears began to slow, and you pulled back slightly, your face flushed with emotion. Spencer’s hands were immediately there, his fingertips brushing away the last of your tears, his touch tender and careful.
You sniffed, trying to gather yourself. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice small, fragile, as you wiped at your eyes.
Spencer’s eyes softened even more as he cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. He made sure you met his gaze, wanting you to see the sincerity in his eyes. “Don’t apologize,” he said, his voice soft. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
His voice grew even softer as he added, “I’m here for you, always.”
A small, shaky breath escaped your lips. You stared up at him, still feeling vulnerable, but in a way that felt safe now.
“Thank you, Spencer,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, but filled with the depth of gratitude that words alone couldn’t capture.
Spencer’s gaze softened even more. He shifted slightly, his hands still resting gently on your face, and then he let out a soft chuckle.
“You know, crying is actually a biological response that releases endorphins, which are natural painkillers. So technically, you just gave yourself a free therapy session. Pretty efficient if you ask me. ” he said, giving you a sheepish grin.
You couldn’t help but let out a quiet chuckle of your own, your lips curling into a smile.
Spencer looked down at you, his eyes warm and soft. “See? I can still get a smile out of you, even if it’s just a little one,” Spencer said, his voice teasing but gentle, his lips curving upward in a small, knowing grin.
“Yeah,” you breathed out, the small smile not leaving your face. You kept your hands on his waist, absentmindedly toying with the fabric of his shirt.
Spencer’s fingers brushed a loose strand of your hair from your face, his touch soft and tender.
“Do you want something to eat now?” he asked, his voice gentle. His hand lingered on your cheek, thumb continuing to make slow, soothing circles along your skin.
You paused for a moment, realizing you had been so caught up in everything that you hadn't even thought about food. As the thought crossed your mind, you realized you were hungry.
“Yeah, sure,” you smiled weakly, the exhaustion still in your voice, but it felt a little more like your usual self. “I think I could eat something.”
Spencer’s smile softened, reaching for your hand, as he gently led you toward the kitchen.
His kitchen was small, but organized, just like everything else in his apartment. He pulled out a chair for you at the tiny table , his hand lingering on the back of it as you sat down.
Spencer moved quietly, pulling open cabinets.
“I could make grilled cheese,” he offered, glancing over his shoulder. “Or, if you’re not in the mood for that, I have ingredients for pancakes. Though I should warn you, my flipping technique is… inconsistent.”
A small, breathy laugh escaped you, and Spencer’s chest tightened at the sound. There it was. That little spark of you—the one that had been missing all night.
“Grilled cheese is perfect,” you murmured, resting your chin in your hand. Your voice was still quieter than usual.
Spencer nodded, turning back to the stove to hide the way his lips twitched upward. He could feel your eyes on him, studying his movements.
“You’re staring,” he said lightly, not turning around.
“Am not,” you lied, but he heard the smile in your voice.
“You are. And statistically, people who deny staring are actually staring 87% of the time.”
You snorted. “You just made that up.”
“Maybe.” He peeked over his shoulder, grinning when he caught your amused expression. “But you can’t prove it.”
The playful banter was familiar. It was you—the real you, the one who always found a way to smile even on the hardest days. The one who had, more times than he could count, pulled him out of his own spirals with nothing but a joke or a gentle nudge.
Spencer flipped the sandwich with only minimal cheese casualties, then slid the plate toward you. You took it gratefully, your fingers brushing his for just a second.
“Thanks,” you said, taking a small bite.
He leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed, watching as you ate. He wanted to memorize this—the way your nose scrunched slightly when you chewed, the way your fingers tapped idly against the plate when you paused to think.
“You’re doing it now,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
“Doing what?”
“Staring.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he tilted his head, his voice softening. “I’m just… glad you’re feeling better.”
You looked down at your plate, but not before he caught the faint pink dusting your cheeks. “Me too,” you admitted. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to just… let it out.”
Spencer hummed in understanding. He knew better than anyone how easy it was to lock things away, to pretend you were fine until the weight of it all became unbearable.
And then, halfway through your plate, you spoke.
“I think I scared Emily today.”
Spencer paused, glancing up. “How so?”
You toyed with your fork, avoiding his gaze for a moment before sighing. “I just… didn’t say anything the entire day. And you know how she is—she kept trying to get me to talk, but I just… couldn’t.”
Spencer nodded, understanding. Emily wasn’t one to let things go easily.
“She’ll get it,” he said softly. “She knows how these cases can get under your skin.”
You hummed, pushing a piece of food around your plate absently. “Yeah. I just… I hate being like this.”
Spencer studied you for a moment before stepping closer, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. “You’re allowed to not be okay sometimes,” he murmured. “Even sunshine has to set.”
The words were quiet, but they made you look up at him, your eyes softening.
And then—
A real smile. Small, but real.
“Since when did you get so poetic, Spencer?”
Spencer felt his cheeks warm, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “I read a lot.”
You laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Spencer’s chest tightened. There she is.
You finished your food, then leaned back in your chair, finally looking more like yourself—your usual brightness seeping back in, bit by bit.
Spencer couldn’t help the small, private smile that tugged at his lips.
You caught his expression and narrowed your eyes playfully. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he said, though the fondness in his voice betrayed him. “Just… it’s good to see you smiling again.”
Your grin softened, something warm flickering in your eyes. “Well, I do have a pretty great grilled cheese chef.”
Spencer rolled his eyes, but he didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Flattery won’t get you a second sandwich.”
“Are you sure? Because I do have a very convincing puppy-dog stare.” You demonstrated, widening your eyes exaggeratedly.
He groaned, but he was already standing up to make another.
Because for you he’d do anything , if it meant that he got to see that light in your eyes again.
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a 20 year old mess | wp: K4REVSREID-spencer reid enthusiast (he’s my hubby)i mostly write on wattpad i just kinda read on here kind of a slut for spencer reid 🪐
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