barely-writings

[barely-writings]

heyy so i wanna write again sooo…

all of these are already started, but I need to ration my motivation wisely. If you have any ideas, requests are open!

[barely-writings]

Self-Discovery

Pairing(s): Spencer Reid x Male!Reader

Includes: A bit of internalized homophobia, explorations of self-discovery 'late' in life, talks of unrequited love, Teacher!Spencer, Parent!Reader, some out-of-character decision, relative fluff.

Synopsis: Spencer Reid, having left the FBI and now pursuing a career in education, finds himself in a bit of an emotional slump. After figuring out a student of his likes her female classmate, he's forced to confront the realization that he may not be as straight as he wanted to believe. A visit to an out-of-character bar later, and he finds himself face-to-face with the man he might've been harboring feelings for.

Word Count: 4.2k

Pigeon's Corner: In the middle of uprooting my entire life and moving to a new place, trying not to cry by writing fluff—to varying results. Fun Fact, this was supposed to be the pride month post. Oh by the way, I take requests ^-^

Thirty-eight wasn’t the age for self-discovery.

It was the age for buying houses, keeping a steady job, maybe even looking into a socially-convenient marriage. It wasn’t the age for feeling empty, like one does after coming to the grueling realization of living a lie. Yet, Spencer Reid found himself in this exact dilemma. He was nearing forty, now working as a high school teacher for his old school, and nursing a growing pit in the bottom of his stomach. He had tried multiple times to discern the cause, thinking it most likely came from missing the FBI. After dedicating so much of his life to being a profiler, the sudden leave was jarring. The new outlook on life was appreciated, his stress levels certainly thanked him for stepping away, but it was such a fundamental part of his identity that he couldn’t push away the guilt of leaving. However, this emptiness felt very different from that one. If he had to assimilate it to anything, it would be like feeling something slowly bubble up until it spills over.

It felt more like…repression. Like he was hiding something. He felt the same pit years back, when he was forced into a drug addiction that still plagued his mind all these years later. He remembered how in denial he was back then, refusing to acknowledge to anyone—especially himself—that he had a problem. Only, he hasn’t felt the urge for a good couple years now. Not dilaudid, not alcohol, nothing that could tip over into addiction. He was clean, had a strong support system, and couldn’t think of any type of stressors that could push him into that life again. It was frustrating, really. He used to be a profiler, he should be having an easier time figuring this out. But he was struggling, and he hated that. He had an IQ of 187, used to catch intelligent-yet-dangerous individuals almost on the daily, and was a child prodigy before most people figured out what they wanted to do with their lives. He had no reason to be feeling so…so…

Awful? Useless? Powerless? Impotent?

Bad, he’ll just leave it at ‘bad’.

If not his career or worries of a drug addiction, what could be causing this slump? He wasn’t feeling particularly insecure about himself, no more than usual anyways. He had grown to like himself, though he still had his days of self-doubt like anyone else, so he really didn’t think it was something about him. 

He looked back down at the paper he was supposed to be grading, an analysis of a fictional character and what psychological phenomena could be extracted from them, and he could only sigh. He had seen some good ones, he had seen some bad ones, he had seen some average ones. It was becoming a bit repetitive, being blown away by the depth of one student’s work and mildly disappointed by the shallowness of another. The assignment itself was supposed to demonstrate everything they had learned throughout the year, a final project to showcase the work and effort the class had put into learning about the human mind. So far, he either found projection, completion, and inadequacy. In a way, it was fascinating—those who put in the work also left behind a piece of themselves, consciously or not, that felt like a little puzzle for him to solve. He’d cover up the names, try and forget the handwriting, and attempt to figure out which student wrote which analysis. Doing this, he found that Emma suffered from Imposter Syndrome, that John struggled to cope with his mother’s terminal illness, that Brian thought greed was stupid, and that Audrey knew how to change enough of the wording to avoid plagiarism. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, being transported back to the days in the bureau where he would do essentially the same thing; piece together seemingly unrelated fragments and create a semi-complete tapestry of a person’s life story. Those were simpler times—not in practice, but in essence. Those were times where he knew where his life was heading, where he was content with himself and felt, despite the nature of the job, complete.

With a sip of too-sweet coffee, he pushed those thoughts down and finished marking the pristine paper. Of course, this student—who he assumed to be Claire, an outspoken yet respectful young girl who participated in class just as much as she dozed off—took careful steps to make sure their handwriting was perfect. There were faint shadows left by rigorous erasing, some smudges that were no doubt caused by the gliding of skin against paper, and a few wrinkles from a lack of a proper storing place; but the effort was clear. The title of the work was clear, neatly centered and slightly bolded despite the use of cursive handwriting: An Analysis of Rebecca’s Mrs. Danvers.

To Spencer’s surprise, Claire went through the trouble of analyzing and dissecting both the original novel and the movie. Although he didn’t specify which characters his students had to use, he assumed most would pick media from a relatively recent time and characters that were at the forefront of the cultural consciousness. Something from TV or the newest movie, maybe a comic book character if they were more intrepid. He appreciated the effort, though, and hoped she got as much enjoyment from the original gothic piece of literature as he did.

The first few paragraphs started inconsequential enough, outlining a general synopsis of the work and then specifying the intricacies of the character, Mrs. Danvers. It wasn’t until he got to the fourth paragraph of the fifth page that he started to notice a theme. Claire made it clear that she was dissecting Mrs. Danvers through a queer lens, citing that her portrayals throughout the media hint towards a possible deeper attraction for the titular character Rebecca. However, hidden between the explanation of queer subtext and the history of queer-coded characters, Spencer could make out a new tone. A voice, distinct from the academic detachment used throughout the rest of the writing, that manifested yearning. Small whispers hidden in generalizations, the loaded language when describing the way love was hidden in the small things, a seemingly unwavering devotion to the idea of this ‘one that got away’—not because of timing or lifespan, but because of gender.

He wasn’t blind, he saw how Claire interacted with the other girls in her class. A little less standoffish, a little more open. While not rude, she had mastered the art of evading and dismissing attention from her male classmates. When her best friend, a girl by the name of Cassandra who embodied the feeling of a cool drink on a hot day, she was a lot more open; the type of openness that surpassed simple years of friendship. He saw the look in her eyes, the look that would have any rom-com queuing up the music and doing that cheesy slow-motion zoom across the crowd of people to focus on the main girl.

Claire was in love with Cassandra the way Mrs. Danvers was in love with Rebecca; passionately yet subtly, devoted yet secondary.

Spencer placed down his pen, the red ink leaning a small streak by the margins of otherwise all-white paper. Queer readings of all types of media were common, but not something he chose to engage with. This was a psychology class after all, not an English or literature or language arts class—technically, Claire wouldn’t be getting any points for what she had written so far. He took a deep, much needed breath, running a hand down his face. Claire’s essay was great, demonstrating the level of academic excellence she could achieve when she wanted to, but Spencer couldn’t help but want to throw it away and never have to think about it again.

Spencer’s problem wasn’t caused by an impending relapse or because he missed the FBI, it was because he had been pushing down his feelings for one man for the better part of his career as a teacher. Claire’s essay has forcefully opened his eyes to this fact and he didn’t know what to do.

His eyes read the next few words—she was finally tackling what was asked of her in the assignment, explaining the theories she was going to use—but he didn’t retain them. He was stuck on the same paragraph on a loop, thinking back to that secret, yearning voice and the dad that hadn’t escaped his mind since he first met him.

————————————

Spencer Reid was a man of routine.

He woke up, went to work, used the library after hours until school closed, went to the cafe near his apartment, finished up any extra work he couldn’t, and went home. Same cycle with very minor deviations, if any. Today…no, today called for a switch—something to take his mind off the depth of his feelings. What better way to disconnect from scary realities than to hit up a nightclub? The thumping of music, the flashing of lights, the overpriced drinks, and the overzealous people; overstimulating, yes, but perhaps the key to how he could take his obscenely fast mind off of things. He walked into the dimly lit space, his choice of a sleek brown cardigan, dress pants, and some old-but-loved converse both setting him apart from and blending him in with the crowd. The most he got were a few raised eyebrows and sharp looks towards the comfortable top, clearly expressing confusion. Fair, he thought, I could’ve done without the cardigan. It’s warmer than I thought it was going to be.

He took refuge from the sweaty—and no doubt germ infested—dance floor to cruise the bar, trying to appear as disinterested and unapproachable as he could. He was trying to forget his troubles, yes, but he didn’t want to make any impulsive decisions tonight either. He looked up at the menu, the hanging signs illuminated by the lamps worked into the wooden surface. It was a long list of different types of alcoholic drinks, from cocktails to wine bottles to whiskeys, and a small section of non-alcoholic options tacked on, almost as an afterthought. At least they were cheaper than the booze, saving his wallet the trouble. The selection was pretty basic, too, with water, some commercial brands, and lemonade. He sighed, cycling over his mundane list of beverages for about a minute before he made a choice. The clear drink was poured into a much-too-tall glass, served with too little ice and too much drink. However, Spencer didn’t care. He needed the refreshing water in any way he could get it.

Around him, the buzz of idle conversation numbed the world. 

“How’s the wife?”

“—that’s totally cheating! You can’t—”

“—Pass the ball, you brain-dead moron! Ain’t that—”

“—C’mon girls, one last dri—”

“—oh you’re a bitch, Tamara!”

“—Oh. My. GOD! I, like, love this song!”

“—Boy I tell ya’, kids these days...”

“I believe it’s ‘em news—”

All different people with different lives, yet they were stuck in this dingy, old place with obnoxious music and blinding lights. He wondered if someone out there was here for the same reasons as himself, wanting to get lost in something other than their own mind. He brought the glass up to his lips, an ice cube moving to bump the skin above his upper lip as he downed the cool liquid. He was lost in his musings, piecing together a narrative around the potential life of that one guy he saw stumble his way into the bathroom. Halfway through making up a scene where Harold—the name he gave to said bathroom man—was fighting with his wife over custody of their twelve-year-old daughter, he felt something tap his shoulder. Three unassuming taps, like someone was mapping out the rhythm of a song and just happened to use his shoulder. However, as he turned around with a confused look on his face, his features fell in shock as he took in the man before him—as he took you in.

Claire’s father, because of course things worked out that way, and an ever-present figure in Spencer’s classroom after hours, you were the source of the conflict he was experiencing. You were dedicated in a way Spencer had only seen back at the bureau, making sure to be present in your daughter’s life; you were there for every parent-teacher conference, every school activity, every extracurricular, he even saw you dropping her off when she didn’t take the bus. At first, he was a bit intimidated. Many seasoned teachers were quick to spill horror stories of overly-involved parents; the types who wouldn’t let teachers teach and sanctified their children as if they could do no wrong—which is extremely detrimental to the child’s development in pretty much all aspects. Understandably, having a dad who showed up a bit too much made him think you’d pick at his weaknesses every chance you got. But you didn’t. The first time you two interacted, he saw you weren’t this entitled, arrogant person. You looked unsure, weighed down by a stress Spencer couldn’t quite place. Claire had just narrowly passed her first test in his class, and although it was no source of stress for her, it was to you. He sat at his desk, ready for every type of insult to be thrown his way, but nothing came. Instead, you let out a heavy sigh as you asked what you could do to help. Spencer had figured it out quickly after that, how Claire’s mother had died in childbirth and left the responsibility of raising her solely on your shoulders. You, bless your soul, didn’t know the first thing about raising children—much less raising one without a mother, someone to help ease the workload. It was a continuously uphill battle from there, trying to provide for her materially and emotionally.

In Spencer’s opinion, you were doing a pretty good job.

Claire was a teenager, of course she was going to have her mood swings and her off-days, but not once did she show she felt unloved—and Spencer would know, he was trained to look out for this stuff. Despite the hardships, the support system you had built for her spoke volumes of your effort and prowess as a parent. He couldn’t be blamed for his attraction, really; a kind, hard-working father who also happened to be extremely hot and in his vicinity often? How could he not fall in love? He knew some of the moms in the PTA also felt some sort of way about you, his poor ears had been subjected to so much detailed yet inappropriate conversation, and honestly, he couldn’t really blame them.

He could blame them for bringing you to the same nightclub he was in, their bellowing laughter and expensive perfume permeated his senses a few seconds after you tapped his shoulder. He had been so caught up in his dilemma that he failed to recognize the very obvious pattern laid out before him. At the last PTA meeting, a group of parents had discussed a little end-of-semester celebration at that very same club—he heard the name at the meeting, maybe that’s why he chose this location instead of the one closer to his apartment. He almost wanted to laugh; how could he have been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he had waltzed himself into a celebration completely uninvited? Well, it’s not like the place was rented out, there was just a very long table reserved for the group. He could vaguely make out Mrs. DeLune’s sharp features and Mr. Ortega’s perpetually furrowed brow, along with various familiar body shapes and hair colors.

“It really is you. I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this, Mr. Reid.” The chuckle that escaped your lips sounded a little too easy, something he didn’t expect from the more reserved front you put up at school. But you weren’t in school, you were in the same nightclub with a more relaxed demeanor and a hint of intrigue in your eyes. He couldn’t blame you, he also didn’t expect himself to wander into a place like this. His definition of a ‘celebration’ included less people, more research, and way more coffee. He gave a simple yet nervous laugh, clutching the glass of water in his hand as if it had the power to get him out of this situation.

“Yeah, well, I decided to try something new today; it has been a stupidly long day, is all.” In fairness, it had been. Not in the way you probably took it, but he felt drained nonetheless. You nodded, giving a vague hum-like sound as your brows raised by a few centimeters.

“I see,” you start, bringing your own cup up to your lips and swallowing down a liquid. If Spencer had to guess, it was probably something alcoholic, given the slight twitch of your lips at the—presumably—bitter taste. “I hope it hasn’t been too bad?”

Oh, that was so you to ask, he almost wanted to hit you because of it. Even though you were out with your friends, on a night that was designed to alleviate worries and have a fun, possibly reckless time, you still asked about him—worried about him, not out of pity or some unfounded sense of superiority, but out of care. Sweet, but it didn’t help the pounding of his heart or the thoughts racing through his mind. “No, nothing I can’t handle, really. Final grades are coming up and there’s some meetings I’m not looking forward to.”

The laugh you let out, so carefree and joyful, caught him off-guard for a moment. You shook your head in that jokingly exasperated way, leaning your forearms on the wooden bar in front of you as you looked at Spencer with this…this look. He couldn’t quite describe it, didn’t have a word for it either, but he couldn’t say he hated it. You were looking at him almost like you were assessing him, with the corners of your lips the slightest bit upturned and your eyelids a fraction of the way to being half-lidded. He produced a smile of his own, his eyes giving away his confusion, as a slim finger traced the rim of his glass. The chatter from the rest of the parents made for good background noise, reminding himself of where he was at. He was about to ask why you were staring so much, lips parting no more than a small fraction, before you downed the rest of your drink and turned to face him. Suddenly, he felt like he was a suspect behind the walls of an old meeting room. Dread and intimidation washed over him with the way your eyes seemed to pierce right through him, leaving him bare and vulnerable in a way he wasn’t ready for. It felt like he couldn’t lie to you when you looked at him like that, as if something within him forbade him from doing so.

“Speaking of, I was hoping to talk to you about that last assignment.”

Why would you have questions about that? The instructions were straightforward, and all the kids were capable of completing them—to varying results, sure, but they got it done. Claire was more than capable of basic media analysis, she could come up with something worth at least an eighty percent. 

“I’m open to answering your questions, but is there a reason they couldn’t be asked during office hours or via email?”

��It’s…not really a question about the assignment.” Your demeanor had changed, now significantly more nervous. It was as if this inquiry meant a shift in your relationship with your daughter. He would’ve much preferred doing this at school, where he could refer you or Claire to the nearest counselor or therapist, but you went out of your way to ask him here for a reason. Maybe it wasn’t the type of thing that needed careful dissecting, but something else. By the look in your eyes, by the way you were shrinking forward towards the glass—as if trying to hide this conversation from the rest of the parents—, he guessed it was confirmation. Confirmation for what…

He thought back to the essay, to the thoughtful yet hidden commentary she had hidden between pages upon pages of words. He knew what this was about.

“You…read her work, didn’t you?”

A heavy sigh tore past your lips, all the confirmation you could’ve given packed into that expulsion of breath. You were conflicted—more than that, but he couldn’t find the words at the moment. For a moment, it was like the world stopped. You didn’t move a muscle, just stared wordlessly—almost emptily—at the dark wood of the bar. Spencer didn’t want to give too much away, afraid it could jeopardize Claire’s safety. He was a teacher, even in this dark, dimly-lit club. He loved you—at least, he was halfway sure he did—, but he had no real way of knowing if you were a safe person for Claire in this aspect. After what seemed like an eternity, the chatter from the rest of the PTA forming a swirling paranoia in his gut, your eyes met his. The very gesture was like moving mountains for you, he could tell you were taking a risk with this.

“I just…I don’t know why she didn’t come to me about it.” You sounded so heartbroken. Not betrayed, not angry, not demanding; heartbroken. Lost, like you were in the middle of a minefield. One wrong step and you could lose your daughter in one way, shape or form. He had seen those types of emotions back in the FBI, fear and hatred taken to such depraved extremes that it made his stomach turn. In this moment, he was back there; in front of a parent trying so desperately not to lose their child, juggling a strong face while that pebble of helplessness lodged itself in their heart. Before he could speak, and he was trying to, despite his nerves, you continued.

“I haven’t…at least I think I havent’…uhm, discouraged or–or vilified anything like that. I try my best to really, ahm, be there—y’know, for her—, but there’s some things I’m not good at. I don’t—” You cut yourself off with a laugh—empty, joyless—before taking a breath and carrying on, “—I don’t know the first thing about raising a kid, let alone a teenager. Claire’s my little girl a-and she’s growing so much lately…I want her to know she can count on me; that I love her, no matter what.”

Sweet words, probably the most accepting response he had heard regarding a possibly queer student in his career, but horrible timing. He was already in emotional turmoil, and hearing you accept your daughter wholeheartedly made him ache. It made him feel like he could try; reach out to the people he held close and let himself be vulnerable after so long. If their love was as strong as yours, this revelation wouldn’t change how they felt about him. But this wasn’t about him, this was about Claire—and you, to some extent. 

“Then…talk to her.” At your blank expression, with a hint of confusion, he expanded, “Sit her down somewhere private, maybe buy her a treat first. Introduce the topic gradually, slowly—you don’t want to scare her. Most importantly, make her feel safe. You can’t…” His voice lowered slightly, softer and more personal, “…you can’t make her tell you, but you can let her know it’s okay to. Let her know her father loves her, including the parts of her she’s coming to terms with.”

If his voice cracked while he was speaking, you didn’t mention it. If your eyes began to water throughout the conversation, he didn’t mention it either. A silent agreement between the two of you, solidified by your soft smile and the gentle pat on his shoulder. The warmth of your palm seeped into his skin and, for the first time in a while, he felt loved.

“Thank you, Dr. Reid. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

He nodded, as the words seemed to evaporate in his throat before he could get them out. He watched you stand, pay the bartender, and leave his line of sight. However, your footsteps didn’t lead towards the rest of the group, but towards the exit. You were leaving, satisfied with the events of the night and deciding to end it on a good note. Spencer, however, wasn’t ready for this to end. He was still figuring himself out, and had a long way to go before even considering labeling himself in any way, but he knew one thing; he owed it to himself to try. He took a deep breath, downing the rest of his water before he ran—walked in a timely yet fast manner, he insisted—behind you. Once he caught up, one foot outside the club and a very startled you in front of him, he was faced with his own choices.

The journey ahead would be confusing, winding, and treacherous…or it could be beautiful. 

“Would you, maybe, like to, ah, go for coffee sometime…together?”

And something in him told him it could be the latter.

“I’d love to.”

[barely-writings]

Desirability

Pairing(s): Spencer Reid x Male!Reader

Includes: Discussions of sex, nothing explicit.

Synopsis: After a throwaway comment from Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid finds himself questioning how sexually appealing he is to you—his boyfriend of nearly two years. What follows is Spencer wondering why, in the span of your relationship, you haven't gone further than a kiss with him.

Word Count: 4.15k

Pigeon's Corner: A fun little idea I had bouncing around my brain for a while. I'm trying to write as much as I can and get out these small works in between bigger pieces with chapters and such. Bonus points if you can guess the reference.

It is contradictory, he knew, to be worried about someone respecting his boundaries. If that were the whole issue, Spencer would laugh at himself for thinking of something so paradoxical—then perhaps question why he came to such a conclusion in the first place. However, like most things involving him seemed to be these days, the crux of his dilemma wasn’t as clear-cut as he thought. 

You, his amazing and respectful boyfriend, weren’t the problem—not intentionally, at least. This months-long endeavor had been born out of a simple conversation, a simple request on his part. Spencer Reid was many things: smart, compassionate, dedicated, and an absolute germaphobe. That last one often came in conflict with the people around him, he couldn’t even count the times he had his famous “kissing would be better” discussion around someone trying to initiate a handshake. The simple, factual truth was that germs were everywhere and Spencer would much prefer if they weren’t in his immediate personal space. This often manifested in a denied handshake, a swerved hug, or a respectable amount of distance between him and another person at any given time. His team thought it perhaps a little weird in the beginning, but he likes to think they’ve come a long way from those awkward, embarrassing times. From then on, for the better part of a few years now, the people around him know how to handle his peculiarity. No handshakes, no spontaneous hugs, and always giving him the space he required. It was a relatively easy transition, no doubt because nothing was jeopardized or inhibited because he didn’t want to touch people. Sure, maybe some of the police officers and detectives they had to work with thought him a little strange, perhaps disrespectful in some cases, but him having this boundary didn’t interfere with work in any significant capacity.

A relationship, however, was a completely different animal.

Like he does with most things, Spencer researched every last minuscule detail of a relationship. To his horror, in a move that still haunts him to this day, he ventured into less-than-scientific sources for even the slightest bit of extra help. While yes, he knew that trying to capture something as overpowering and universal as love was a near impossible effort, he physically couldn’t conceptualize his emotions any other way. Years of hiding behind his genius left him unprepared for anything that couldn’t be turned into an intellectual inquiry. By breaking down this broad and mysterious concept into things he was familiar with—chemical reactions, electric pathways, biological needs, and other scientific frameworks—, he built his confidence and lessened the chances of making a complete fool of himself. Not by much, but zero-point-one percent less was progress, at least. And it seemed to be working. You weren’t completely turned off by his rambles or his tendency to fidget with stuff or the many times he changed his hair on a dime. All he ever saw with you were smiles and laughs and a playful eye roll or two. You were arguably the sweetest guy Spencer had dated—even though he had dated exactly three, and one of those relationships he made up in his head.

All that is to say, Spencer was prepared to have a long and difficult argument—argument, because he knew better than to expect a civilized conversation pertaining to this—about boundaries and touch. He had carefully researched data, strong talking points, and the confidence of a man who knew how important this was for the both of them. After all, it’s never easy having to tell your romantic partner—that you absolutely don’t want to lose—that you would prefer if their hands remained off you for an indefinite amount of time. Physical touch, as per his research, is a big part of relationships and a founding pillar in the way some people express love. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by suggesting he didn’t like the way you show love, nor did he want to sound stuck-up and prudish because of his more academic wording. It was a careful balancing act that Spencer had been preparing for practically since you asked him out for coffee.

That discussion came after he, once again, took his work home with him; in the literal sense, as he wanted to finish some files he somehow didn’t finish at work. It wouldn’t take long, half an hour at most, but you hadn’t seen him all day. That day was supposed to be a date night, ordering take out and watching trashy movies, but he knew you were fine with waiting a little. He was engrossed, pen darting across the previously barren pages as he expertly resumed and compiled together relevant information. He was so engrossed, in fact, that he didn’t notice you sneak up on him until your lips planted a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. To any other person—even to Spencer on a normal day—, the gesture would be seen as sweet, maybe even bordering on playful. To him, right now, at this moment, the gesture felt icky. He didn’t know where you had been all day, what sort of germs were on you, and he really wasn’t in the headspace to receive affection right now. It’s not like he hated affection, he was just very particular on when exactly he felt comfortable receiving it. He didn’t want to bottle this down and have it turn into an explosive argument later down the line, and you deserved a partner who could be honest and open with you about details like this. So, with a polite smile, he pushed you away by the shoulders—wiping his hands on his clothes afterwards—and began his carefully constructed speech.

Imagine his surprise when, after announcing his problem and opening the floor to your rebuttal, all he got was an ‘Okay.’

Okay? Okay? Just like that? Surely, it couldn’t be that simple, right?

No, no it was. Apparently you ‘had a hunch’—whatever that meant. He was surprised to learn that you had talked to his coworkers a little after the fourth date. He didn’t even register it, but he had expertly evaded your attempt at hand-holding after leaving the museum you took him to. While initially a little hurt and offended, you decided to check with the people who knew him best to see if you were the issue or if he simply was like that. Excellent instincts on your part, as he was sure any other person would’ve taken that as a blow to their ego. As expected, you got confirmation that Spencer had his apprehensions when it came to touching other people. Even with people he knew, although he tended to be lenient with them, there were still times it was best to keep a ‘no touch’ policy. 

That was all the conversation you needed to respect his boundaries—truly a wild concept to him, as he’s had to insist vehemently with other partners. Before any form of intimacy—a loose term, as the both of you haven’t done anything other than kiss—, you checked up on him and asked if he was up for whatever it was you were going to do. For a while, it worked out perfectly. He fell even deeper in love with you every time you took his needs into account—a stupidly low bar, in hindsight, but much more than his insecure brain thought he deserved.

Unsurprisingly, Derek Morgan was there to inject doubt into his bloodstream.

It wasn’t intentional by any means. Like most things that came out of Morgan’s mouth, the comment was meant to be teasing. A jab at the genius which Spencer would return later down the line, the whole foundation of their relationship was built on such a routine. However, there were just some aspects in which they differed too much. One such aspect was relationship—more pressingly, sexual—experience. It was no secret to anyone that Morgan was a flirty, promiscuous bastard—and he knew it. The cocky, teasing man often had a new story about some girl he slept with every time he came back from holiday. Spencer was none of those things. The farthest he’d gone was making out with one Lila Archer and somehow charming that one bartender with his magic tricks. Other than that, he had nothing. He had the sexual experience and appeal of a cell undergoing mitosis. For the most part, he did not care. Sex, no matter how much pleasure it would bring, didn’t give him any sort of tactical advantage or useful knowledge on the job. It neither took away or added to his career, so why bother worrying about it? He got urges every now and then, it’s not like he was repulsed by the act, he just didn’t see why it felt like a necessity to other men.

It slipped through Derek’s lips so easily, like a quip about the weather or a casual greeting, that Spencer almost didn’t register it. The other man clearly didn’t think much of it, since he replied to Spencer’s ‘no’ with an ‘oh, okay’ and continued on with the conversation as if the comment had never happened. Spencer, however, was left to ponder and dissect and analyze the simple sentence.

“You haven’t had sex with him yet?”

Reid didn’t get mad just because of those words, it was more so the way Morgan said it. Like it was outlandish that neither of you had initiated anything; like something was so wrong about that statement, it put into question the validity of his relationship. No, he hadn’t had sex with you—or anyone—yet, what was wrong with that? He shouldn’t be taking Morgan’s words to heart, they led very different romantic lives with different tastes in partners and intimacy. Sure, maybe Morgan required sex to feel fulfilled in his relationships, but Spencer didn’t, and that was okay.

So then why did he feel so not okay with it?

That conversation with Morgan had opened up a can of worms he wasn’t even aware he owned. You two were dating, yet the most risqué thing you ever did was watch bad crime series. You loved him, that much was abundantly clear, but you didn’t seem to lust after him—even in the small sense like playfully slapping his ass or whistling when he came out of the shower. Stuff he wouldn’t have noticed before, but now it felt like a blow to his ego. He’d never open up about it, but Spencer Reid felt inadequate. He wasn’t the type of guy to be flirted with or the type that got a few innuendos thrown his way. He wasn’t flirty and confident like Morgan, mysterious and stern like Hotch, or even playful and sophisticated like Rossi. He was tall and thin, with little muscle and even less athletic ability, and a mop of hair that never seemed to behave. He was smart and expressive and clumsy, not the type people wanted to undress. It didn’t matter, usually, but a small part of him was scared you didn’t think of him as a sexual being. Was he inadequate, even to you? Were you with him out of pity and not out of genuine attraction? Was it so easy to accept the ‘no-touch’ policy because you found him repulsive? Would it be a repeat of the pole incident back in high school? Were you stringing him along because you found some sort of sadistic pleasure out of his humiliation?

For the next six months, Spencer started documenting. Every time you stopped a make-out session before it got too far, every nod instead of a whistle when he showered, every tame comment about his eyes or his smile when he was clearly trying to get more out of you. In the back of his mind, he knew he was contorting these interactions to fit his narrative. No matter how much psychology he knew, he was still a person after all—he wasn’t above the stupidities of the human mind. It was driving him up a wall and further down his pit of self-deprecation. He really wasn’t your type, huh? Was it his hair? He’d seen you talk to blondes multiple times, more than brunettes and slightly less than redheads. You also interacted with toned people five times more often than any other body type. It was an even split between men and women, but he swore you had a slight preference for the female form. He couldn’t pin-point exactly what he needed to change to finally get you to think about him in a remotely sexual light. Dare he say it, he might be stuck in a Madonna-Whore dichotomy—he just threw up in his mouth a little; how dare he, as a former psychology student, prove Sigmund Freud right?

And you—how he loathed you in these moments. You were great, wonderful, all other positive adjectives…but you were so stupidly dense! Not stupid, not dumb, just oblivious. He once saw a girl pretty obviously flirt with you—even him, socially stumped Dr. Spencer Reid, picked up on it—and get unintentionally brushed aside because you thought she was being friendly; because strangers pushing their boobs against your arm is a universal sign of friendship and not a glaring, neon sign that says ‘fuck me’. He usually found your obliviousness adorable, and it helped him be more upfront with his desires, but he wasn’t in the headspace for that right now—hadn’t been since that conversation with Morgan. You knew, he knew you knew, that something was up. It was this limbo of you trying to figure out what was happening and him avoiding the issue altogether. He didn’t mean to bottle this up, but he felt slighted; and when he felt slighted, he got passive-aggressive. It was one thing to discuss physical boundaries, it was a whole other thing to feel like he was never going to be anything more than this illusion of a chaste, ‘unsullied’, perfect boyfriend that’s seemingly made out of porcelain and only useful to look at, not engage with.

Granted, you weren’t even close to that level—never would be—, but Spencer didn’t know that.

Tensions came to a head one night, on one of his rare days off and, unfortunately, one of your more demanding work days. It was practically the perfect set-up: you, stressed after work, and him, offering a little ‘stress relief’ that involved more than just some kissing. It was perfect, in his eyes. Virtually all rom-coms and soap operas had some variation of this set up, surely it couldn’t go wrong, right? He even switched up his wardrobe a little, dawned on a little number that brought attention to his legs and his butt—even if he could feel the material digging into his skin and was itching to rip it off and put on something less tight. He could brave the discomfort if it meant finally breaking free of the sex-less dull and finally, for once in his life, feel desirable for who he was; not the FBI agent shrouded in this mystique, but the overexcited, rambling nerd who solved crosswords in under five minutes and disavowed technology.

As you walked through the door, a heavy sigh escaping your lips, you were greeted with the sight of your boyfriend, usually sporting some sort of loose sweater or cardigan, in a suspiciously tight get-up that you were halfway convinced was women’s lingerie. He greeted you with that unassuming smile of his, head tilted slightly to the right as he put down his book.

“Hey, how was work?”

At your halfway mumbled answer, a mix of confusion and worry in your tone as you questioned his outfit choice, Spencer’s spirits plummeted. This wasn’t the reaction he expected at all. Where was the darkening of your eyes, the tension in your shoulders, the need to tear his clothes off and get to it? So what if it was brutish and animalistic, isn’t that what sex was? He sighed, heavy and resentful as he stood up from his place on the couch. He couldn’t keep this up anymore. Six months’ worth of data in the forefront of his brain, he decided it was time for a confrontation.

“Do you think I’m boring? Sexually?”

“…what?”

“You know what I mean! We’ve never done anything more than kissing–and even that we rarely do!” He started, moving his hands around as he expressed his frustrations. “Am I just repulsive to you? Is that why you don’t feel the need to do more with me?” As he spoke, rambling on about all the evidence he had collected, he began pacing around the room. He was very close to tears by now, the self-loathing and feelings of inadequacy coming back with a vengeance. “Am I too much of a prude to entice you? Is it how I dress? Is it because I’m too feminine? Not feminine enough? What—”

You held up your hand, signaling for him to stop and take a breath. Despite how much material he still had left for his speech, he cut himself off and took a deep breath. Tears were now falling down his face, embarrassed he had gone off the rails so quickly and taking your silence as confirmation of his worst thoughts.

After a moment, which you spent with a semi-furrowed brow and he spent trying not to sob, you spoke, “Is this why you’ve been acting so closed-off recently?”

He sighed, looking up at the ceiling as he hugged himself. He felt ridiculous, perhaps a bit childish, but he didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, he bit his lip and nodded, a sniffle breaking his bout of silence.

You nodded, lips pressed into a thin line as your hands went to your hips. The uncertainty was worse than anything you could’ve said, as it was sending Reid further down his spiral. No matter how much he wiped, fresh tears would replace old ones. He was sure he looked pathetic, sniveling over not getting sex like some insecure teenager—which, in a way, he was. Inside him still lived that scared little boy who was tied to that flagpole, that sexually repressed teen too scared to trust again after that incident. He was terrified that you could be one of the laughing faces he saw in his nightmares, that the mere idea of him being desirable was a joke to you.

“How about we talk, yeah?” Your voice was kind, soft and gentle like he knew it to be. You offered your hand, warm and inviting, with a tentative smile. He wasn’t sure whether to take it or reject it, still caught up in his bubble of insecurity. However, he was feeling particularly fragile and even he knew better than to deny the comfort you brought. He took it, being guided to the couch afterwards with that same gentleness that made him fall in love with you. All his life, Spencer had been treated as fragile, not capable of truly making it in the cut-throat world of the FBI. Coddled by pretty much everyone in his life, he had developed a disdain for that type of treatment. He didn’t need pity or advice, he needed someone to believe in him. With you, it was different. Your gentleness wasn’t a dismissal of his strength, it was an acknowledgement of it; recognizing he was strong, but also human. Not just a brilliant FBI agent, but a person who has cast aside their feelings for far too long.

He broke the second he touched the couch, looking for your warmth as he cried into your shoulder, “I-It’s dumb, I know, to be worried a-about this. I know you love me, so much, a-and I love you too, but—” he sucked in a breath, trying not to choke on his tears, “—sometimes it feels like I’m just s-something for you to admire from a-afar, like a-a trophy you won and n-not your boyfriend. A-And now I’m in this stupid—” he tugged at the uncomfortable fabric of his clothing, groaning out in frustration, “—outfit making a fool out of m-myself—”

He choked on a sob, shaking his head as he tried to magically will away his tears. He wanted to disappear, pretend this moment never happened, but you didn’t grant him that mercy. “Spencer, look at me.”

After about a minute of him trying to control his breathing, he raised his head. His eyes were red and glossy, a path of tears painting his now-crimson cheeks. He looked like a mess, but he could see it didn't deter your loving gaze. Slowly, carefully, you cupped one of his cheeks and wiped away his tears, letting him lean into your touch or away from it. He chose the former, soaking in the warmth of your palm and the loving caress of your thumb against his cheek.

“I don’t think of you as boring—in any aspect. I thought you wanted to wait a little while longer before we had sex.”

He scoffed, playful but no less annoyed, “I’ve been practically throwing myself at your feet for months! How could you think I wanted to wait longer?”

“I thought we had this ‘you say, I do’ dynamic going on—I was waiting for you to say you wanted to have sex.”

It then hit him like a pile of bricks. You were perhaps a bit too good at following instructions. When you two had the conversation about Spencer’s boundaries around touch, he said he’d tell you when he was feeling up for it. He didn’t think that meant you’d stop initiating any type of affection altogether. Maybe it was time to talk about you being too literal. That could come later, as he now realized the source of six months of agony. A miscommunication that he was too in-his-head to clear up. He was quiet for a while, his wailing now downgraded to whimpering. Suddenly, small giggles began to escape his lips.

“Oh, wow! It was just a misunderstanding.” He got out in between laughs and sniffles, wiping away his tears with a smile, “So…you do find me sexually appealing?”

You laugh, that handsome smile he loves so much adorning your face, and nod, “I do, and…” You take his hands, giving them a small squeeze, “…I’m sorry if I wasn’t the best at showing it. From now on, I’ll be more proactive. I love you, Spencer, and I want to show you—in all the ways you need.” 

He laughed, the last of his tears crawling down his cheeks. “So I probably didn’t have to dress up, huh?”

“I mean, you definitely pull it off.” You chuckled, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “But I don’t like it if it makes you uncomfortable. I saw how you were tugging and pulling, do you want to take it off?”

“Oh please.”

With a snort, you helped Spencer out of his outfit. He was very pleased to be out of that tight, frilly fabric. His skin was a little left from where the straps hugged his body, but he would deal with that later. Right now, he wanted a hoodie, comfortable boxers, and to curl up in your arms. In moments like these, watching you check the drawers for a comfortable pair of underwear and taking one of your hoodies straight from the wash, he was reminded of why he fell in love with you. He tended to get way over his head about the most minuscule stuff, both in and out of work. You brought him back, grounded him without demanding he come back right away. You gave him the space he needed to function and he would never be able to fully thank you for that. Maybe it was so easy for you to accept his ‘no touch’ proposal because of how much you loved him—because you did, and he could rest easy knowing that love didn’t come at the expense of sex appeal.

Once he was changed into something more his style, he curled up next to you on the couch with a hand intertwined with yours. A repeat of some popular sitcom was playing on the TV, a random channel picked while you settled on something to watch. Spencer couldn’t care less what you watched, he was content just being with you in the moment.

“You know,” Your voice cut him out of his musing, his eyes shifting to look at you, “I meant it, when I said I wanted to love you how you needed.” Your hand traced patterns over his thigh, getting dangerously close to his pelvic area. “If you want to have sex, I would accept in a heartbeat.”

He smiled, leaning up to peck your lips. One of his hands landed on your chest, the other trailing up your bicep, “Thank you, dear. And…” The hand on your chest trailed downwards, toying with the belt buckles of your pants, “…I would love to take you up on that offer.”

[barely-writings]

Woe, WIP be upon ye

just needed to document this version and see if I like it or wanna change it to second person.

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Girl Crush

“I want to taste her lips / Yeah, 'cause they taste like you”

December 10th, 2019. 12:17 PM

A navy blue tie laid out on a half-made bed, a recently ironed blazer draped over stiff shoulders, and a steady stream of tears outlining pale cheeks.

There were few things Spencer regretted. He lamented over decisions he made on the job. He resented the people who hurt those closest to him. He pondered what his life would be like had he gone down a slightly different path. Yet, he never regrets. Not even when he was forced into a drug addiction, not even when he believed one of his closest colleagues died, not even when his girlfriend got shot in front of him. However, there was one thing Spencer kept locked away in the back of his mind. Behind shelves of statistics, folders of obscure historical facts, and stacks upon stacks of psychoanalytic material laid a small truth. A name, nothing else. With that name, naturally, came data; date of birth, eye color, hair color, the timbre of a voice, likes and dislikes, occupation, relationship status. That name had been holding the key to his heart for the better part of eighteen years.

He looked at the fancy invitation currently placed against his dresser, the flashes of white, gold, and blue making a mockery of him. Detailed cursive, golden in color, outlined a greeting and a proposal. He could barely read the imprints on the paper, tears clouding his vision as they flowed like a waterfall down his face. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t true, that he’d simply imagine the words he had been obsessing over for the past two days.

The golden words stayed, persistent.

We cordially invite you to celebrate the union of [M/N] [L/N] and—

Regret started to reel its ugly head in.

In a not-so-distant life, maybe he’d be the one at the altar with [M/N]. Maybe he’d get the luxury of hushed giggles, gentle touches, and stolen kisses. Maybe he’d be crying over vows–not out of melancholy, but out of delight. 

He smoothed out the blazer, an action he had been repeating periodically, before grabbing the forgotten tie off the bed. He almost dreaded finishing the knot, as if he was signing a scam with the very action of stepping foot into the wedding. He supposed he should be grateful for even receiving an invite to the wedding. He hadn’t talked to the groom in a while, not after everything that had gone down between them. He knew the other man well, knowing how prideful he could get. If he had to guess, this invite was the work of the bride—a woman Spencer had met before very sporadically. She was kind enough, with rosy cheeks and the sort of smile that made strangers strike up a conversation with her. She must’ve been very persuasive too, if she got a man so stubborn to invite him to their wedding, even if he was the last person on the planned guest list. He can’t be mad at her—and, paradoxically, that infuriated him. It would be easier, even if not logical like he’d prefer, to dump the blame on the scheming vixen that stole away the love of his man. It was significantly harder to admit he simply lost him to time, and time brought him to the arms of a loving woman while Spencer rotted away in his feelings.

A white handkerchief is pulled from his blazer pocket, dabbing at his cheeks. Hopefully, the rosiness of his cheeks would be excused considering the occasion. Folding the piece of cloth back into a perfect square shape and placing it neatly in his pocket, he stepped out of his hotel room and began the small journey towards the ceremony. He passed by nameless faces, each blurred, though he swore he saw hints of pity in the myriad of eyes around him. Nevertheless, he made it past the sea of people and past those imposing doors.

The venue and ceremony were breathtaking. The bride’s touch complimented well with the groom’s—Spencer remembered the late nights they’d spend discussing flower arrangements for a hypothetical wedding that never came and had to blink tears out of his eyes—and the soft beams of sunlight shining through the huge windows gave it a finishing touch only seen in movies. A guide, a man no older than thirty-four with a lean physique and light blonde hair, approached him, a smile on his face as he asked for his name.

Being guided to his seat, Spencer had the time to soak in the beauty of it all. The perfect wedding that would never be his. Not how he wanted it, anyways. For a moment, as he saw him waiting for his bride, looking so enamoured with the mere implication of her, he felt strange. He almost wanted to be competing for her affections, to understand what was so great about her that she was the one who got to marry him. Was it her hair color? Her eyes? The fact she was a girl? Was it because she’s less complicated than him? Because she held significantly less baggage than him?

He knew he’d never get that closure—that satisfaction of having something concrete to blame. All he could blame was time, and even then it didn’t feel enough.

The guide maneuvered through tables, chairs, and more tables, pointing towards a chair near the front. A perfect view of the wedding, his own torture chamber. Soon, people began to sit down and the gentle sound of a piano began to fill the area. He zoned out for a good majority, until the couple was ready for their elusive kiss. Cheers erupted once their lips touched, signifying the beginning of their life as a married couple. He could see the love in [M/N]’s eyes as he gazed into his new wife’s eyes, could almost picture the way his posture relaxed once he cupped her cheek. He saw him mouth an ‘I love you’ and, for a split second, Spencer tricked himself into believing it was directed at him.

He clapped, a trail of wet, desperate tears cascading down his face.

––––––––––––––––––––––

December 10th, 2001. 8:47 AM

He was grateful for his scarf at this moment.

The chill of the winter wind poked at his bones, pushing him towards the nearest source of warmth he found. Today was shaping up to be a good day. He was making real progress in making it to the FBI, having met some people who could help him along the way. Just last night, he had finished memorizing the last bit of knowledge he needed for the program, it’s not like it was hard for him anyways. He was a bit skeptical about the physical evaluation, he knew his lean physique and somewhat scrawny build wouldn’t do him any favors. Either way, he showed promise–and he held those words to heart. If there was even the slimmest chance that he could make it, he’d hang onto it with all his might. According to Gideon, the man that had taken him under his wing ever since he managed to outsmart one of the agents training possible new recruits, it would only be a few more years until he could officially become an agent. Granted, the older man did allude to having to “pull some strings”, whatever that implied. Not the best feeling in the world, but he’d take it.

For now, he’d reward himself with one of his favorite things in the world: a sweet cup of coffee and a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles. He walked into the nearest café, just a couple of blocks down from the subway that took his route home. The warm, home-y atmosphere only heightened his elation, a small solace to the otherwise hectic world of academics. While he adored learning and had the skills and talent for it, respite and relaxation were practically void—especially when training for a position as prestigious as a profiler. He knew first-hand how destructive that world could be. His ex-turned-good-friend, a man just as dedicated as him by the name of Ethan, looked for comfort in the bottom of multiple bottles. He used to say it was just temporary, that once he stepped through those bureau doors he’d quit, but they both knew it was a lie. Maybe that’s why Ethan called it quits, focusing his mental energy on being okay enough to continue with the job. Spencer couldn’t exactly fault him, but it still hurt. They both cared deeply for each other, but the relationship meant something more to Spencer; more than simply two people sharing feelings. 

A part of him wanted it to last, as proof that all his complicated feelings hadn’t been for nothing. It wasn’t a failure on his part—he wasn’t equipped to help Ethan through his turmoil, and it wasn’t fair to expect him to carry that for the both of them. Yet, a part of him felt like he had failed his shot at being gay, as weird as that may seem. Somewhat free from the shackles of his childhood and out into ‘the real world’, Spencer had a lot of time to think. To reflect. He had never been good with girls, that much he knew of, but the thought of dating a man hadn’t occurred to him as a possibility. In highschool, where most teens would be coming to terms with their sexuality, he was busy making the honor roll and acing college level classes—and also twelve, he wasn’t quite at that stage yet.

Now college was a different story; well, not quite as different. Still no luck with women, but he had finally reached that age where he felt compelled to figure himself out. Granted, a lot of the guys around him were significantly older, but it’s not like he was going to try and approach them anyways. What would he even lead with? “Hey, I can recite obscure literary works by memory and explain in-depth the intricacies of Star Trek. Let’s date.”

Yeah, no.

With Ethan, figuring that stuff out was easy. He listened, really listened, to him. He remembered stuff Spencer didn’t even remember himself—even with his eidetic memory. Stuff he found insignificant, Ethan remembered. He offered a helping hand, a shoulder to lean on, the comfort Spencer hadn’t known for a while. Maybe it was a combination of all these things that pushed him towards Ethan. That…and he was a very attractive guy. Spencer was in denial, not blind. A good-looking guy that cared for him in a way he didn’t feel he was worthy of? It was worth a shot.

Unfortunately, that shot crashed and burned. Wait no, he was being dramatic. That shot struck, then broke off after a while—so it wasn’t a total failure. A small comfort that he’d take, for his own mental well-being. He was twenty now, he didn’t need another sexuality crisis so close to his big break. Relationships between colleagues were strictly forbidden anyways; statistically, he was safe. He was getting off track, too into his own mind right now. He was supposed to be getting his coffee and doughnuts and some much needed relaxation. With a sigh, and barely glancing at the menu, he walked up to the counter and waited his turn.

“Hello, welcome to Coffee Cove. What can I get you?” The barista’s somewhat bored tone made him clear his throat, running through his order one last time. He had learned his lesson years ago, when he spent a good five minutes bumbling like a fool because he forgot the simple order of everything bagel with cream cheese. This time, he would actually communicate like a functioning human being.

“One chocolate frosting donut with sprinkles and one coffee, five sugars. Please.”

The barista shot him a look, almost like she was judging him for deciding to add five sugars to the already sweet coffee they offered. She looked like she wanted to question Reid about it, figure out what could possess a man to willingly ingest that much sugar, but she dropped it after giving him one last scrutinizing eyebrow raise. She let out a sigh, one that clearly told him she’d save this interaction in the back of her mind, and nodded, pressing some buttons on the tablet in front of her and before addressing him again. 

“Your total is $6.54, will that be all?” “Yes, thank you.”

“Cash or credit?”

He gave the woman a ten dollar bill, which he immediately regretted as he watched her forehead crease with what he assumed was annoyance. Some people really didn’t like having to count out change, huh? She mumbled some curse under her breath, too indescriptive for Spencer to pick up, yet it still made him melt further with shame. He should’ve just ordered something else, brought the total up to a nice, whole number. He could feel the line forming behind him, the beginnings of rush hour creeping in through the periodic ringing of the doorbell’s chime. He almost wished he could make the lady go faster, to be as good at math as he was for the two minute period it took to count change, but he didn’t have that kind of power. All he could do was put on his best face and pray the other customers wouldn’t mind waiting a little. Finally, after what felt like hours but was instead two minutes and forty-seven seconds, Spencer had his change and his food. The sweet treat and even sweeter drink were in his hands, change shoved unceremoniously in his pocket. Life was good. Life was great! Life was–

A hiss broke him out of his positivity, a wet stain ruining a shirt that looked recently bought.

Somebody, kill him now.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see where I was going. That coffee was hot and I just spilled it on your shirt and—do you need first aid? The stain should be relatively easy to get out with the right detergent, though, which I can totally help with if you need—” He stumbled his way through apologies and semi-helpful advice, too occupied with his shame to even look at the man whose shirt he had just ruined. He hadn’t even made it out of the coffee shop, for crying out loud! His dignity was in shambles by now, no amount of saving face would help him.

A chuckle stopped his worry like a bullet breaking glass.

“It’s okay, it’s just a shirt. Besides, I’ve dealt with way worse things than a coffee spill. Wasn’t even that hot.” The stranger laughed, his voice unnecessarily melodic to Spencer’s ears. He dared to glance up—up, because he had somehow found someone taller than him—at the man, eyes widening in disbelief immediately.

Not only had he spilled his coffee, and subsequently lost $3.45 in the process, he had spilled his coffee on a very attractive man. Great. Peachy. His non-existent chances were definitely ruined now. The tips of his ears and nose were turning red, the embarrassment prickling at his skin like a nagging kid who had one too many invasive questions. Seeing his obvious embarrassment, the hot-stranger-man just laughed, raising a brow in amusement.

“Really, it’s no problem. In fact, here,” he took out a five dollar bill from his pocket, handing the green paper to Spencer, “Go get yourself a new coffee. My shirt sorta drank your old one.”

Spencer stumbled out a laugh, relieved the man was taking this so well. Not many people took to ruined clothes kindly, he knew that first hand. His clumsiness got him in uncomfortable situations, to say the least. With a shy, grateful smile, he took the money from the stranger’s hands.

“Thank you—and again, I’m so sorry about your shirt. I guess there’s a lot on my mind today; the human brain has been shown to only be able to process one cognitive task at a time. Attempting to go beyond this limit exhausts the brain, making it less efficient when processing informa—”

Huh, that’s the longest he’s gone without someone interrupting him. No snide comment, no judging look, no diverted attention. This stranger was…actually listening? Even with a wet patch in his shirt, the other looked intrigued. Still, he had no business dumping this information on a stranger. He laughed sheepishly, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. He was about to apologize for his unwanted ranting when the stranger spoke up again, clear interest in his tone.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? We think we know so much about the human mind, when we actually know so little.”

Spencer agreed. While the relative cellular biology of the brain was understood clearly enough, scientists still had no idea how the brain actually functioned. Talk of electrical signals and waves was widely accepted as a close truth, but the research had yet to show a definitive answer. He was quick to voice his agreement, citing a myriad of studies that put forth theories of how this organ functioned. The man reciprocated with his own questions, prompting Spencer to go on tangent after tangent, until the original point of the conversation was completely lost. What started as an apology over spilled coffee devolved into twelfth century economic fluctuations. He’s gotta admit, he’s never had this much fun in his life. While not as knowledgeable as Spencer, the man currently in front of him challenged him. He asked questions—more like he demanded answers, with his tone being eager and his voice being somewhat gravelly—and subtly leaned forward, his chin being propped up by the palm of his hand. They had, somehow, transferred to a booth during the conversation, Spencer’s coffee quickly forgotten and his doughnut growing colder.

By the time he realized he had stolen this stranger’s morning, the clock on the wall now nearing twelve in the afternoon, he clasped his hands together and cleared his throat politely. He should’ve felt embarrassed, but something told him the other man didn’t mind.

“Ah, time went by so quickly! I’m sorry I kept you for so long, but I’ve never had such an interesting conversation. It’s time for me to go, I really enjoyed talking to you.”

With a smile, the type that looked like he was sucking in the corners of his lips, he bid the stranger goodbye as he stood up from the booth. He bit into his doughnut to ward off a bit of the hunger that was starting to creep in, the flavor somewhat dissipated after the sweet had been left out for so long. He didn’t care, though, as he found something else to brighten his day today.

He had no coffee, a disappointing doughnut, and an encounter that’d keep him going for the rest of the week.

“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, it was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise, doctor. Call me [M/N].”