cobbled-peach

[cobbled-peach]

it’s coming together (*internal panicking*)

i cannot wait (*obscene amount of sweating*) to share this ahhhh!!! this week this week 🤞🤞

[cobbled-peach]

jesus hair era spencer save me.....cane spencer save me.....save me jesus hair and cane s5 spencer.....

[cobbled-peach]

Starman

Summary : You get back to the motel after another strenuous day, the unsolved case weighing your mind. You find comfort in the stars, and in the gentle doctor that tells you about them.

Tags/notes : Again with the fluff, I wrote this when I couldn't sleep yesterday, so hopefully, it makes sense. No use of Y/N (I try to avoid it when I can), the reader is not described, well, you have eyes, but that's as far as it goes. Gn!reader, reader is in the BAU, pining Spencer Reid, I tried to explain the star stuff, but I'm no astrophysicist, so I apologize if anything's inaccurate, anyway hope you enjoy !! <33

Word count : 1.6k

Masterlist

The same fic on ao3

Any reposts or comments are greatly appreciated, just know that I giggle to myself whenever someone comments on my fics

The breeze was soft on your skin as you stepped out of the SUV. Emily yawned behind you, bee lining for the hotel like she was about to reunite with a star-crossed lover.

You, on the other hand weren't as eager to get back to the squeaky mattress that awaited you in your room. Instead, you turned your gaze to the night sky, craning your neck in an attempt to catch a glimpse of a star.

The town you had been called into for the case wasn't nearly as polluted by street lights and neon as cities usually were, so you lingered, taking a few steps away from the bright motel lights in the hopes of finding those tiny specks shimmering in the dark.

Oblivious to the soft steps behind you, you trailed off to a nearby park – barely a hundred square yards of grass, ornamented with four pitiful trees and a sad wooden bench that had seen too many sharp instruments – and settled onto the bench, eyes never leaving the darkness, in fear of missing anything.

Slowly, cautiously, as if afraid of disturbing your peaceful contemplation, Spencer stepped closer until he stood just a few feet from your side. His eyes trailed upwards, but his pupils hadn't yet attuned to the lighting, and so he found the sky empty.

His voice was soft, careful as he looked back at your figure perched upon the bench.

"May I ?"

Regardless of his efforts to avoid startling you, a gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it, the words tearing your eyes away from the void above.

"Spence– Sorry, I didn't– I hadn't noticed– Of course–" you stammered, blessing the night for covering the sudden pigmentation of your face.

He bit his cheek to keep his smile at bay, and nodded as he crossed the few feet that separated you. When he sat down, he made sure to be far enough that no contact ensued, but you noticed that he was still close enough for his warmth to seep into your side.

The silence settled again, soft and soothing, a sharp contrast to the maddening blaring of sirens or the incessant ringing of phones in the police precinct. Those were moments that made you feel like it was okay to breathe again.

So you did.

A slow, steady breath in through your nose, as if absorbing the atmosphere of the night, and a soft release of air as your shoulders lowered gently.

Spencer risked a glance your way, his honeyed eyes attentive to the rise and fall of your chest, to the loosening tension in your brow. The case had been rough. Most were, but this one had made you physically recoil from its atrocity.

Children.

It was often the cases involving children that got to agents the most. No matter their background, their identity or how long they'd been in the field. No agent ever left unaffected after a case like this.

He'd seen it throughout the last few days. The way your shoulders never seemed to relax. The way your jaw tightened every time you swallowed. The way you'd held onto the palm sized plush that Penelope had gifted you after you'd commented on its cute embroidered expression.

But Spencer knew not to ask. He knew that you were desperately clinging onto anything that could put your mind to rest, even for a mere couple of minutes. So he indulged you, his gaze finding the not-so-empty night sky.

His voice was just loud enough to not qualify as a whisper, "Do you know any constellations ?" he asked, though he knew the answer already.

"The basic ones. The ones my dad knew about," you simply said, before raising a hand to point above, a gesture rendered useless for he who couldn't see through your eyes, "Ursa major over there, which means the little dipper is..." you followed the trail of your own finger, "There."

He hummed, "Any others ?"

Skimming the sky, you searched for the other cosmic sketches you used to identify as a child, but came up empty.

"Can't find Cassiopeia" you admitted quietly.

"It's right there," Spencer scooted an inch closer, gently guiding your outstretched arm toward the area of interest, "do you see it ? Like Ursa major, it's visible year-round"

Squinting, you searched for the W shape in the void, and just as you were about to give up, the specks shone at you like you'd called to them.

"I see it" you whispered, your voice taking on the secrecy of a child discovering the wide open sky for the first time and hoping it doesn't fall.

He smiled softly at the wonder in your eyes, "Do you want to know about other ones ?"

Your immediate nod left no room for doubt as Spencer searched through the encyclopedia in his mind to deliver on his offer.

"If you look right above the building over there," he pointed, tilting his head slightly, "you'll see the constellation of Hydra. It's currently the largest pattern of stars observed from Earth, taking up a bit more than 3% of the night sky. It's about 1,303 square degrees and is made up of 283 stars,"

"Jesus," you breathed, the reaction making his lips tug into a gentle smile.

"Yeah. It's huge, and from the northern hemisphere, it's especially visible in April, so, we're in luck"

A chuckle escaped you, and Spencer fought the urge to chase that sound with endless more facts and useless information.

"Tell me about another," you requested softly just as he was ruling that he shouldn't ramble on until you couldn't stand it anymore.

"Oh–" he drew his feet under the bench to anchor himself as he felt the buzz settle behind his ribs, "Well, over there, just between those two trees, is Virgo. It's mostly visible in may, but you can still see it here. It's only a little smaller than Hydra – if you consider anything in outer space to qualify as a little smaller in terms of scale – but it's about 1,294 square degrees, and is made up of 169 stars–"

"You used that term with Hydra as well, but what's a square degree ? Is it like... the scale in reference to a sphere ?" you cut in. Just as you're about to apologize for interrupting, he answered as if nothing could've bothered him less.

"Yes– it's a non-SI unit measure of solid angle. So it's exactly that, it's the volume version of the degrees unit used for circles." he explained without missing a beat, and once he seemed satisfied with the understanding in your eyes, he continued.

"In Greek mythology, Virgo represents Persephone, queen of the underworld and daughter of Demeter, goddess of–"

"Harvest and fertility. I might not be very well versed in the stars, I hold up pretty well in the realm of mythology, Spence." you flashed him a grin and his eyes crinkled with his own.

"Right. Well, my rambling doesn't exactly cater to each audience," his shoulder bumped against yours, and you wondered if the contact was intentional, "but I'll try to keep that in mind."

"How amiable," you rolled your eyes playfully before adding, "another one ?"

Spencer gave you a patient peer review of each constellation he found in the emptiness overhead, and you listened attentively, your eyes following the soothing narration of his voice as he told you all about the different scientific researches, the origin of each constellation's name.

Without either of you noticing – or maybe without either of you pointing it out, afraid of breaking the gentle atmosphere of the moment – your head had found rest against his shoulder, relieving your neck from some of its tension. His voice was a quiet constant in your ear, his breath caressing your cheek with an infectious softness.

You only realized your eyes had closed when his voice faltered and quieted, his hand carefully cupping your elbow.

He called your name once or twice. Maybe three time, the lull of his voice a harmless weapon to your slumber.

Your eyes fluttered open only when his fingers brushed some hair from your cheek.

"Hey," he whispered, "you fell asleep."

You rubbed a hand over your face and shook your head in a halfhearted denial, "S' just resting my eyes. Keep telling me about the stars." you hummed, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Spencer chuckled, the sound of his amusement making you grumble softly, "I think you've had enough star-facts for today. We should both get some sleep."

Groaning in quiet reluctance, you sat back up, the motion encouraging enough to get the young doctor to his feet.

"Come on. The stars will still be there tomorrow." he whispered playfully, though the words soothed you more than anything else could have.

The stars will still be there tomorrow. The earth will still be turning, and your team will keep on chasing the ones who made you need such simple things to cling onto sanity.

Spencer, ever the gentleman, extended a hand to help you up, and you curled your fingers around his as you stood. If he had any objection to you holding onto him on your way to the motel, he didn't utter a word of it.

After walking you to your room, he bid you goodnight, and before you closed the door, you called to him quietly. He turned immediately, his eyes a silent question as you fiddled with the handle.

"You'll still be there tomorrow too," you said quietly, not quite a question, but not quite a statement either. You felt as if the stars could never shine as brightly as when he was there to see them too.

He paused for a moment, examining your expression, before whispering, a quiet promise.

"I'll be there."

[cobbled-peach]

i’m finally back from travelling and i worked on this baby nonstop during my downtime. she’s currently sitting at 60k words like??? what???? okay coming soon!!!!!

i've been working on this absolutely tragic fic since may and it's finally at the point where i'm happy to start posting it but I'm also like so nervous this fic is my baby i wanna keep her hidden away from the world

[cobbled-peach]

shout out to love, factually because my dissertation project just got confirmed this morning weeeee

love, factually

in which Spencer explains the facts behind love in a mildly suggestive way

cw: implied suggestive content, sfw. fem!reader. Spencer just yapping about biology and evolution teehee a/n: this is fully self induldgent because i love to yap about biology. maybe you'll learn something from this, who knows? a very short piece of work while i create something longer. this has not been edited <3 w/c: 900 words

‘You know, for someone so rational, you get awfully sentimental sometimes,’ you tease, voice light but deliberate.

Spencer watches the smile tug at your lips, then (dramatically) removes your legs from his lap like he’s been wounded. Offended. Insulted. ‘Sentimental? Me? Never.’

You laugh as he gives a faux scoff, only to shift your legs right back where they were. He doesn’t protest. Just lets your calves drape over his thighs and settles his hands on bare skin, fingers tracing idle circles just above your knees.

‘I’m not sentimental,’ he insists, fingers tightening in mock warning, enough to make your breath catch. ‘Just… selectively emotional.’

‘Mm, of course,’ you murmur, clearly unconvinced. ‘You apologised to my dying fern today, Spencer. That’s not giving selective. That’s giving deeply emotional.’

‘She’s struggling!’ he says with a soft laugh, head tipping back slightly. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and your chest goes warm. ‘She needs care.’

‘She?’ you echo, tucking a soft brown curl behind his ear. His fingers still for a second at the gesture, then resume their lazy patterns.

‘It’s a fern,’ he replies with pretend indignation. ‘It’s not going to be a he.’

You tap his nose, smirking. ‘Sentimental,’ you conclude, and it’s like putting a period on the conversation.

He turns toward you more, shoulder pressing against yours, heat radiating from his skin. Closem warm. Subtle, but intentional. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t want to.

‘Fine,’ he concedes. ‘But that’s not down to me. It’s down to science. Evolution.’

‘Oh, here we go again,’ you say, throwing your arms up in fake dispear, grinning at him. ‘Love: just oxytocin and dopamine and whatever other scientific explanation you have for sentimentality that’s stored in your encyclopaedia-brain.’

He chuckles. Short, low, lips pressing into a crooked smile. ‘Love does exist because of oxytocin and dopamine. And evolution. And natural selection.’  

You arch a brow, skeptical, but amused. ‘Romantic.’ Sarcasm. ‘Please, go on.’

He leans closer, close enough for the hem of his shirt to brush your side, for his breath to caress your cheek. His thighs shift, angling your hips more toward him. When he speaks again, its in a quiet and focused tone, almost reverent. The one he uses when explaining something complex, something fascinating.

‘Mutual investment theory,’ he begins, each syllable slow and deliberate. He says it like it’s the sexiest phrase on the planet. And maybe it is, coming from him. ‘Pair bonding kept early animals together. Emotional attachment increased cooperation – sharing food, dividing work, mutual protection. It wasn’t just about sex, but survival. And survival,’ he adds, eyes falling to your lips for a fleeting moment, ‘wasn’t easy in early hominid societies.’

He watches your response. Pure amusement combined with total perplexion. You blink, lips parting slightly.

‘So, what you’re saying,’ you pause, ‘is that biology wants us to… cuddle?’

‘Biology is insisting on it, actually.’

Another shift. His hands now; one slides around your waist, the other supporting your thigh as he pulls you on to his lap. Slow, fluid, sure. You go willingly, legs straddling his hips, hands automatically finding the sharp line of his shoulders.

‘You’re really trying to seduce me with natural selection?’ you ask, and he smiles at the way your voice is a shade more breathless than before.

‘Is it working?’ His hands settle on your back, one tracing beneath the fabric of your shirt. Up and down your spine, featherlight and teasing, feeling each dip and ridge of the bone.

There’s heat in that question. Intentional. Undeniable. Heavy. He dips his head, lips brushing beneath your jaw. It’s barely a kiss, more a breath against your skin. You hum in response, leaning into the contact. He lets his mouth linger there a second longer, then slides towards the hollow beneath your ear.

‘So,’ you whisper, ‘biologically speaking, your instincts think I’m a good mate?’

His lips pull away, but not far, letting out a soft huff.

‘Technically, it’s your instincts,’ he murmurs. His voice sounds like smooth honey. ‘Female mate choice is a primary driver of sexual selection. Females choose their partners based on traits, behaviours, physical indicators of health and intelligence…’

He trails off, another kiss pressed to your skin. You almost groan. Because only he could make Darwin sound like foreplay.

‘But,’ he adds, lifting his head to meet your eyes. ‘my instincts are screaming at me too, I suppose.’ His gaze is slightly glassy, pupils wider than normal in anticipation, but his voice remains impossibly steady.

Your hands slide from his shoulders to his neck, thumbs brushing the hinge of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your fingers. They thumbs maintain the gentle brushing movement as you continue, feeling the tension lingering beneath his skin.

‘Are they now? And what are they saying?’

His eyes flick to your mouth again. Then back up.

‘They’re telling me that you’re very good for my survival. In an evolutionary way, of course.’

Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between a laugh and something else. ‘That so?’

‘Mhm,’ he hums. Leans in. Brushes his lips to yours. Just a suggestion, not a kiss.

You attempt to chase it.

‘Well, I can’t argue with biology,’ you whisper back.

He kisses you properly, then. Slow and intentional. Like he’s testing a hypothesis he already knows the answer to. You’re just providing the evidence – for a theory that nature figured out long ago.

[cobbled-peach]

i’m currently away travelling, so there’s unlikely to be any fics this week or next week 💔💔

requests are being worked on, and while i won’t be able to post in the upcoming days, i still have means to write fics so will hopefully have a whole bunch to post when i return <3

[cobbled-peach]

you ever read something so groundbreaking you just gotta stare blankly at the screen for a hot minute afterwards? this. this’ll do that to you. this is what a realistic portrayal of post-prison spencer would’ve been!!!!

And Still I Will Live Here // Spencer Reid💙

Synopsis: spencer finds himself struggling with his identity and autonomy after being released from millburn and it’s beginning to affect your relationship. you do everything you can to help him adjust, but the hurdle of shaving seems to be one he just can’t jump.

Pairing: post prison spencer x reader

Genre: angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes/Tags: READ WITH CARE!! sad spencer, they fight just a tad, spencer is snappy for a sec, spencer struggles like a lot, panic attacks/prison flashbacks, accidentally cutting while shaving, blood mention, talks of luis delgado & nadie ramos’ murder, references to spencer stabbing himself in prison, BUT READER HELPS HIM HES OK IN THE END !! title from I Will by Mitski :3

masterlist // pls reblog if you enjoy!! it helps promote the fic so so much !!

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To say it was difficult for Spencer to readjust to normal life would be a drastic understatement. Nothing quite felt as real as it did before nor as safe as it did before. Even moving through his own apartment felt like falling in a dream, that paralysing fear when you know it’s not real and you know you just need to wake up but for whatever reason you just can’t. The panic makes itself at home in your throat, squeezing the breath out of you as you rapidly try to chase after it, as you try to stop the fall but it’s hopeless. Eventually you wake up and think that everything should be okay now but it’s not, at least not for Spencer. It still feels like some kind of hazy trap to him, like he’s scared he’ll open his eyes and still be there.

Spencer tried to be his old self for your sake but you could tell that the walls had never fully crumbled down. He’d let you reach out for him, let you lace your fingers through his or let your arms wrap around him but you caught the way he’d flinch if you held too tight. You felt the way his body tensed, or the way he jerked like something in his gut was telling him to pull away. Logically, he knew he was safe with you but after months of sleeping with one eye open and obsessively checking over his shoulder his nerves had begun to lie to him. He’d engage when you spoke to him, but he would never start the conversation. There were no ramblings or fun facts, no casual conversations over breakfast or sweet whispers in your ear as you fell asleep. He’d smile at you the way he always used to, except now it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You thought having him back would feel different. Not that you weren’t grateful about it- God you prayed for this every single day, his name on repeat in your mind like a broken record- but it felt sometimes that all you’d gotten back was a body, a spectre, moving through your shared space like a puppet on strings. Seeing Spencer so fragile broke your heart more than you could have ever prepared for, and what was worse was you still had no idea what had happened to him in there to strip him of himself so cruelly. Occasionally you still caught glimpses of him; when his hand instinctively reached for you in his sleep before he woke up and hastily snatched it back, how his eyes lit up for just a second like a flame reignited when you called his name before it was snuffed out again, how for a second- just one small, blissful second- he allowed himself to lean into your touch before he stiffened and pulled away. The latter stung, you had to admit, the stab of rejection piercing through you with a sharpness that took your breath away, but you could see through him when the smoke cleared. In those short, serene moments before the walls shot back up you felt it. He was still in there somewhere- he was still your Spencer.

Shortly after his release you had woken up one night to use the bathroom, the bed cold beside you and the distance between you and Spencer feeling larger than usual. Shyly, you poked out a hand finding nothing but an empty mattress and crumpled sheets. A newly familiar feeling of panic clouded your mind like fog as you gently called his name into the darkness to no answer. You hopped out of bed, feet padding along the wooden floor and your heart sank as you slowly pushed open the bathroom door. There was Spencer, on the floor in the corner in a ghost-like state. His eyes were blank and his mouth was parted as he stared ahead into the shadows with his hands hovering near his head, like he had reached to grasp at his hair and malfunctioned halfway through the motion. Tears stung at your eyes, a wretched weight in your chest dragging you to the ground as you carefully crouched in front of him, your movements slow and tentative. He’d flinched when he spotted you and you bit so hard on your quivering lip you almost drew blood.

“T-the uh,” he began shakily, voice barely there at all, “the door closed.” His eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed his words, a heavy, shameful sigh leaving his lips.

His vacant eyes explained everything he couldn’t say. He’d felt trapped. In the darkness of the night the bathroom became a cell, every dreary drip from the sink’s tap had felt deafening as they echoed off of inescapable walls, the tiles were harsh and icy beneath his hands as he sunk to the floor and froze in place. He never spoke of it again, but after that night a nightlight was placed in every room, a doorstop in every doorway.

Since then you’d coaxed him out of the strict meal schedule he’s become accustomed to, a compulsion he still battled for a while after he was home. You’d put yourself in charge of cooking meals or ordering take-out to save him reaching for whatever was plain and simple as if he’d convinced himself he wasn’t worth the effort anymore. You even helped him pick his clothes out in the morning when you noticed he’d abandoned his colourful ties and patterned sweaters, realising he’d become overwhelmed by the choice after months of wearing the same thing- months of being the prison’s property.

Spencer was still avoiding talking about Millburn but you didn’t push or pry, rather you observed. You recognised what made him lash out, what made him shrink into himself without a word, you realised there were painful memories clinging to him like leeches wherever he went like his brain was never fully relaxed, interpreting everything around him as a threat. As much as you wanted- needed- him to open up to you, you were scared to push too hard and cause him to retreat entirely. And so you found silent ways to help him, a subtle hand on his shoulder to try and help him heal one day at a time, yet there was one thing you couldn’t quite figure out and that was why hasn’t he shaved yet?

Before Spencer had shaved almost obsessively, always complaining about the feeling of the stubble or the way it made him look. You’d assumed that he might struggle with that more than he already did after being made to grow it out but as time went by without it being touched you thought that maybe he’d just gotten used to it. However the way he itched and itched told you otherwise. The way he looked in the mirror like he didn’t even recognise himself told you otherwise.

“Spence?” You called gently from your spot on the armchair. Spencer was sat in the corner of the couch, tucking himself against the armrest like he was trying to take up as little space as possible while his hand absentmindedly made its way to his chin again.

“Yeah?” He responded, not looking up from his book. He hadn’t turned a page in 10 minutes.

You swallowed before you spoke, hesitant to bring it up again. “Why don’t you just shave it, honey?” You tried giving him a small smile but it didn’t help.

His brows furrowed as he lifted his head to meet your eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s bothering you.”

“It’s not.” He replied bluntly, coldly. “I already told you it’s not.”

About a week ago you’d had the same discussion. Spencer seemed to be in a better mood than usual, much to your relief- it felt like you were finally making real progress. The two of you were sitting together on the couch closer than you’d been since his release, you sitting with your knees propped by your chest and angled in a way so that they leaned over him. Something was on TV that you weren’t paying attention to, engrossed in a conversation he’d started about a book he’d read lately. Truthfully you weren’t saying much back as you were far too enamoured by the warm sound of his voice that you’d missed so much as it flowed, bright and lively with an excitement and passion that had been all too absent from him lately. At some point he began to itch, more and more often over time you’d noticed. It had been the kind of evening you’d dreamed of since having him home, huddled up together in the candlelight talking about nothing in particular just like before, but as soon as you suggested shaving his voice froze over. His expression dropped. Almost as soon as the words left your mouth the atmosphere shifted- instant and harsh. Spencer had deflected it, but there was a sharpness in his voice, one that sliced a gap between the two of you again and left you baffled.

“You keep scratching at it.” You pushed hesitantly as his hand dropped on cue as if to prove you wrong.

“My skin’s just dry.” He said, his eyes returning to that same page in his book. “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on this.”

“It’s just that you never liked growing your hair out before.” Before. You regretted the word as soon as it left your lips.

“Does that mean I’m not allowed to like it now?” He finally flipped the page with a crisp thwack that filled the air.

“Of course not, it’s just-“

“I’m capable of deciding what I do and don’t like.” He bit back. Somewhere inside of your heart you knew it wasn’t really directed at you, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

“I know that, Spence. I’m just trying to help.” You sighed despite yourself, losing patience. You were understanding, of course. You’d been nothing but understanding- but elastic will only stretch so far before it snaps back.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed almost in offence but he kept them pointed downward. “Well you’re not.”

“Not what?” You asked louder than before, tilting your head as you blinked in surprise.

“Helping.” He answered, far too matter of factly for your liking.

With a bitter laugh you dragged your hands down your face in pure exhaustion and when they dropped back down to your lap you saw Spencer staring up at you in confusion like he wasn’t even aware of what he’d just said. “I’m not helping?” You echoed incredulously, your voice shaking slightly under the weight of everything you’d been holding in.

His lips parted and his expression dropped as his brain caught up and he promptly closed the book he’d been pretending to read. “I didn’t mean-“

“No, Spence” you began shaking your head, “I’ve done everything I possibly can to help you. My brain is working so hard trying to put the pieces together myself and figure out what you need so that I can help you because you still won’t tell me anything. You’re still shutting me out.” Biting your lip, you paused and blinked up at the ceiling before looking back at him. “I know I couldn’t possibly understand even a fraction of how you’re feeling and I know that it’s hard to talk about but we can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay. Why can’t you trust me with this, Spencer?”

He was silent for a moment as the cogs turned in his head, hands clenching and unclenching restlessly against the cushions of the couch. “I do trust you.” He almost whispered, though he didn’t even sound convinced.

“So talk to me.” You spoke back, voice gentler but cracking around the edges. “I am so grateful to have you back and I love you, Spence- so fucking much- but I don’t know what you expect me to do. How do you expect me to feel when I suggest something as simple as shaving and you shut down on me or lash out at me without telling me why?”

You waited. And waited. Like they were moving on their own your fingers began drumming against the armrest of the chair, their humble beat echoing in the otherwise empty room. You waited for the sound of his voice to join in, singing words of reassurance and comfort, but it never did. Instead he bowed his head, gazing at the floor like he was trying to hide from you entirely as he shrank even further into the couch- further away from you. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you took a deep breath before speaking again.

“Can we please talk about this?” The silence deafened you, ears ringing as you nodded solemnly and rose to your feet. “You know what, there’s only so much I can do by myself, Spencer. I know you’re struggling but this isn’t fair- you have to meet me halfway at some point. Until then I’m going to bed.”

In his head Spencer thought about calling after you, about saying goodnight as you walked away. He imagined getting up and following you, gently grabbing your wrist to stop you in your tracks so he could apologise and tell you that he’s just scared. He’s scared that you won’t see him the same way anymore, or scared that maybe you already do see him different, scared that you’ll think Millburn sent home a burden and not your boyfriend. He pictures telling you that he’s sorry and that he’s ready to let you in. But his brain and his body are not one anymore. While his mind screams at him to do something, imprisoned behind the bars of his own guilt, his body remains paralysed. No matter how hard he wills it too it simply will not move, rather it seems to fuse further into the course fabric of the couch, adamant on watching you leave.

Spencer didn’t know how long he sat there, unmoving except for the hand scratching at his face. He wasn’t even sure if he realised he was doing it, numb to the feeling of nails against skin as the compulsion took over like a parasite. Behind the closed bedroom door he could hear you getting ready to go to sleep, the sounds so familiar he could practically see himself in the room. As he listened to the rustling of fabric as you changed into your pyjamas he remembered how he used to sit on the edge of the bed, listening to you ramble about your day with a soft smile on his face. When he heard the creak of the mattress as you climbed into bed he thought about how you were climbing into bed alone, becoming all too accustomed to sleeping beside an empty space instead of next to him. He heard the click of the bedside lamp being shut off and his heart clenched with something bittersweet when he heard the nightlight on his side of the bed being switched on and when he turned his head tears flooded his waterline as it’s warm glow poured out under the doorway.

With a weighted sigh his hand fell to his lap, his face raw and stinging- not that he noticed. His head pounded. A chorus of voices bickered over one another, all sounding completely foreign to him despite sharing his voice. His hands shook in his lap as he bounced his knees obsessively and when his eyes dropped down his breath stopped. Blood. Buried beneath his nails. Clinging to his skin, dark and sinister. Perhaps the Spencer of before would’ve brushed it off as anxiety, recognising his body was simply kickstarting whatever self soothing behaviour it could think of to distract itself, but Spencer now only saw blood drawn from his own hands. And it scared him.

Raggedly running his hands through his hair he replayed the spat between the two of you over and over again in his head. Spencer had tried to convince himself that he liked the hair he’d grown, he tried to believe it made him look more mature. He recalled a throwaway comment someone had made about how he ‘looks like a real man now’ and had told himself it was a badge to be proud of. Spencer told himself that maybe people will finally start taking him more seriously now that he looks the part, that the years of being underestimated and dismissed would finally be behind him.

But in reality it drove him positively insane. It was like a piece of Millburn had left with him, keeping him rooted there no matter how far he distanced himself. It drove him crazy the way his image in the mirror morphed into his reflection in the prison glass, his blue inmate clothes growing over his skin like a disease no matter how much he clawed at his body or rubbed his eyes raw. He could barely recognise himself nor could he easily remember how he looked before. Maybe it was dramatic or self pitying but he felt well and truly alien. Millburn had took him in, chewed him up and spat out someone else entirely.

Deep down he knew that you were right. You had a talent for knowing him better than he knew himself most of the time. Logically, he knew he was shutting you out for no good reason other than the fact he’d reached a new, terrifying level of vulnerability he didn’t know how to share with you and so he shut down. Or worse, lashed out. Spencer had tried to shave on his own a couple of times but each time the fear racked through him like a wave, crashing over him ruthlessly and taking his breath away with it. It would always play out the same: he’d stare in the mirror, eyes glassy as he forced himself to move. The blade in his hand felt like it weighed tonnes, anchoring his hand to his side every time he tried and failed to lift it to the mask staring back at him. The first time he’d panicked and given up, the second time he’d cut himself. The blade had clattered to the floor, slipping from shaking hands as he tried to soothe his shuddering breath, his head spinning so fast he thought he might throw up. Spencer hadn’t so much as entertained the idea since.

Truthfully, he felt too embarrassed to let you in. He felt like he was regressing, like Millburn had made him inferior. In an unlikely turn of events Spencer found himself mourning who he was when he was younger. Growing up he’d always thought of himself as wimpy and weak, and he still felt that way even once he’d joined the FBI with him being both the youngest and an exception to the bureau’s typical rules. But that Spencer had survived torture, addiction, poisoning, grief and loss of inexplicable degrees and more. That Spencer raised himself while supporting his mother alone and worked himself to the bone to get to where he was. This Spencer couldn’t even shave his face. He couldn’t help but feel pathetic. He felt he quite literally was not the man he was before and he feared he may never be again- his identity and autonomy had been left behind in that cold, dark cell. As he stared blankly at the wall ahead of him, still sunken into the couch, he recalled a conversation with Emily years ago in which she’d thanked him for being himself and he’d said with gratitude that he didn’t know how to be anyone else. With a lump in his throat, Spencer realised he didn’t even know how to be that anymore.

Eventually, he pulled himself up from the couch and made his way to the bedroom. There you were, in his shirt, curled up on your side with your back to his side of the bed. Your fingers twitched against the pillow and your eyelids fluttered in your sleep, the soft sound of your steady breathing the only sound in the room. You looked peaceful on the surface, but Spencer could see deeper than that. He saw the dark purple beneath your eyes, no doubt the result of the sleepless nights he��d caused you. He noticed how you were sleeping facing away from his pillow where you always used to sleep curled into his side. The glow of the nightlight you’d still cared enough to leave on for him highlighted dried streaks down your cheeks, puffy and flushed from the silent tears you’d shed into your pillow. His throat tightened as he realised just how much you’d sheltered from him and he felt the guilt creeping up through his body. You’d been pleading with him all this time while hiding just how much you were struggling and he’d simply ignored you. Worse, he’d been isolating himself so much he didn’t even notice.

Unbeknownst to him his feet had carried him to the bathroom with a quiet determination that took him by surprise. Frankly, he was fed up with himself and he’d decided it was time. Once again, he found himself planted in front of the mirror, blade in hand, eyes glazed over as he fought with his reflection. Before he could give it a second thought, he watched as his hand came up to his face, felt the cold metal against his skin as he began. Tiny hairs fall to the sink below and the blade keeps moving, repetitive movements propelled by pure muscle memory as Spencer’s consciousness fails him. He is merely a spectator, watching as his limbs move of their own accord and his eyes remain unblinking. The limbs seem to find a rhythm, working out pressure and direction on their own as their host remains stuck in place. After a while Spencer begins to feel himself relax, his eyes water and shake as they regain their focus and his breathing starts to even out. He can feel the weight of the blade in his hand again as it moves and he feels a small twinge of pride, just a small victory, somewhere in his chest.

Just as the feeling began spreading throughout him his hand shook. Just once, but it was enough. He saw it. Thick, red, instant- blood. Spencer didn’t react at first, he simple froze as his eyes followed it trailing down his chin in one clean undeniable line. Slowly, he began to feel the sting in his skin as it grew stronger and stronger, screaming for his attention as he swallowed his pride. With his heartbeat pounding in his ears the world around him seemed muffled, the sounds of cars rushing by outside and voices beneath the window sounded drowned, tortured. His heartbeat travelled from his ears to his throat, from his throat to the tips of his fingers until it was drumming under his skin all over his body.

Almost in slow motion his eyes dropped to his hand, except now he saw a knife and not his razor. There’s a cut on his hand, or at least he thinks there is- he doesn’t remember doing it and he can’t seem to feel it the way he can on his face. Everything feels slow and hazy, blurred around the edges and swaying with every breath he takes. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees something, a lump sprawled out on the tiles. It’s a body, a woman’s body, yet when he turns to face it it’s gone. Trembling, he rubs at his eyes hard, frantically trying to get the truth out of them but to no avail. With panic rising in his throat like bile he turns back towards the mirror, watching the sweat beading on his face mix with the blood and drag it down his neck.

In an instant he’s back there. The laundry room, Luis gasping on the floor behind his reflection. Spencer hears his voice calling for the guards, distant and echoing like it’s not even his, but his lips stay still in the mirror. A stabbing pain shoots through his arm, through his leg and suddenly he’s throwing the razor at the glass as his knees give out beneath him and hit the tiles below. His breath feels caught in his throat and he tugs desperately at the neckline of his shirt, the tear of the stitches cracking like thunder in the silence of the bathroom. A shaking hand moves of its own accord, running through his hair and sinking its fingers into the roots in frustration as Spencer’s eyes clamp shut. He can’t open his eyes, too afraid to face the blood now on his hands, but even the darkness behind his eyelids makes him feel trapped. Before he can stop it, a pained sob leaves his lips as his chest heaves.

Your eyes snap open and your ears prick up almost as fast as you rise to your feet. Not even fully awake yet, you automatically hurry to the bathroom, trying to peak through the gap the doorstop left but you can’t see anything. Carefully you pushed open the door and as your eyes land on him, crumpled in a corner half shaved and bleeding, you felt like your heart was being torn out of your chest. Tears pricked your eyes, fast and hot, but you blinked them back as you took in the scene.

“Spence?” You called out gently, trying to hide the wobble in your voice. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up. You try a couple more times, but he doesn’t even seem to hear you.

Taking a deep breath, you move further into the room. You didn’t need to ask. Without a word you pick the blade up off the floor, rinsing it and cleaning the sink before putting it away out of Spencer’s sight. Tentatively, you crouch down to his level, blocking his view of the rest of the room as he finally looks up at you with dazed eyes. You hold back from asking if he’s okay or from asking what happened, afraid of him shutting down again. Instead, you force a small smile, meeting his gaze with a warm expression.

“You didn’t come to bed.” You said softly, watching as he slowly blinked himself into focus.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” He croaked back, fingers twitching against his knees as he pulled them up to his chest.

You sighed, wanting to reach out for him but knowing to keep your distance. “Of course I wanted you to.”

He didn’t respond and you let the silence pass between you as you sat cross-legged on the floor opposite him. You watched as his breath deepened and his body stopped shaking. The blood had stopped atop his collar bone and was beginning to dry.

“Why don’t we get you cleaned up and ready for bed, huh?” You suggested lightly, half expecting him to protest but to your relief he nodded. “I’m going to stand up now but I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m gonna be right here.”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you padded over to the sink and ran a washcloth under the tap. Sitting back down in front of Spencer, you cupped his face with a feather light touch, rubbing a circle over his skin with your thumb before lifting the cloth to his chin. You wiped slowly and gently, careful to keep the rag angled in a way that hid the blood from his view before cleaning his hands. Neither of you spoke, but his eyes fluttered shut with a peaceful sigh as he relaxed into your touch.

“I’m sorry.” Spencer whispered after a while, his voice small and drained.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” You placed the cloth on the floor, still keeping his face in your hands. “At least not right now.”

“We do.” He took your hands in his, lowering them to your lap before letting go. “We should.”

You nodded back at him, leaning back slightly and letting him take the lead. “Okay.”

His brows furrowed in thought as he took a moment to collect himself, staring at the wall over your shoulder. He fidgeted with his hands, wringing them in his lap before licking his lips and turning back to you.

“I was frustrated with myself.” Spencer began, dropping his gaze back to the floor. “I was fed up of having this connection to prison every time I look at myself and being too much of a coward to do anything about it. And I was fed up of taking it out on you. I thought I could handle it but when I cut myself I-“ he paused, “when I saw the blood it-“

“It brought everything back.” You finished for him.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Everything that happened in Mexico, the things that happened to Luis because of me, the things I did to protect myself. Everything” He swallowed as his voice began to quiver. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said and about how much you were struggling without me even realising. I was spiralling so much that I-“ he cut himself off again, dragging his hands down his face as his voice threatened to break. “I didn’t even realise.”

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You soothed, but he shook his head.

“No, no it’s not.” He lifted his eyes to meet yours. “I shut you out because I was ashamed. I didn’t think I was good enough for you anymore, I didn’t think I was safe for you anymore. I was so scared to touch you, to look at you wrong, to talk to you wrong. I didn’t feel like the man you fell in love with and I was terrified that if I let you in you would realise it too. There was part of me that didn’t want to let you in because I thought you’d leave me, but I think a bigger part of me thought I deserved to be left.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, matching the ones that had poured down your own. Your heart ached with every word that left his mouth. Hesitantly you reached out a hand, pulling it back for a second before stretching it out again and resting it on his knee, and he let you. You wanted to jump in, you wanted to protest and tell him how wrong he was but you decided to let him continue.

“I just don’t understand why you stayed. I don’t understand why you still went to so much effort for me.” He whispered, recalling everything: the nightlights; the doorstops; the meals, everything you’d done in the shadows to help him adjust.

“Spencer, listen to me.” You said firmly, taking his hands in yours. “I could never regret taking care of you. I want to take care of you.”

He sighed deeply, tilting his head as his brows furrowed in genuine confusion that threatened to pull more tears from your eyes. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” You shrugged, plain and simple. “It’s not transactional. Whether we’re fine or whether we’re fighting, if we’re together or apart- I’m still going to take care of you. I’m still going to love you. Yes I’ve been frustrated and upset but I’m not going to turn my back on you when you’re struggling. Not now, not ever.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve it anymore.” Spencer tries to pull his hands away but you don’t let him.

You flash a tiny smirk at him, bringing one of his hands up to your lips and placing a gentle kiss to it. “Unfortunately that’s not for you to decide.”

“I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore.” He says, voice barely audible.

“Well, I do.” You respond, ducking your head to meet his eyes where they had dropped once again. “You’re Spencer Reid. My Spencer Reid. You’re the man who walked me home from every date even though I lived in the complete opposite direction to you because you wanted me to be safe. You’re the man who gave up your favourite sweater to me and pretended not to care because I said it was cosy.” You paused for a moment, laughing fondly before continuing. “You’re the man who hand picks all the tomatoes out of my instant noodle cups before boiling them just because I don’t like them. You are the single most loving, caring, doting man I have ever met, Spencer.”

“I just-“ He started, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s hard to believe I still am.”

“Hmm.” You hummed, cupping his face and leaning in to stare into his eyes as if you were scanning them. “I still see him in there. We just have to get to him, and I’m going to make sure we do, okay?”

“Okay.” He agreed shyly. “Thank you. So much.”

With a reassuring smile you moved your hand along his face, running it over the shaved half before switching to the stubble that still sat on his chin.

“Do I look ridiculous?” Spencer asked, the corners of his lips finally tugging upwards.

“Handsome as ever.” You giggled back. “Do you want me to help you finish it?”

As soon as you ask you noticed the way he shrank into himself, still unsure. He drew his lips into a line, breath hitching with hesitation at the thought of the razor touching his face again.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.” You push gently. “You can keep your eyes on me the whole time.”

Wordlessly, he agreed with the slightest nod of his head, gingerly rising to his feet as you followed suit. You led him over to the sink, lightly guiding him to sit on its edge with his back to the mirror. You grabbed the razor and some shaving balms from the cabinet before returning to stand between his legs. Like you were holding something fragile you took his face in your hands again, pressing a kiss to the shaved side of his face.

“Are you ready?” You asked quietly.

His hands found your waist, fingers bunching in your shirt as if to ground himself. “Yes.”

Spencer’s eyes never left your face as you worked, never drifted to the blade in your hand that now seemed so much more insignificant than it did in his. You moved delicately and precisely, taking the utmost care all the while murmuring words of reassurance between strokes. You felt his breath against your neck as he exhaled all his worries, his posture relaxing under the warmth of your skin on his. Soon after, like it was nothing, you were finished.

“You wanna take a look, handsome?” You asked, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“I um,” he began, grip tightening on your waist momentarily. “I think I’ll take your word for it for now.”

“Of course.” You nodded in understanding, helping him up with a smile. “Can you please come to bed now? It was lonely in there without my favourite pillow.”

With a breathy laugh, Spencer took your hand and followed you into the bedroom. That night you fell asleep side by side, curled into one another as if made from matching moulds just the way you used to. Of course this was just one bump in the road, the path to readjustment was unfortunately never going to be so simple. But as you fell asleep with his arm wrapped around you, his nose buried in your hair as he held you blissfully tight, you knew it would be the last bump he faced alone.

-

[cobbled-peach]

[cobbled-peach]

He'd so do this

[cobbled-peach]

i've been working on this absolutely tragic fic since may and it's finally at the point where i'm happy to start posting it but I'm also like so nervous this fic is my baby i wanna keep her hidden away from the world

[cobbled-peach]

𝜗𝜚 (+18) Art of Devotion.

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

main masterlist

Summary: When Spencer is injured and placed on medical leave, nothing seems to hold his attention, until you start talking about art.

Words: 1,8k.

Warnings & Tags: +18 (due to explicit content) please minors dni. implication that the reader is wearing a dress. kissing and fingering. many references to monet and his art. i don't know what else to say, sorry if i forgot anything. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This isn’t usually the kind of content I write. I’m honestly a little embarrassed just thinking about it :/ So please, be cool. Don’t be weird, don’t be mean, and definitely don’t read it if you’re a minor!

The tea had long since cooled in your hands, the faint steam vanished into the still air of the room. You lingered in the doorway, mesmerized by the quiet scene before you.

Spencer was curled into the corner of the couch as if he’d been shaped precisely for that space: his frame folded gently, head bowed with thoughtful intent. One hand rested lightly against his ribs, the slight rise and fall of his breath a steady rhythm beneath your gaze. His glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, slipping slightly as he leaned closer to the book in his lap. It wasn’t a case file or a complex manuscript. No, it was something far softer, more intimate: Monet and the Light That Moved Him. One of your favorites.

The late morning light filtered through the window, slipping over his features like watercolor on a canvas. It caught the faint shadows beneath his lashes, traced the curve of his jawline, and pooled softly in the hollow beneath his cheekbone. In this golden glow, he looked at once vulnerable and unshakably present, an ethereal figure carefully painted into the corner of a masterpiece. Your bruised, brilliant lover, still healing, surrendered to the quiet reverence of color and brushstroke, to fields of wild poppies and light dancing on petals, the same devotion he reserved for rare first editions or lost languages whispered on the wind.

What surprised you more? The sight of him so utterly absorbed in your book, or the fact that not once had his phone buzzed with a call from Garcia, tugging him back to work?

You moved closer, the soft shuffle of your steps barely disturbing the hush of the room. Sliding behind him, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Your lips brushed the crown of his head, light as the stroke of a paintbrush. For a moment, he tensed, fleeting and delicate, before melting fully into your touch, surrendering to the comfort of your presence.

“I didn’t know you liked Impressionists,” you murmured, your voice a tender whisper, lips tracing the shell of his ear.

“I didn’t either,” he replied, voice dropping lower, slower, a cadence reserved for moments when words stumbled into vulnerability. “But…I like this. I like you in this.”

He tilted the book gently, revealing the page: Coquelicots, Monet’s shimmering field of poppies. In the tall, waving grass, the softened forms of his wife and son appeared like ghosts, ethereal and tender. You smiled, warmth flooding your chest.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said softly. “I borrowed it without asking.”

You eased down beside him, the cushions sighing beneath your weight, your thigh brushing his, a spark of contact so subtle and electric it felt like the first stroke on a blank canvas. The warmth of him bled into you instantly, slow and blooming. Your tea sat forgotten on the table, untouched and cold.

“You’ve already taken half my apartment, Spencer,” you murmured, a smile flickering at the corners of your lips. “My books. My bed…”

He turned to you then, slowly and reverently, like he was memorizing the moment before daring to disturb it. His eyes met yours, and something shifted. A hush fell deeper. His gaze darkened, not with lust alone, but with wonder, with the stunned reverence of a man watching a star collapse into beauty. It was the kind of look that made your breath stall in your chest. The kind that reached inside you and touched things you didn’t have words for.

“My mind,” you breathed, voice thick and honey-slow, like ink blooming across old parchment. “You took my mind, too.”

Then, softer still, spoken into the fragile space between your mouths: “Tell me what you see.”

You tilted your head slightly, not fully understanding. “The painting?”

“No,” he said. His voice had changed. Lower now, rougher around the edges, like he was already somewhere deeper. “Tell me what you see.”

Your gaze returned to the painting.

“You want me to describe it?”

He nodded. “Not like a textbook. Not like I would. I want to hear how you see it. What you feel when you look at it. That’s what I never learned to do.”

As he spoke, his hand slid to your knee, grounding you. The weight of it was warm and steady. He touched you like he’d studied you, like he already knew where to place his fingers and how much pressure to apply. Not as a demand, but as an invitation.

“The brushstrokes are soft,” you began, the words shaky at first. “Fast. You can almost see the moment he made them, like he was painting from instinct. From memory. Like he was trying to catch a feeling before it disappeared.”

Spencer’s thumb began tracing slow circles against your thigh. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just enough to tether you to this moment, to coax the truth out of you with touch.

“Go on,” he whispered.

“The flowers look like they’re moving,” you said. “The wind is in the painting. Everything’s alive. Even the shadows feel lit from the inside. It’s grief and joy at the same time. Like…a memory you’re scared to lose but terrified to hold onto.”

You didn’t realize until that moment that your breath had caught in your throat. Spencer heard it. You felt his hand still briefly, then shift higher, the warmth of his palm gliding up your thigh with the kind of deliberate grace that made your stomach flutter.

“And the figures?” he asked, his voice more breath than sound now.

“Barely there,” you whispered. “Like ghosts. Like the people who loved you so quietly, they never left fingerprints. But you still see them. Everywhere.”

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress.

You stilled, breath trembling at your lips. His fingers moved slow as smoke, testing, coaxing. Not out of hesitation, but awe. As though you were something sacred. You felt the heat of him, the reverent way he touched, not like a man who wanted to conquer, but like one who wanted to understand.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting along your jawline. A fragile thread of warmth that made your skin tighten with anticipation.

“That’s how you see the world, isn’t it?” he murmured. “As a painting. As something fragile and full of meaning.”

Your breath hitched. His fingers crept higher.

“I see you that way,” he added, even softer now. “Like you’re made of brushstrokes. Like if I touch you too roughly, you’ll blur.”

You turned toward him, dazed, your lips parted but voiceless. The air between you crackled with a kind of intimacy too heavy to name.

And then his hand found the soft heat between your thighs.

You gasped, sharp and quiet, your body arching toward him without thought. The sensation was exquisite, like being unraveled thread by thread. He stroked once, barely there, and it still felt like the earth shifted beneath you. His touch was reverent, exploratory, almost academic in the way he mapped you with his fingertips, memorizing every flinch, every breath.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“Keep going,” he said, and it wasn’t a command. It was a prayer.

Your thoughts scrambled like loose papers in a breeze. Still, you tried.

“The Musée d’Orsay holds most of them now,” you whispered, hips tilting into his hand, seeking more. “Monet. Renoir. Degas…they all painted light. Painted air.”

Another stroke. This one is firmer. Deeper. You whimpered.

His mouth found your jaw, his lips brushing there as if to soothe, as if to worship. “Good girl,” he breathed.

You could barely think. Your hands clutched at his shirt, trying to anchor yourself as he moved with devastating patience, like he was drawing you with every touch.

“Monet…” you exhaled, barely a breath, your lashes fluttering closed as Spencer’s fingers moved in slow, devastating strokes between your thighs. “He…he never painted with black. Not even for shadows. He thought even darkness was made of color…”

Spencer groaned softly at that, God, a sound so low and raw it seemed to rise from the center of his chest and vibrate against your neck like a secret. His lips ghosted along your skin, and his fingers, long, precise, and reverent, moved with more purpose now, tracing you like calligraphy. Slow. Intentional. Dragging moans from your lips like he was composing them himself.

“Even his shadows were alive,” you whispered, voice fractured. “He thought darkness could still be warm.”

“Like you,” Spencer breathed. His voice was velvet-soaked, dark honey and reverence. “Like how you love me.”

Your hand twisted in the soft cotton of his shirt, trying to hold him, tether him, and anchor yourself in him. The edge was already curling in around you, rising like a tide. You could taste it. You could feel it in your belly, in your legs, and in your pulse. But all you wanted was more. Closer. Deeper. Even with his injury. Even knowing he should be resting.

His name escaped your lips like a psalm. “Please.”

He kissed beneath your ear, tender and slow, his mouth like warm ink pressed into your skin. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Keep teaching me.”

Your breath caught, fingers trembling where they gripped his chest. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, his voice low and awed, like you were something holy. “You will. Please.”

His mouth found yours, deep and open, tasting you, drinking you in like you were water and he’d been starved of it for years. It was a kiss with no pretense, no surface. Just ache and gratitude and want, raw and endless. The kind of kiss that stripped you to your soul.

His fingers curled inside you, slow and sure, and your body arched against him, a sharp cry caught in your throat.

“You’re hurt, you should stop…” You gasped.

“I’m okay if you’re okay.” His forehead pressed against yours, his breath tangled with yours. “I need to know what this feels like. All of it.”

He kissed you again, and it was ruinous, slow and deep and searching, like he was kissing everything you’d ever said and every silence you’d ever held between your teeth.

You broke.

You shattered, gloriously, around his hand, pleasure crashing through your spine in bright, violent waves. The world blurred at the edges, all sensation and color and heat. Your limbs trembled, your lips parted around his name, breathless and reverent, like it was the only word you still remembered.

He held you through it, held you, his other hand cradling your cheek, his mouth pressing kisses to your jaw, your temple, and your shoulder. Praise spilled from his lips in whispers, soothing, anchoring. A litany of thank yous, like you were something sacred he’d been allowed to witness.

When your breath finally returned, your limbs melted into his, boneless and loose. Spencer pulled your dress gently back into place, each movement slow and careful, like redraping the cloth over a masterpiece.

His palm settled over your belly. His cheek rested against your temple. He stayed there, quiet and warm and still.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the words curling against your skin.

You turned your head slightly, your smile slow and breathless. “For what?”

“For letting me see what you see,” he murmured. “For letting me touch a real piece of art.”

[cobbled-peach]

ᯓ★ LIFE ON MARS? ──☆ spencer reid x college bsf!reader

[series masterlist]

When Spencer finds you crouched between the stacks of the college library, blasting Bowie through your headphones, he’s instantly captivated. With little to no information on you, he makes it his job to run into you again.

cw: literally zero! fluff!! Silly Spence!!! a/n: meet cute anyone?? i'm obsessed with them. cannot wait to share their college shenanigans with you hehehe

The campus library was almost eerie at 5:45 AM. It carried a cavernous silence. Only the faint hum of the banker’s lamp broke through, its glow pooling over Spencer’s open notebooks. He was already there, of course – vaguely ghost-like, hunched over a pile of books. A pencil was clutched in his fingers, moving in quick, precise scratches that might have passed for hieroglyphics rather than English.

He liked the quiet.

No, he needed it.

That’s why the library at this hour was perfect. Rows of untouched books, the soft sigh of the air conditioning, the uninterrupted solitude of early morning. No voices. No small talk. No eyes watching him. There was only silence.

Until there wasn’t.

The sound was unmistakable: a thunk, a heavy book hitting the floor somewhere deep inside he stacks. The noise cut sharply through the silence and Spencer froze mid-word, pencil suspended in the air.

He didn’t even breathe.

Nothing followed. He thought that maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe it was the pipes in the walls or the building settling – old libraries were always full of strange creaks and murmurs, weren’t they? But then it came again: the scuff of boots dragging across carpet, followed by the low clatter of something – another book? A bag?

His pulse stuttered. Because who else would even be here?

It was only the second week of term. Students didn’t come here at sunrise unless they were getting paid to shelve books – or were possibly drunk, having stumbled into the wrong building the night before. This was his time. His carefully curated hours of work and focus.

He swallowed, and realized the back of his throat was dry.

Because someone was out there.

His first instinct wasn’t to get up. It was to catalogue, to run through the list of possibilities: A janitor? Possible. Another early bird? Maybe, but unlikely. Did libraries like these get rodents?

His mind flicked through news stories, grainy headlines of violence in places meant to be safe. Campus security reports, probabilities, government statistics he shouldn’t know by heart but did.

His hand tightened around his pencil. The graphite was worn to a stub from his morning’s work, but he wielded it like a pathetic weapon regardless. His mind conjured the image of trying to stab someone with it, and immediately spun off into calculating the force it would require to break through a jacket. (Not much, technically, but the wood would likely snap before it did any real damage.)

The sound came again, this time accompanied by a low muttering.

Against his better judgement, Spencer rose from his chair. His body felt stiff, all sharp angles and nerves. He should sit back down, ignore it, focus on Clairaut’s theorem and leave the strange noises alone. But his feet had other ideas.

He was already moving down the aisles with hesitant steps, pencil still in his grip.

And then, he saw you.

You were crouched low between two towering shelves, a surrounded by a small pile of books. Your boots were scuffed, jeans ripped neatly at the knees, and a faded sweater hung loose on your frame, one sleeve rolled up, the other drooping almost to your fingers.

You didn’t look up immediately. You were too absorbed, fingertips tracing the cracked spine of a Soviet-era cipher manual, turning it over like it was a sacred artefact. The way you handed it – careful, almost reverent – struck him. People didn’t usually treat books that way.

Spencer’s breath actually hitched, the pencil suddenly feeling unbearably heavy in his grip. At once, the quiet library seemed so alive.

Then you looked up.

Your eyes met his, steady and unreadable, but not startled. You weren’t even mildly surprised to find someone watching you.

“Hey,” you said simply, voice low and warm, like you were welcoming him into a secret club of early morning library goers. Then you turned back to your book, thumbing through it’s pages like nothing had happened.

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but the proper words tangled up and fled.

Instead, he blurted: “You’re loud.”

You blinked and looked back at him, a smile tugging at your lips. Not mocking, but amused. Almost tender.

“Loud?” you echoed, pulling a headphone out from beneath your hair. A faint stream of music bled into the quiet – something upbeat, vaguely 70s. You raised an eyebrow. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to break the sacred silence.”

“No, I mean—” Spencer dragged a hand through his hair, painfully aware of how awkward he sounded. His thoughts were tangled, tripping over one another. “It just… startled me. Most people aren’t here at this hour and… yeah, you’re… loud. Not that I’m trying to chastise you or anything, I just—making an observation.”

You tilted your head slightly, and allowed your eyes to drag across his features. The sweater vest, the glasses sitting slightly lopsided on his nose. You were studying him as much as he was studying you. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You spend a lot of time by the coffee cart.”

Spencer’s cheeks burned. The thought that someone like you had noticed him at all was staggering. His words rushed out in a clumsy jumble.

“Yeah, I’m there a lot. I—I like coffee.”

He wanted to press more. After all, he was sure he’d remember seeing you by the coffee cart, with your messy hair and ink-stained fingers.

You laughed softly. “Lucky me then,” you said, still crouched on the ground, “seeing you again.”

Spencer swallowed, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. In a desperate attempt to keep the conversation from dying, his brain scrambled for something – anything – relevant to say.

“What are you listening to? The music—” he blurted.

You glanced down at the headphone dangling between your fingers. “Bowie.”

“Bowie?”

“David Bowie.”

“I—I don’t…” Spencer hesitated, frowning slightly.

“You don’t know Bowie?” Your tone was incredulous, but not cruel, an eyebrow raising at his revelation.

“I mean, I’ve heard the name, but I’m not… familiar with his music.”

You shook your head with mock despair, rising from your haunches. “Seriously? You’re missing out. Here—”

Before he could protest, you were at the end of the aisle, pressing one of the headphone gently against his ear.

Spencer froze, every nerve screaming at once. You were close – close enough that he could catch the warmth of your skin, the scent of coffee and something sweet. Vanilla, maybe. He stiffened instinctively, caught between wanting to lean away (germs, proximity!) and wanting to experience whatever this was.

The first notes floated into his ear – strange, lilting, beautiful.

“Wow,” he whispered. The word wasn’t even about the music.

You smiled, folding your arms casually. “See? Told you it was good.”

Spencer carefully removed the headphone. His fingers hovered uncertainly, as if he wasn’t quite sure where to put it. Back in your hand? Drape it over your shoulder? He panicked and just held it out awkwardly. You took it back without any comment.

He wanted to say something intelligent, something about Bowie’s voice or musical structure.

“You liked it?” you prompted, curious, your smile softening into something more shy – like you’d just shared a secret with him and genuinely wanted to know what he thought.

“I—yeah. It’s good. He has an… interesting voice.”

“Interesting? Yeah, I’ll take that.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, knuckles whitening around the pencil as if it would provide him with advanced musical knowledge.

“I just… I don’t have a lot of references,” he explained. “My music taste is limited to classical. And—yeah—that’s different from this.”

“Just classical, huh?” You nodded and tucked the detail away for later. “We’ll have to fix that."

Spencer’s brain caught on one word: we.

He stared at you, dumbfounded, as you returned to your books and gathered them up with effortless strength. He glanced at the rest of the spines – modern European history, something about linguistics, political philosophy. Heavy hitters.

“Well,” you said, adjusting your grip and tucking one headphone back beneath your hair. “I got what I came for.”

“Oh,” Spencer said lamely. “Um… good. That’s good.”

You gave him a crooked little smile, hugging the books to your chest, unconcerned with how heavy they were.

“You like that word – ‘good,’” you observed. Your gaze flicked to the pencil clenched in his hand like a weapon, and back up to his face. “You studying in here?”

“Yeah, I—I was just…” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the library’s center. “Reading.”

“Obviously,” you said with a soft laugh. “Come on then.”

And just like that, you started walking toward the front of the library. Spencer hesitated for a split second before instinct kicked in and he followed, a step behind you.

By the time you reached the main hub, dawn light was bleeding through the tall windows. Spencer’s books sat dead-center on one of the tables, a chaotic sprawl of open pages and notes.

You stopped, eyebrows lifting. “You were sitting there?”

Spencer frowned slightly, confused and caught off guard. “Yes?”

“You know there’s a better spot, right?”

“Better?”

“Yeah.” You tilted your head toward the far corner of the library. Tucked behind the stacks was a small alcove, which you’d already located on the second day of term. “Nobody ever sits back there. I think because there’s a big spiderweb above the seats – and it’s kind of hidden. It’s quiet, even during the day. Much better than sitting out in the open. Unless you like that, of course.”

But judging by the fact Spencer was here in the early hours of the morning, you assumed not.

Spencer glanced at his current table, the mess of open notebooks and scribbled margins, then back to you.

“Maybe I’ll try it.”

You smiled, content with the fact you’d provided something useful for him. You shifted the books in your arms again and smiled.

“Great,” you said, taking a half-step back toward the doors. “Enjoy. Tell me how you get on with it, yeah?”

He nodded. The simple question rolled over him like a strange, warm tide.

“Okay,” he said.

You turned, your boots scraping softly against the carpet again as you headed for the exit.

Spencer stood there a moment longer, his fingers flexing around the pencil. It was only once the door had closed behind you that he realized he didn’t have your name. Or your course. Only that you had a fondness for Bowie and a spider-web covered desk in the corner of the library.

He considered running after you, but by the time he’d come to that decision a decent amount of time had already passed. He shuffled lamely back to his desk, staring down at his open notes, his pulse still racing.

And he concluded this was not the last time he’d be seeing you.

Spencer had been at the library for forty-eight minutes and seventeen secods. He was pacing the stacks like a man searching for something he’d lost. Which, in a way, he had.

Library girl.

That’s what he had started calling you in his head. It was embarrassing – stupid, even – that he couldn’t come up with something better, but what else could he do? He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your course. Didn’t know if you lived on campus or just had an affinity for early-morning libraries.

All he had was an imprint of that morning: your smile, the worn boots, and the lingering echo of Bowie’s voice tangled somewhere in his brain.

Naturally, he’d gone down a Bowie rabbit hole since then. It had started innocently – a quick search on Bowie’s influence on glam rock – but three hours and twenty-seven google searches later, he was listening to Life on Mars? At 2 AM and wondering if you’d just him for not discovering Bowie’s brilliance sooner.

His roommate had noticed.

The guy wasn’t nosy – actually, he was probably the most laid-back person Spencer had ever met – but even he had raised an eyebrow when Spencer started leaving their dorm earlier and coming back later. Spencer, who typically avoided the library’s busiest hours, now wandered the campus like someone with… plans. Or, at the very least, intentions.

“Big day, huh?” his roommate had once teased, some point during the third week of term, when Spencer shoved books into his bag with uncharacteristic urgency. Spencer, of course, didn’t explain. Because how do you explain: I’m trying to run into someone I barely know because they smiled at me once in the library? He’d just muttered something about ‘research’ and hurried out the door.

His search hadn’t been going well.

He didn’t know your schedule, only had that single, stubborn image of you crouched between the stacks. So he staked out the library. Every morning for two weeks, he sat in the same corner (your corner), pretending to study while his eyes flicked to the entrance every few seconds. But the alcove remained stubbornly empty.

On day three of his search, he had been desperate enough to wander back to your aisle. It felt oddly intimate, stepping into that space again. He glanced around like some trace of you might have been left on the shelves.

On the seventh day, he spotted one of the books you’d taken out – returned, spine slightly more worn than before. Proof. You were still here, somewhere. Relief flooded him, followed immediately by disappointment. He’d missed you. If only he’d come an hour earlier, or later, or – something.

By the second week, his roommate (now friend, reluctant life coach and semi-professional tease) had started keeping a score board after dragging an explanation from Spencer.

“Day nine,” his roommate said, leaning against the wall as Spencer grabbed his bag. “What are we thinking today? Library girl: real, or just a caffeine-induced hallucination?”

Spencer muttered something about statistical probabilities and the size of campus enrollment. His roommate grinned and added another tally under ‘fail.’

So now Spencer was pacing the stacks again, telling himself to stop obsessing because clearly you were one of those fleeting moments life hands you just to take away. Each day, the chances that you had been a caffeine-induced hallucination were only growing, and he was starting to give up hope, until—

There you were, at the end of an aisle, chewing on your lip as you perused books on the fourth shelf.

For three whole seconds, Spencer’s brain stopped. Then all his thoughts collided into one big, clumsy word: “Ohmygod.”

He stood for a second too long before his feet just… moved. Spencer wasn’t sure if he walked or floated, but suddenly he was there, walking toward the end of the aisle like an accidental stalker.

You looked up and pulled your headphones off immediately.

“Hey!” you said, voice bright with recognition. “Library guy! We meet again.”

Library guy.

“You—” He pointed at himself. “You remember me?”

“Yeah. You wielded a pencil at me.” You tilted your head, amused. “And you didn’t know Bowie.”

The words tumbled out of him, unstoppable and chaotic: “Actually, I—I do now. I mean, a listed to a lot of Bowie, because you said I should – well, you didn’t say I should exactly, but you implied it. And I liked what you played me the other day – ‘Changes,’ Right? So I thought maybe I’d like the rest of his stuff – and I do.”

“Wow. You did your homework.”

Spencer froze, realizing the sheer insanity of his words. “Homework?”

“Well, you clearly binged Bowie for, like, a week straight,” you teased, leaning one shoulder against eh shelf. “I’m impressed, Library guy.”

“I—uh—I have a name,” he said, awkwardly half-extending a hand before retracting it to scratch the back of his neck. “Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

“Nice to meet you, Spencer,” you said, offering your name to him in return. He repeated it silently, rolling it over in his mind, erasing any chances of it being forgotten.

“I—uh,” he started, and his voice cracked slightly. He tried again, smiling in that lopsided awkward way that made his ears burn. “I’ve been sitting at that desk you recommended.”

Your brows lifted. “You braved the spider corner, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, and rubbed at the back of his neck again with a sheepish nod. “It’s actually great. Really quiet. No one bothers me. So, thanks. For that.”

“You been studying there a lot?” you asked, hitching your bag higher on your shoulder.

Spencer couldn’t exactly admit that he’d been there every day, clocking more hours in that corner than most people spent in their dorms. So instead, he nodded once and mumbled, “yeah, quite a bit.”

“You know there’s a whole campus out there, right? Sunlight? Fresh air?” You gestured vaguely toward the tall windows. You gave him a look that hovered between teasing and exasperated.

Spencer blinked at you, like you’d just suggested something absurd. “You’ve been studying… outside?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning as you slid a book from the shelf, brushing off the thin film of dust on its spine. “The lawn’s great for studying. And people watching.”

“The lawn,” Spencer repeated, like the word itself was foreign, like the concept of studying outside had only just been invented.

He then felt an almost ridiculous wave of annoyance crash over him. He’d been looking for you in the wrong places this whole time.

“You should try it sometime,” you teased. “Get some vitamin D, Spencer.”

For once, someone was saying his name like he wasn’t just a collection of quirks and equations. Like he was just Spencer. It knocked all thoughts from his brain, and the next words were out before he could stop them, bypassing his brain entirely and barreling into the open air.

“Like… now?”

His stomach plummeted. Now? Now?! How desperate could he sound?

Your fingers tightened around the book, head tilting as your grin sharpened with amusement. “Now?” you echoed, as though testing the word.

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again, feeling heat climb his neck. “I mean—only if you’re free, and if it’s not a—”

“Yeah,” you interrupted softly, a the edges of your grin tilting into something more gentle. “Sure. Why not?”

For half a beat, he just stared at you, wide-eyed and stunned, before nodding dumbly. “Great. Okay. Let me grab my things quickly.”

The two of you walked to the alcove where he’d left his books, and you watched quietly as he gathered his things and placed them into his bag with methodical precision. He swung it over his shoulder, getting it settled against his side.

Outside the library, a cool burst of mid-morning air washed over you both. It was a lot brighter out here, sharper, and Spencer surveyed the students sprawled lazily on the lawn outside, or moving in loose clusters from one class to the next.

“So,” you said suddenly, glancing sideways at him as you descended the library steps, “what composers do you like?”

“What?”

“You said you like classical music,” you reminded him, brushing a strand of hair from your face as the wind teased it forward. “So I figure I need to do my homework on it – since you did yours on Bowie.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, your words sinking in. The idea that you’d want to know his favorite composers – his favorite composers – was so unexpected it almost short-circuited his brain.

“Oh. Um. Well—uh—Bach,” he blurted first, because it was easy. Obvious. Safe. You nodded encouragingly, your eyes fixed intently on him, urging him to keep going. And that was enough to break his verbal dam.

“But also Rachmaninoff. And Debussy – ‘Clair de Lune’ is actually scientifically proven to elicit emotional responses due to its harmonic progression, which I think is fascinating – and who else…?” He paused to think, and caught your eye, realizing he had just spoken far too quickly. “Sorry.”

You were smiling at him though. Really smiling.

“Don’t apologize,” you said. “You’ll just have to make me a list or something.”

You surveyed the patch of grass the two of you had reached, and concluded, “Here’s good.”

You dropped onto the patch of grass, setting your books in a neat little pile beside you, legs crossing as you got comfortable.

Spencer hesitated for half a second, then awkwardly folded himself down opposite you, knees drawn up. He shifted restlessly, like he wasn’t sure how a human body was supposed to sit comfortable outside, and clutched at the strap of his bag like it would help.

His pile of books was somewhat more haphazard than yours, the corners of his notes poking out and rustling in the gentle breeze.

You glanced at the stack, eyes narrowing as you read the complex titles. You tapped the cover of the top one with a single finger. “So… what are you studying that requires this amount of notes?”

“Engineering,” he said shyly, picking at a corner of one of his pages before his fingers hesitantly nudged the book closer to you for you to see. “That’s my… focus.”

You picked up the book, gently thumbing through it, brows rising “Engineering? That’s—” you gave a low whistle, placing it back down. “Intense.”

“I guess.” He reached out as if to straighten the book you’d placed back down, though it was already perfectly aligned. “I’ve been focusing on mechanical systems. Well, mostly. I’m still refining my thesis proposal.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Thesis? You’re already doing a master’s?”

He hesitated, throat working. “No. A PhD.” Another hesitation. “My second one.”

There was a beat of silence as you processed that.

“Hold on.” You leaned forward, studying him even harder. “This is your second PhD?”

The tips of his ears flushed pink as you stared at him. You smiled, leaning back on your hands .

“Overachiever much?” you teased lightly.

He flushed more. “I—I just like learning,” he mumbled, as if that explained away the magnitude of his academic achievements, trying to make himself appear like less of a curiosity.

“So you must be some sort of genius, right? I don’t know anyone who already has a PhD at our age.”

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m not—well, I mean, technically I have a high IQ, but… I don’t really like calling it that. ‘Genius,’ I mean. It’s just numbers. And memory. And—” he paused, realizing himself he was about to spiral into a breakdown of what IQ scores actually meant.

You tilted your head, amused again. “Oh, yeah. You’re definitely a genius.”

His lips parted soundlessly, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t think of a single logical way out. Instead, he pressed his fingers into the grass, picking nervously at the blades before finally muttering, “I guess. Yes.” Then, desperately wanting to turn the conversation away from him, he gestured at your pile of books. “Russian?”

“Yeah,” you said with a grin. “I’m majoring in linguistics. Double minor in history and Russian studies. Because, you know – why make life easy for myself?”

“And you said I was the overachiever.”

You laughed at that. Actually laughed. It caught him off guard. It wasn’t sharp or mocking, but light and airy. Like you couldn’t help but find him funny in a way that didn’t make him want to sink into the ground.

“Touché,” you said, winking playfully at him. “But seriously, engineering? That’s brutal.”

Spencer shrugged, though it looked more like a nervous twitch. “It’s… structured. Predictable. I like when things make sense.”

You hummed thoughtfully, the sound low and amused. “See, I think I like when things don’t make sense. Languages are messy, unpredictable – there’s always some exception to the rule. It keeps you humble.”

“But that would drive me insane,” he said, voice soft but earnest. “I’d want to know why something broke the rule.”

“Exactly,” you said, grinning. “That’s why linguistics is fun. It’s like trying to have a conversation with history.” You laughed softly and shook your head. “Now I’m rambling on,” you said, pulling a book into your lap and pulling a pen from your pocket. “You wanted to study, right?”

What Spencer wanted was for the conversation to continue, but he nodded regardless, grabbing a book and following suit. The shift from conversation to quiet study felt surprisingly natural.

For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t the brittle silence Spencer was used to, the kind that pressed on his lungs and made every shift of his pencil feel like a disruption. This was… different.

The grass itched a little beneath him, and the sun filtered lazily through the leaves above, but all he could really focus on was you.

You had two books precariously balanced on your lap now, and you were leaning forward, your hair falling into your face as your fingers traced the pages with a careful reverence. Every now and then, you’d scribble something in the margins – a quick note in looping script – or tilt your head in thought, lips parting slightly as you silently mouthed words.

Spencer should have been reading. He knew he should have been reading. The book resting on his lap had been open to the same page for what felt like an hour, the words blurring together as his mind kept drifting away. Yet no matter how hard he tried to focus, his eyes kept drifting back to you.

There was something about the way you focused. The quiet intensity of it reminded him of the way he got when he was caught in the pull of a problem, unable to stop until he solved it. He found himself wondering what it was like to be inside your head – what thoughts and half-formed ideas lived there.

You looked up suddenly, but if you noticed him watching, you gave no sign.

“I’ve got a lecture to catch,” you said, snapping him back to the moment. “You have a list for me?”

“A list?”

“Yeah—of your guys. Bach and Debussy and… that other one.”

“Rachmaninoff,” Spencer supplied. He glanced down dumbly at his notes, then back up at you. “No. I could email it to you?”

The silence that followed made his heart slam in his chest. He was sure he’d overstepped. But then your lips curved into a slow, amused smile.

“Email?”

He nodded earnestly, cheeks coloring. “Yeah. I use it for most of my research correspondence. It’s… reliable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s surprisingly formal for sharing music recommendations.”

Spencer blinked, not sure if it was a compliment or an insult.

“I—it’s just easier to keep track of everything that way…” he explained quietly, trailing off as he watched you tear a sheet from your notebook and scribble down your email.

“Alright. Hit me with your emails then,” you said, and held the paper out to him. He took it from you hesitantly, let his eyes trace over the letters numerous times before meeting your eyes again.

“I’ll try not to flood your inbox,” he said with a small smile.

“Oh, no. Please do. I think your emails would be the most interesting thing in there.”

Spencer’s cheeks flamed hotter than they had all morning. He stumbled over his words, trying to come up with a response to your words, but you were already smiling and walking away.

“Bye, Spencer,” you called over your shoulder.

He barely managed a breathless, “Bye,” before watching you disappear around the corner of a building.

Spencer’s roommate was in the dorm when Spencer returned, looking up from his work.

“Okay, so what’s the verdict? Still no library girl?” he asked, going to draw another tally on the ‘fail’ side of the board.

“I found her,” Spencer muttered, fishing out the scrap of paper from his pocket. He pinned it to the back of his desk, staring at it in silence for a long moment.

Behind him, his roommate laughed.

“Adding a point to the scoreboard then. One for Spencer – finally making a move!”

a/n: i have PLANS for spencer's roommate just you wait and see *deviously rubs hands together*

also, do you guys get my vision of baby spencer having an epiphany looking at her while "changes" plays i hope you do

[series masterlist]

[cobbled-peach]

like no time passed anon (i’m calling you this for now even though it’s a mouthful) i hope YOUR pillow is always cold on both sides.

your message honestly like warmed my heart so much and i’m so glad you enjoyed what i wrote :,)) like you’re actually too kind i’m sending you infinite virtual kisses mwah mwah mwah

(i didn’t want to leave you without a response but wasn’t sure if you wanted the message you sent posted or not since you were anon before, but this one wasn’t — hopefully you get what i’m saying ahaha)

[cobbled-peach]

ᯓ★ LIKE NO TIME PASSED 2 ──☆ spencer reid x college bsf!reader

[Part One] | [Cipher masterlist]

ᯓ★ Spencer gets advice from Morgan on how to ask you out, while a phone call you make completely changes his perspective.

cw: i guess angst (idk it's not really sad but it's also not working out for him). icon derek morgan strikes again.

a/n: i decided i couldn't leave these two alone. but you know me, I couldn't make things easy for them. so, while i fear this is not what people wanted from part 2, it does mean I can continue their story (and I promise you, their story is going to be the fluffiest thing you've ever read)

my requests are also open

Go get your girl.

As if it were that simple.

Spencer inhaled slowly, drawing air deep into his lungs and holding it, counting the seconds in his head. One… two… three… Parasympathetic regulation to calm himself down. He exhaled with a soft sigh, nodding to himself, as if sheer force of will could summon courage from somewhere buried deep inside.

“Right. Go get my… girl.” The last word slipped out on a whisper, uncertain, betraying every ounce of calm he’d been trying to create for himself.

His feet shuffled forward with deliberate caution, each step tentative, the soft scrape of his shoes on the polished floor echoing strangely loud. His heart was hammering a frantic beat beneath his ribs, drowning out every other sound around him.

And his mind was utterly blank.

He seemed to register that fact halfway down the corridor, and stopped, frozen mid-step. A sharp tightness gripped his chest, like an invisible hand was squeezing his lungs. Because how do you even ask someone out?

It seemed so ridiculous – it was a question so simple, so human, and yet, somehow, his brain refused to provide an answer. Was there some secret formula? A social protocol he’d somehow missed? A step-by-step guide that he could refence? He racked his brain, desperate for any hint, but came up empty.

Without quite realizing it, his body pivoted sharply on his heel, the sudden movement nearly sending him headfirst back into Derek, who was blocking the conference room doorway as if he’d predicted that Spencer would panic and back out.

“How?” Spencer blurted out, voice low but edged with urgency. For once, he was facing a problem he didn’t know the solution to. “How do you even do this? I mean—how do you ask someone out?”

Morgan’s smirk was slow, amused, the kind of expression that said, seriously, you don’t know?

“Dude,” Morgan said, shaking his head like the answer was painfully obvious, “you just ask. Be straightforward. It’s not rocket science.”

Spencer echoed the phrase quietly, as if trying to decode a foreign language.

“Be straightforward,” he murmured, repeating it like a mantra. Then, blinking, he looked up hopefully, searching Derek’s face for more – some hidden insight or magical advice. “And say what?”

“Just say, ‘Hey, want to grab dinner sometime?’ Simple. Clear. Done.”

Spencer nodded slowly, processing the simplicity of the instruction. His eyes flicked upward, as if the slow spinning ceiling fan had some additional wisdom to offer.

“But…” Spencer’s voice faltered, hesitation curling back in. “We’ve already been out to dinner before. Back in college. Dinners, lunches, coffee shops. What if she thinks it’s just another one of those? It won’t feel like a date. It’ll feel… normal.”

Morgan’s jaw dropped just a fraction, and he blinked twice in stunned silence.

Because Spencer was telling him – right now, after years of silent pining, or whatever this was – that he’d spent all of college going on what sounded an awful lot like dates, without ever calling it that. And Spencer had thought his teasing was baseless.

Morgan resisted the urge to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. Instead, he opted for shaking his head in disbelief.

“You mean to tell me,” Morgan said slowly, voice rising with incredulity, “you were basically dating this girl through all of college and never—You know what? Never mind. Just… you need to be clear. No showing up and acting like it’s any other hangout.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a serious tone. “You have to say it. Say what you want.”

Spencer’s lips parted slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to etch the words into his memory. “Say what I want?”

“Yeah, Morgan nodded, a trace of gravity slipping into his tone. “You’ve already got the foundation.” (Or – an entire relationship, he wanted to say, still in shock over the fact that Spencer had essentially been dating you all along.) “You’ve been out with her before – that’s good. But now you gotta build on it. Don’t just invite her out to dinner—say, ‘I’d like to take you out.’ If she looks confused, say, ‘I’m asking you on a date.’ No beating around the bush.”

Spencer’s gaze dropped to his hands, fingers nervously twisting a stray thread on his sleeve. “But what if she laughs it off? Or thinks I’m joking?”

Morgan’s expression softened, but his voice stayed firm, steady. “Then you tell her it’s not a joke. Keep your voice steady. Honestly, kid, you just need to be yourself. Judging by how you interact, I don’t think this can go wrong.”

Spencer exhaled, a breath mingling reassurance and nerves.

“This is terrifying,” he admitted quietly.

Morgan clapped him on the shoulder with a grin, that familiar mix of mischief and encouragement shining through. “That means it matters. Now, go get your girl. For real, this time.”

By the time Spencer reached the edge of the precinct’s bullpen, his palms were damp with sweat. His heart was hammering relentlessly again, each beat thudding so loudly he wouldn’t be surprised if the organ leapt into his throat. Each step felt heavier than the last, weighted down by a mixture of dread and hope.

Morgan’s words – be clear, say what you want – were strangely anchoring as they looped in his mind.

He spotted you immediately. You were leaning casually against a desk, one hand braced on a neat stack of files, the other holding your phone to your ear. The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, casting a warm glow across your face and catching the subtle curve of your smile – unusually soft and unguarded, a quiet thing that only served to increase his heartrate more.

His pace slowed instinctively, not wanting to interrupt, but catching the end of your conversation unintentionally.

“Yeah, babe,” your voice was low and warm, lilting in a way that had him tilting his head curiously. “I’ve already said I’ll be safe, don’t worry. Yeah—yeah—love you.”

The words landed like a sucker punch, sharper and more brutal than any bullet.

Spencer froze-mid step. His breath caught, chest tightening with a pressure that felt physical. For a moment, his brain stalled and refused to process your words, like his mind was trying to shield him from the blow of them.

Babe. Love you.

Of course you had a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t you? You were – well, you.

His weight shifted awkwardly, an impulse to turn and retreat fighting with the fact that you’d already ended your call and were turning around. Your phone slipped into your pocket, just as your gaze found his. You smiled, bright and effortless, like the word’s he’d overheard weren’t shattering his world in that moment.

Panic jolted him upright. He grabbed the nearest object (a stapler, he realized dimly) and held it tightly, examining it with a sudden intense interest.

“Spence?” you questioned, confused laughter weaving beneath your voice. “You okay there?”

“Oh, uh. Fine. Yes. Just…” He frowned down at the stapler, knowing the words sounded stupid before they even left his mouth. “Checking office supplies…”

You laughed softly, the sound warm enough to make the ache in his chest deepen further.

“Checking office supplies?” you echoed, amused.

“Yeah. Stapler integrity,” he added lamely, immediately wanting to disappear beneath the nearest desk and remain there indefinitely.

Your brow furrowed slightly. Not because of his answer – but because of the look in his eyes. The hint of something unspoken flickering beneath the surface.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, still clutching the stapler in his hand, wanting to say something normal, something easy and casual.

But the words never formed. Because they weren’t the right words anymore. Because now he knew something he hadn’t before, and it pressed heavily against the edges of everything he wanted to say.

He was grateful when you spoke instead, offering him a handful of freshly printed photos.

“You here for these?” you asked, holding them out.

No, he wasn’t there for those. But they provided the route to normalcy that he needed.

“Oh. Yes. Those. Thank you,” he said, reaching out and gently taking them from your hands.

You gave him a curious glance, tilting your head again, as if you sensed something beneath his words. Spencer watched the interest cross your face, before your signature smile returned, warm and steady.

You nodded toward the conference room. “Back to work, then? Hotch said he wanted some preliminary results before this evening, if possible.”

He nodded, clearing his throat, and fell into step behind you as you turned and started walking down the corridor. His eyes flicked down to your boots, familiarly scuffed and worn, and used their rhythm to guide himself.

His thoughts turned over restlessly in his mind.

Maybe he’d misheard. Maybe babe wasn’t babe. Maybe love you meant something else – after all, you were fluent in code-language. He was grasping at straws, clinging to fragile hope, but he couldn’t help himself.

His mind screamed at him not to ask, that it was none of his business, but the need for confirmation clawed at him.

“Who…” He trailed off. Tried again. “Who were you on the phone with?”

You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. Not with irritation or judgment – Spencer’s lack of social cues and tendency to ask inappropriate questions were old news to you by now – but with a flicker of surprise. Your expression softened almost immediately.

Your gaze dropped to your feet, toes nudging lightly at the scuffed floor as you moved, a tint settling over your cheeks. A shy, small smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“Adam,” you said quietly, the name leaving your lips like a secret. You suddenly looked younger, somehow. Back to a young girl, giddy and giggly and shy, in a way.

“Adam?” Spencer repeated softly.

“Yeah. My boyfriend,” you said, still smiling, as if it was just a simple fact. “We met in Prague. He’s still there for work, but he should be coming back over to the U.S. soon, if all goes well.” You paused, and a fond little grin flickered over your face. “I’m counting the days, honestly.”

Spencer nodded once, carefully smoothing his features into something neutral – pleasant, if he really tried.

Boyfriend. It made sense. You were radiant, and radiant people rarely stayed untethered for long.

“That’s nice,” he said softly, and he meant it. Or at least, he tried to mean it.

You continued to grin, cheeks still flushed, almost bashful. “Yeah. He’s great. I think you’d like him, actually. We met when I was in Prague.”

Spencer’s heart gave a startled jolt. Because you’d written to him about Prague a couple of years ago – every detail still vivid in his mind from that letter. The colour of the sunset in the photo you’d sent. The way you rambled on about the museums.

“Prague,” he murmured, voice still soft. “Of course.”

“You know – it was actually kind of funny, how we met. I was at this old library – this tiny place, tucked away near the Vltava, right on the water’s edge. I was digging through these books, and Adam just… appeared. Offered to help me find a reference I couldn’t locate.”

His footsteps faltered again, the rhythm breaking for a beat. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the corridor ahead, unwilling to meet yours.

Because he’d met you in a library too, when you had been crouched between dimly lit shelves. And he’d thought that moment was special. But Adam had had that moment too, and apparently gotten more out of it.

“That sounds nice,” Spencer said again, his voice softer this time, almost fragile. And he meant it, because you were smiling as you spoke, and the happiness you were exuding meant more than the ache in his chest.

“I’m happy for you,” he continued. “Truly. And he’s—Adam’s a lucky guy. You’re really—um, yeah. He’s lucky.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly, smiling at the sincerity in his eyes, before going on, now caught in a tangent about Prague and the library you’d met in. The way the air smelled of aged paper and musty wood, faintly reminiscent of Yale’s stacks – how Spencer would’ve fit right in there, and should definitely visit in the future.

Spencer forced a smile, but it felt like delicate paper stretched too thin, ready to tear.

You pushed the conference room door open with your shoulder, still mid-story, smile lingering on your lips. Spencer followed a step later, his thoughts tangled somewhere between the present moment and the edges of a memory.

He approached the table carefully, placing the photographs down with more deliberation than necessary. The crisp rustle of the photo paper echoed faintly in the quiet room.

Derek was leaning casually against the edge of the table, now with a refilled coffee, scanning the evidence pinned to the board. When his gaze flicked up and landed on Spencer, his eyebrows shot up in silent question: well?

Spencer gave the smallest shake of his head. Quick. Sharp. Desperate. No, no, no. Don’t.

Morgan’s brows furrowed, confusion creasing his forehead.

Spencer widened his eyes in an unspoken plea, then jerked his chin just a fraction toward you, who was now absorbed in rearranging your cipher sheets with focused precision.

Morgan’s expression shifted. Understanding dawned… but not the right kind of understanding. His lips twitched, dangerously close to a grin.

“Did you chicken out?” he mouthed, and the teasing glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

Spencer waved a hand in the air – a subtle, frantic gesture, swatting away invisible words.

“She has a boyfriend,” he mouthed back, his lips moving slowly, emphatically, desperate to get the message across.

Morgan blinked, momentarily thrown off, or just not hearing properly. “What?”

Spencer nodded repeatedly, enunciating the word with near-theatrical precision.

“Boyfriend!” he whispered, the sound carried louder than intended in the stillness of the room. His eyes widened in exaggerated panic before he hastily dropped into a chair and grabbed one of the cipher pages, lifting it swiftly to his face to hide behind it.

“What?” you asked, glancing up and flicking your eyes between the two of them, genuine confusion knitting your brow.

“Nothing,” Morgan said instantly, flashing a sweet, innocent smile that was anything but. His eyes locked on Spencer’s briefly before you refocused on your work, a mix of curiosity and concern lingering in his glance – as if to say, we’re talking about this.

Spencer’s fingers drummed nervously against the paper in his hands, his mind a whirlwind of silent frustrations and unspoken regrets. The room hummed softly with the quiet rhythm of papers shuffling and the distant murmur of the bullpen outside, but all he could hear was the thudding echo of what wasn’t said.

Evening came faster than expected. The case was moving steadily forward, most of the cryptic messages decoded with methodical precision.. There wasn’t much time to talk – especially with Morgan hovering nearby – and Spencer hadn’t been sure what else to say anyway.

A quiet disappointment lingered in his chest. Part of him wanted to know more about this ‘Adam,’ but the other half was certain he wouldn’t be able to process it, couldn’t force himself to accept the reality just yet. Not after he’d gotten his hopes up.

The two of you had worked side by side, mostly silent, sometimes with the occasional conversation threading through the rustle of papers. Without needing to say it, you just knew what the other needed. A pause here, a supportive nod there. For a brief moment, the unspoken and the complicated was set aside.

At eight, the three of you headed toward the conference room door. You were already a few steps ahead, talking to Hotch about those promised results, your voice steady and confident – because this was your thing. You knew what you were talking about.

Spencer was moving with urgency, jaw tight, mind racing, eyes focused on the sheets of decoded words so he didn’t need to focus on the fact that three simple words (Babe, love you) had thrown him entirely off track.

Morgan caught him just before the bullpen, stopping Spencer in his tracks by simply asking, “Hey – dude, what happened?”

Spencer paused, fingers gripping the sheets tightly for a moment, before he mumbled out an answer.

“She—she has a boyfriend. She’s been seeing someone, and I—I almost asked her out.” He lifted a hand from the paper to clutch absently at his own cardigan, like he was trying to keep his heart from falling out his chest. He turned his head and angled narrowed eyes on Derek. “What were you thinking suggesting I ask her? What was I thinking listening to you?”

“Woah, woah, Pretty Boy. Slow down.” He lifted his arms almost defensively. “You couldn’t have known. And at least you found out before you asked.”

“I just—I should’ve know. I just thought…”

“You thought what?” Morgan pressed gently.

“That—I don’t know… That I had a chance? You said I did.”

Morgan playfully rolled his eyes, his smirk returning. “Hey – I wasn’t the only one who misread the situation. JJ and Prentiss agreed with me too. Besides, the important thing is that you had the intention of asking her out. That’s a huge step in the Dr. Spencer Reid universe – even if things didn’t go the way you hoped.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped just a little. He then nodded.

“I guess,” he conceded eventually, running a had through his hair. “I mean, of course I’m a little disappointed, but if she’s happy… I want her to be happy.”

Morgan noted that Spencer’s ‘a little disappointed’ looked a more like ‘a lot disappointed,’ but figured pointing it out would be unneeded.

“You’re too good, Reid,” Morgan said instead. “Even when you’re breaking your own heart, you’re still out here hoping she’s happy.”

Spencer groaned softly, running a hand through his hair. Morgan’s words rang true. That ache in his chest wasn’t just disappointment, but it felt like a slow fracture. He cared for you – really cared – and had since college. Even with the distance. Even with the time.

Eve if he hadn’t been able to say it.

“Being good kind of hurts,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, that’s called having feelings. Welcome to the club.”

Spencer made a self-pitying sound.

 “You know…” Morgan said slowly, tilting his head with a knowing grin. “If you wanted to know about this guy – who he is, what he’s like, whether he’s even worth her time – I could always give a certain tech genius a call. Garcia could dig up every little thing about him before lunch. Name, job, what color his toothbrush is—”

“Morgan,” Spencer cut in sharply, shaking his head before Derek could even finish the thought. “No. Absolutely not.” His voice was firm in a way Morgan didn’t hear often, but there was no anger in it – just something quiet and resolute.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “C’mon, I’m just saying—”

“No,” Spencer repeated, softer this time, running his hand through his hair again like he needed to smooth the frantic thoughts out of his head. “It’s not my place. If she’s happy, then… that’s all I want. I don’t want to ruin that just because I…” He trailed off, the words sticking in his throat.

“Because you love her?” The question was both teasing and sincere.

Spencer didn’t say anything for a beat, but his silence was answer enough. He sighed, leaning back against the counter, the weight of his admission hanging between them. “I lost her after college. We… we drifted. And now that she’s back, I can’t—” His voice wavered just slightly, but he pushed through. “I can’t lose her again. Not because I was selfish or because I messed up her relationship. I’ll take being her friend over… nothing. Every time.”

Morgan studied him for another moment, his gaze softening. “You know, for a genius, you’re a hell of a romantic, Reid.”

Spencer huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, glancing down at his hands. “Romantic is just a nice way of saying hopeless, isn’t it?”

“Not hopeless,” Morgan said firmly, clapping him on the shoulder one last time. “You’re just waiting for the right time. And until then, yeah, I guess being her friend is enough.”

Spencer nodded, but his gaze drifted toward the bullpen, where the faint sound of your laughter carried through the open doorway. Something warm and aching tightened in his chest, but he forced a small smile, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said softly, like he was convincing himself as much as Morgan. He quietly echoed Morgan's words, “For now… this is enough.”

And it was enough. Because if nothing else, at least he still had you in his orbit.

a/n: guys, while this may not look hopeful i promise it is hehe. more has been planned, and more is to come soon!! im paving the way for some groundbreaking pining >:)

requests for them are open here

[Cipher masterlist]

[cobbled-peach]

ᯓ★ CIPHER ──☆ spencer reid x college bsf!reader masterlist

ᯓ★ [introduction post]

ᯓ★ hi, welcome to the cipher series/universe (is it a series if they're just interconnected oneshots? i don't know). regardless, it'll follow the past and present of spencer reid and his "college bestfriend"-turned-codebreaker – who reenters his orbit when brought in to consult on a case.

each part can be read as a one shot, unless otherwise indicated, and uses the key below:

☆ indicates college-day spencer x reader

★ indicates current-day spencer x reader

☆ life on mars? ᯓ spencer finds you listening to obnoxiously loud david bowie in the campus library, and somehow that's all he needs to become completely captivated (start of the college day storyline)

★ like no time passed ᯓ [part one]|[part 2] ᯓ a challenging case reunites you and spencer, his old college "friend," resulting in relentless teasing from the team (start of the current day storyline)

★ don't think it over ᯓ spencer reluctantly explores the dating pool under you and morgan's gentle suggestion, leading you to realize that you're not as okay with the idea as you once thought coming soon

a/n: massive shoutout to the anon who sent in the request which lead to “like no time passed” because without that, this series would not exist. i loved these two too much to let them go after that one story hehe

[cobbled-peach]

Dad! Spencer Reid

trying out a new headcanon format for me excuse me :3 / masterlist

-Dad Spencer who constantly says ‘my daughter/son’ even though the team know their name, he just likes saying it. It’ll happen every time he’s late (which was hardly ever previously, but more often since starting a family), he would rush through the door stuttering along the lines of “my daughter was up all night” or “my son didn’t want to let me leave on time”. Or it would happen at the bar telling stories over the table, a goofy grin on his face as he talks about “i found my daughter/son trying to read to themself last night”. Most commonly it would happen after work when the team asked him to join him somewhere and he’d decline saying “I have to get home to my daughter/son” with a proud look in his eyes. Every time the team would exchange amused but loving glances with eachother, occasionally teasing him and saying you know you can use their name, right? to which he would shrug and simply say “I just like saying it”.

-Dad Spencer who has a drawer of novelty ties that originally started as just the odd few bought over the years but had become a collection chosen out by/for his kid(s). He lets them choose one out for him everyday, not caring if it clashes with the rest of his outfit or if it makes him look unprofessional (though of course he packs spare plain ties in case the team is called out- although it always makes him a little sad to change out of them). It’s become a thing within the team where they wait for him to show them the ‘tie of the day’ as they call it, quietly in awe of the joy in his face as he lights up and proudly shows it off for them, telling them whatever reasoning his kid(s) gave behind it that morning. This also sometimes happens with his mismatched socks.

-Dad Spencer who constantly talks about Diana to his kid(s). He knows they won’t be able to see her very often but he wants them to know and love her the way he does all the time. He tells them all the happy memories he has, about how wonderful of a woman she is and how much he adores her- and how much she adores them. When she’s having good days he lets them talk to her on the phone, getting teary eyed as he just sits and listens to them both talk. After starting a family his letters to his mother had become 90% about them, filling them with stories and photos. Not that she minded, although she did occasionally ask him to tell her about himself sometimes, to which he’d sheepishly apologise like he’d forgotten about himself entirely.

-Dad Spencer who hates being away from his kid(s). He calls to check in as often as possible when he’s away, tucked away in the back of the jet or sitting perched on the edge of the bed in his hotel room. He gets in his head about being away and can’t help feeling guilty, but it all melts away for a blissful moment when he hears their little voice on the other side of the phone. His favourite calls are the ones that line up with bedtime so he can read them to sleep, recalling a story from the endless catalogue in his brain.

-Dad Spencer who is touched by every little thing his kid(s) does for him. He keeps every drawing and every craft, marvelling over their creative little brain and how it works, how it thought about him. One time on a case he opened his go bag to unpack and found his kids favourite toy shoved inside. When he called home, worried that his kid was missing their toy and had put it there by mistake, he was told it was put there on purpose ‘to look after him’ while he was gone. He’d had a little cry afterwards.

-

[cobbled-peach]

UNSUB'S FAVORITE ──➵ spencer reid

➵ based on this request here

summary: the voit case has become personal, his obsession bleeding into your life leaving you shaken. with spencer away on assignment, you struggle to live with the new revelations – until an early return shows you just how safe you are pairing: spencer reid x media liason!wife!reader cw: cm evolution typical themes (BAU-Gate. Mentions of serial killers. Stalking. Obsession). Fluff at the end, and a tiny bit of PDA a/n: i don't know how canon compliant this is, because I watched evolution once and haven't returned to it since. i just remember being lowkey confused. Alsooo, people who usually read my fics will know I normally use ‘’ instead of “” (I grew up reading Stephen King books, he uses ‘’). HOWEVER, I used “” in this one just to see if it makes a difference and if I like it better. Still trying to decide. w/c: 6.5k (how it got this long, I don't know, lowkey a lot of yap at the beginning but i had to make the stakes and context knownnn)

“Huh,” Penelope hums, the sound sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of computers and low chatter. Her eyes dart rapidly across her laptop screen, neon-pink nails clacking against the keys in a rhythm that doesn’t sound good.

It’s late at the round table. The blinds are drawn, the lights are harsh. Aside from the team and a few yawning agents in the bullpen, the floor is empty. Everyone’s gathered around, shoulders slumped, mugs of lukewarm coffee resting beside tired hands, an overwhelming sense of fatigue tying it all together.

You glance up from your own laptop, where you’ve been painstakingly flagging conspiracy sites for Penelope to dismantle later – the ones peddling lies about BAU operations, tarnishing the Bureau’s name. Your eyes sting from starting too long.

“What is it, Garcia?” Emily asks, her tone shifting from exhaustion to razor-sharp alertness in seconds.

Garcia doesn’t look up. Her brows knit. Lips purse. Her fingers fly faster over the keys.

“This is weird. I mean, really weird,” she mutters, her voice trembling with adrenaline. And confusion. “I’ve been trying to crack the backend of Voit’s BAU-Gate activity for days, right? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. His coding isn’t just good – it’s impossible. Like, ‘chess with ten queens” impossible. But now—just now—suddenly—I’m in. Just like that.”

A ripple of unease passes around the table. No one says it, but they’re all thinking the same thing. This isn’t good.

Beside you, JJ tenses, her shoulders stiff. Rigid. You don’t even think before reaching under the table and slipping your hand into hers, your fingers curling around her hand in silent reassurance. She squeezes back, just once, quick and almost distracted. But you catch the flicker of gratitude in her eyes.

Her gaze lingers on the screen longer than anyone else’s. You recognize it. Sharp and guarded, but threaded with fear. She’s already thinking about how this could get even more personal, what other ghosts this code could awaken – old photos she thought were buried in forgotten servers, locked behind firewalls that suddenly don’t feel strong enough.

You know her well enough to see the pain in her eyes.

“What changed?” Tara asks, leaning forward.

“I—I don’t know. But it’s like it wanted to be opened now. There’s no walls of encryption anymore. No trap code. No digital landmines. I didn’t do anything new. This section just… blinked into visibility.”

Penelope hits a key, projecting her laptop onto the big screen at the head of the table. A blank directory stares back at them – no file names, no metadata. Just empty digital silence.

“Not even a folder title,” Garcia says softly. “It looks creepy as hell, but I’ve run every virus scan I’ve got and it looks clean. Should I open it?”

Emily hesitates, glancing at JJ. The silence that follows is taut and brittle, ready to snap.

“Whatever’s inside,” Emily says finally, her voice low but firm, “we need to see it.”

JJ’s hand tightens around her coffee cup, the ceramic creaking under the strain of her grip. The tension rolling off her is palpable, sharp enough to cut.

Emily’s gaze softens, but only slightly.

“And I’d like you to go through it JJ, please,” she says. “BAU-Gate… it’s personal to you. I don’t want the rest of us seeing things you’re not ready for.”

“Emily, I don’t—” JJ begins, but Emily’s tone slices across her words.

“No.” Her voice brooks no argument. “This shouldn’t be sifted through with everyone watching.”

JJ stares at her, jaw tight, and for a long moment you think she’ll refuse. Her exhaustion wins out instead.

“I can’t do it alone,” JJ says finally, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I’ve already looked through the site once. I don’t know how far I’ll get doing it myself.”

Emily’s gaze flicks to you, to your interlinked hands beneath the table, and she gives a deliberate but subtle nod. “Stay with her.”

One by one, the others file out. Tara gives JJ’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she passes. Luke offers you a small nod, and even Garcia leaves without a quip, her expression solemn. When Emily closes the door behind them, the sudden quiet is deafening.

JJ exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sorry,” she mutters, voice barely audible.

“No, I’m sorry,” you say. “This should be over by now.”

You give her a faint smile, meant to be comforting, though your stomach feels like it’s in knots.

“I’ll focus on my work. I won’t look unless you want me to,” you add, nodding toward your laptop.

JJ’s expression twitches with something reminiscent of gratefulness, but her eyes look dull and bruised beneath the blue. She pulls Garcia’s laptop closer to her, jaw clenched, and with a steadying breath, she clicks enter.

The screen flickers. For a moment, nothing. Then the blank folder erupts with files – hundreds of them, cascading down in a blur of cryptic names. Color-coded, it seems, but labelled only with numbers.

“I’m going to open one,” JJ says, voice low. You avert your eyes as she enters the first file.

It expands into a photo.

“What the hell—” you hear JJ mutter. She leans closer to the screen, then looks up at you sharply. “Look.”

Confused, you lift your gaze to the projector – and freeze.

It’s you. Not JJ. You.

A candid, slightly blurry photo of you leaving the BAU, at least seven years ago. Spencer is beside you, his hand hovering awkwardly near the small of your back, his profile caught mid-turn.

Ice floods your veins, settling in your chest.

“Go to the next folder,” you manage, your voice tight.

JJ clicks. Another photo – this time a security camera still of you in a grocery store aisle.

Another.

Another.

The images keep coming, endless and relentless. Thousands of them. Some you recognize: BAU press briefings, stills from news clips where you’re barely in frame, caught just off to the side of someone speaking.

But the others—

A photo of you tying your shoe outside a coffee shop.

A grainy shot from across the street, capturing you leaning against your car, texting Spencer.

Another from inside your old apartment – your home – where you’re sipping coffee in nothing but an oversized shirt. The angle is wrong, invasive; it must have been taken from a building across the street with a long-range lens.

JJ’s breath hitches. “This is… this is sick.”

There are photos of you laughing with Penelope at a work function. One of you about to enter a convenience store.

Every single one is labeled. Catalogued.

‘Nervous.’

‘Smiling at someone (husband?).’

‘Pretty face.’

‘Morning routine.’

“What the fuck,” JJ mutters, her voice trembling somewhere between anger and disbelief.

There are folders within folders. One is marked voice.

JJ clicks it open. There are dozens of files. Recordings pulled from press briefings, interviews, even an old TV segment. All edited, chopped up, stitched back together into something that sounds like a sermon.

JJ hits play on the first one. Your own voice echoes back at you, warped into a chant:

“You’re in good hands with us, trust me… You’re in good hands with us, trust me… You’re in good hands with us, trust me…”

Looped. Twisted. Worshipped.

Another folder: movement. Videos of you jogging. Walking through airport security. Adjusting your bra strap in your office.

“I don’t—are these real?” you whisper, your throat tight. “I mean… JJ, your videos were deepfake, right? Maybe these are too—”

JJ just slams the laptop shut.

“I’m getting Emily,” she says.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy clang, the sound hitting off concrete walls. It makes you flinch.

You don’t belong here.

You’re not a profiler, not a field agent – you’re the calm voice at the podium, the one who translates horror into words that the public can digest. That’s your land.

Not this. Not interviewing suspects or trailing around high security prisons. Not staring down the man who’s memorized the details of your life.

But Emily concluded that your presence would get him to talk. Not necessarily give answers, but give something. He cataloged you like a specimen. There’s no way he won’t react to you.

So here you are.

JJ stands at your side, spine straight and unyielding. She steps forward first, taking up space like it’s a weapon. You stay half a step behind, hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bite into your palms. You’d told yourself you’d meet his gaze the moment you walked in, show him you weren’t afraid.

But just the sound of him moving, of him breathing – you can’t. Not yet.

“Agent Jareau, pleasure to see you again,” Voit greets, voice infuriatingly casual. He drags a chair across the floor with a grating screech, sitting behind the bars with a lazy sort of confidence. You hear it in his tone, the curve of a smile he shouldn’t be wearing. “And… Agent Reid. I hoped you’d come. I wasn’t sure you would.”

You lift your head. Slowly.

His eyes lock on yours instantly. It’s not a glance. It’s a study. His gaze lingers too long, unblinking, cataloguing you even now.

JJ’s glance flicks to you, checking your reaction. You swallow down the lump in your throat, straighten your back, and speak. Your voice is steadier than you feel.

“We know you have information. Give it to us, or I walk.”

Voit tilts his head. His smile stays. “I don’t do ‘transactions,’” he says smoothly. “I do conversations.” His eyes shift to JJ, then back to you. “You’re not usually part of this, are you? Interviews. Evidence collection.”

“No,” you say tightly.

“No,” he echoes with a small, satisfied nod. “No, you belong in the light. Not… this.” He gestures around the sterile cell like it’s beneath you.

JJ leans forward, a silent warning in her posture.

Voit ignores it.

“You have a very distinct presence,” he continues. “When you speak at press conferences, everyone listens. But it’s different seeing you in here, like this. No podium. No cameras. No carefully chosen words to hide behind. You don’t like this, do you? Being seen without the frame you’ve built.”

Your jaw tightens. He’s too close – not in distance, but in knowing. Peeling back layers you haven’t given him permission to see.

“You don’t know anything about me,” you say.

“Oh, but I do.” His voice lowers, intimate and mocking. “I’ve been paying attention. Especially to the little things. The way you tap your pen when you’re thinking. How you take a second too long to blink when someone mentions a child victim. The subtle tension in your shoulders when Dr. Reid isn’t by your side.” His grin widens, sharp as a blade. “He’s far away right now, isn’t he? Long assignments are hard.”

Your throat tightens. You say nothing.

“I even compiled all my observations together for you,” he adds lightly, as if he’s discussing an art project. His gaze slides to JJ. “You showed her, right? I mean, you know your way around BAU-Gate better than anyone.”

JJ’s jaw ticks.

Voit’s grin deepens, as though that silence is all the confirmation he needs. “You did show her. What did you think, Agent Reid? Did you like the pictures, or was it too much?”

“Enough,” JJ cuts in sharply, voice like a blade. “This conversation ends unless you give us something useful.”

Voit chuckles under his breath, slow and low. “Useful? Oh, Agent Jareau, I’ve already given you something. That site… you’ve barely scratched the surface. You want real answers?” He gestures lazily toward you. “They’re standing right next to you.”

“Give us something concrete, Voit.”

“I have,” he says with feigned innocence. His gaze snaps back to you, deliberate and unblinking. “I wonder what Dr. Reid would make of all this. Funny. He must know how easy it is for someone to invade your life like that. I’d have expected him to keep a tighter grip. I know I would have, if it were my wife.”

“You’re pathetic,” you manage.

“Pathetic? No, not pathetic,” he corrects softly, leaning forward just enough to make your skin crawl. “I’m thorough. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

JJ shifts subtly in front of you, blocking his line of sight as much as she can. But his voice slithers past her, wrapping around you like smoke.

“Do you want to know what I liked best?” he asks. “Not the press briefings. Not the polished soundbites. The little things.” He raises his eyebrows. “Like the sweater you wore when you left Agent Jareau’s house one time. The chipped mug you drink from. They remind me how real you are.”

Your throat feels like sandpaper. You glance at JJ, whose glare could cut steel.

“And real is rare,” Voit muses. “Better than pixels and passwords. Those photos? Those notes? That’s just the surface. The real part… that’s what I visited most.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, though your voice shakes. You already feel the cold dread twisting in your chest, whispering you don’t want the answer.

“A place where you’re not just an image, but… a presence.”

“We’re done,” JJ says abruptly.

Voit leans back with lazy satisfaction. “Oh, don’t leave yet. I haven’t even told her my favorite picture. You know the one. She’s wearing blue, and she—”

“I said enough!” JJ’s voice cracks across the room.

Voit goes silent. But the smile – the smug, knowing smile – stays.

JJ’s hand closes around your elbow, firm but gentle, guiding you toward the door. Your legs feel stiff, heavy.

His voice follows you out, soft and venomous:

“Tell Dr. Reid I understand why he keeps you close. Some things are worth collecting.”

JJ’s bedroom is dark, and the atmosphere feels too heavy for sleep. The only light comes from the narrow strip spilling through the crack in the door, painting faint lines across the floor.

You lie on your back, hands twisted together on your stomach like if you keep yourself still enough, the unease will finally stop buzzing under your skin.

The mattress dips as JJ shifts beside you. A slow, sleepy movement. You hadn’t meant to share a bed again, but when you’d changed and crawled under the covers next to her, she’d accepted it without a word. It was routine; on a bad case, or when Will was away on nightshift, keeping each other company in the quiet of the house.

Staying with her was Spencer’s idea. Something to keep you safe while he was away.

Quietly, she says: “I can hear you thinking.”

You exhale through your nose, the breath shaky. Then you turn, pressing your cheek to the pillow to face her.

“I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About the photos. The recordings. The way he smiled when he talked about it – treating it like a game.” Your voice catches on the last word. “What kind of a person even thinks like that?”

JJ is quiet for a beat. She finds your hand on the top of the blanket. “A sick, broken person,” she says. “But he’s behind bars. He can’t get close to you. Not anymore.”

“I hate that Spencer isn’t here.”

The words fall out of you before you can soften them. They muffle against the fabric, but the ache behind them is loud.

JJ sighs, tired but fond. “If he knew what Voit had done…”

“He’d lose his mind.”

“Completely,” she agrees, then laughs faintly. “But then he’d take your hands, and look at you like only he does, and he;d remind you that none of this is your fault. That Voit’s obsession isn’t about you. It’s about power. Control.”

You don’t reply. Your throat is too tight for anything else.

JJ squeezes your hand. “I know,” she murmurs. “You just want him home.”

You nod. The pillow is damp beneath your cheek. You hadn’t noticed when the tears started.

She shifts closer, blanket rustling. “And when he gets back, you can let him hover and be ridiculous, and wrap you up in all those Spencer Reid words until your brain finally shuts down for the night. You’ll roll your eyes, and he’ll act offended, and then you’ll fall asleep on his shoulder like you always do.”

You manage a watery laugh. “You sound like you’ve seen this happen before.”

“I’ve been third-wheeling you two for almost a decade,” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “I know how it goes.”

You let the silence settle again. This time, it feels different. A little lighter.

Your gaze drifts toward the bedside table. Spencer’s scarf – the one he wrapped around you before he said goodbye – rests there. Folded, waiting. A reminder that he’s coming back.

JJ shifts beside you again, drowsy.

“Until then,” she whispers. “We’ve got each other.”

You’re sitting at Spencer’s desk, legs curled under the chair, one of his old cardigans draped around your shoulders. You’ve been working here since he left. Some irrational part of you swears the air still smells like him – mint and old books, that faint warmth of his skin. It steadies you. Keeps the panic from finding too many cracks to slip through.

Your pen scratches against a battered notebook, the sound almost grounding. It’s safer than opening a laptop. Safer than being anywhere near the encrypted site and the images you’re trying not to replay.

“Walk with me a minute?”

Rossi’s voice breaks the silence. Soft, but not a suggestion.

You glance up and find him leaning against the next desk over with a familiar knowing look in his eyes. You nod, rising from the chair, keeping the notebook in your hand as you follow him down the corridor. Past the glass doors. Along a quiet hall. He knows you think better when moving – when the walls don’t have a chance to close in.

“You’re not okay,” he says once out of earshot of everyone.

You blink, caught off guard. “I’m… functioning.”

“That’s not what I said.” His tone is firm but kind, cutting through the armor you’ve been wearing. “You’ve got your game face on. I know that look. But I also know that voice you use when you’re trying not to fall apart.”

Your lips press together. You don’t argue, because he’s right.

His voice softens. “You don’t need to be bulletproof all the time. I know you think you do, because you’re the one people see. But you don’t have to be that way with us. Not with me.” He doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t push for confessions. It’s not about prying – it’s about reminding you that someone has your back.

He loops around the floor with you, and eventually you find yourself back at your office. Rossi follows you in, closing the door with a quiet click.

“Now, I hate to do this, kid.” He pauses, expression a little more solemn. “But we found something last night, and I want you to hear it from me. Not the rumor mill.”

Your stomach tightens. You set the notebook down and slump back into your seat. “Found something?”

He exhales slowly, pulling the chair across from you and sitting with deceptive ease.

“Remember – you don’t have to be bulletproof,” he reminds you, his voice suddenly serious. “We’ve been digging since your interview with Voit. And we found a new container.” He pauses again – like he’s weighing how much to tell you all at once. “It contains pictures of you. Like the website, but physical. It’s all locked down, and it’s evidence. We’re one step closed to figuring this whole thing out.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. You push your chair back with a scrape, breathing coming shallow. Physical. Real. You want to throw up just thinking about Voit being down there.

“Hey.” Rossi’s voice cuts through the panic. “Look at me.”

You do. Barely.

“No one else has seen it,” he says, eyes holding yours. “No one else will. It’s under control, and none of it will touch you again. Do you hear me?”

You nod, but your hands are still trembling in your lap.

Rossi stands, circling the desk to your side. His presence is heavy but safe, like standing in the shadow of a wall built just for you.

“There’s more,” he admits. “Because of the deal with him, Voit is coming here. To the BAU. Under full supervision, but…”

“He’s coming here?”

“Yes.” Rossi’s tone is like stone. “And trust me, kid, I don’t like it any more than you do. But this is on our terms. We’re in control of the situation. He’s on our turf, and I won’t let him get near you.”

“What if he—”

“He won’t.” His voice sharpens, no room for doubt. “We’re not taking chances. I’ll set you up in my office while he’s here. You stay there. You and JJ have each other, and you have us. Let us carry this one for you, kid. You’ve already carried too much.”

You swallow, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction. His words land like a promise.

“Good,” he says after a long pause, reading your face the way only Rossi can. His hand rests briefly on yours—warm, reassuring. “Now, let’s get you some coffee. And a pastry. You look like you’ve forgotten what food is.”

You’ve been holed up in Rossi’s office all morning, curled into the guest chair with your knees angled toward the desk like it’ll act as a shield. Rossi sits across from you, a silent sentry, arms folded over his chest. He’s been keeping watch, both on you and on the team outside. You can tell this case is gnawing at him – there’s a weight in his eyes, something that mirrors the discomfort chewing at your insides.

“That’ll be him,” Rossi mutters. His tone is flat, but grim. He shuts the file he’s been reading and stands, moving closer to the office door but not opening it. The motion alone is enough to make your breath catch.

Despite every warning bell in your head, curiosity scratches at you like claws on glass. You shift just enough to tilt your head, peering through the narrow strip of reinforced glass on the office door.

Voit is there.

Even bracketed by Luke and Tara, even surrounded by agents, he moves like the BAU belongs to him. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no fear in his face. Just that eerie, unhurried calm, like he’s strolling in for an afternoon chat. His eyes skim lazily over desks and walls, cataloguing, calculating.

And then – like he feels it – his gaze slides toward the door you’re behind.

For a split second, you’re certain he sees you. The glass feels like nothing, as though his eyes pierce straight through it. His lips twitch upward, the faintest ghost of a smile, one brimming with recognition. Satisfaction. By the time someone calls his attention and he turns, that smile is gone – erased so quickly you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.

You tear your gaze away, pulse thundering against your ribs.

There’s a quiet beat, then his voice cuts through the hum of the bullpen like a knife, calling for you and Rossi. A taunt. A dare.

Rossi glances at you, shaking his head once. Don’t.

You nod, but your curiosity betrays you again. You risk another glance.

Voit has drifted toward Spencer’s desk. He’s standing there now, fingertips grazing the surface, tapping lightly at the rim of Spencer’s mug like he’s testing the texture of it. His hand skims over the pile of journals stacked neatly on the corner, movements slow and deliberate. As if he knows. As if he’s touching those things just because he knows you will see it.

Your stomach twists so hard it’s almost painful.

“Step away from the desk,” Tara’s voice rings out, sharp and commanding.

Voit doesn’t move right away. For a long moment, his hand lingers there – just long enough to leave the image burned in your mind, like he’s carved the moment out for you to remember later. Only when Luke shifts closer does he finally step back.

But the way he looked at that desk, the way he touched it.

It stays with you.

Two days.

Two days of Voit’s presence seeping through the walls. Even when you don’t see him, you feel him – like a shadow stretching just beyond your line of sight. Rossi hasn’t left you alone once.

You’re still in Rossi’s office, combing through documents. You feel the shift in the air, freeze in place when the door clicks softly behind you and a voice speaks softly.

“Why are you in here?”

Your breath catches. Slowly, you look up.

Spencer.

For a moment, your brain doesn’t compute. He’s standing there, rumpled from travel, dark circles under his eyes, but he’s real. He’s here.

“Spence—” The word comes out as a shaky breath.

He crosses the room in three long strides, pulling you up from Rossi’s chair before you can speak. His arms wrap around you in a tight grip, trying to ground you in the moment.

You clutch at is coat, burying your face in his neck, the smell of him – coffee and mint and something faintly like rain – making your eyes sting.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, smoothing a hand over the back of your head. You haven’t felt this at peace in weeks. “It’s okay. I’ not letting go.”

“I missed you,” you breathe.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs into your hair.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming back.”

“They pulled me out of the assignment early,” he says, his thumb brushing absently against your shoulder, nose pressing further into your hair.

You want to tell him he’s right. That he’s needed here – by you – but the words stick in your throat. You can feel your eyes misting up as you hold him close, the tension easing in your chest.

He pulls back just enough to frame your face in his hands, searching your expression, observing your features because the memory of them hadn’t been enough while he was on assignment.

“Why are you working in Rossi’s office? I had to look all over for you.”

“It’s easier here,” you say, but your voice wavers. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to be alone in my office.”

“Why not?” His voice is soft but insistent, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “They briefed my on the case – encrypted website, shipping containers – but—” His expression twists slightly as he looks at you, his head tilting. “There’s more, isn’t there? What haven’t they told me?”

You can’t meet his eyes. “Spence…”

“What?” His hands remain on you face, coaxing you up to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”

“It was me.”

Confusion flickers across his face. “What?”

“The container. The website. It was about me. Voit had this whole section on BAU-Gate – photos. Old press conferences. Notes about things I said…”

Silence falls between you. Spencer blinks once, twice – then his jaw locks.

“He—what?”

His hands drop, fingers curling into fists. His voice lowers to a whisper that somehow sounds more dangerous than shouting.

“Emily didn’t tell me that. No one told me it was about you.”

“Spence—”

“Are you okay? Did he—” He cuts himself off, breath hissing through his teeth. “I—I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”

“You couldn’t have known,” you insist, reaching for his sleeve. “I’ve been staying with JJ, like you suggested. And she’s been great. She was with me when I interviewed—”

“When you what?”

Your words falter. “—Interviewed him…”

The silence turns deafening. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“No.” His voice sharpens. “No, you don’t interview serial killers. That’s not your job. You’re not supposed to be anywhere near him.”

“It was for the case,” you say. “Emily thought sending me in would get Voit to talk—”

Spencer’s laugh is hollow, disbelieving. “Oh, sure. Great tactic. Send my wife in to talk to the psychopath who’s been obsessing over her. That’s brilliant.” His voice is rising, his jaw tight, one hand raking through his hair as he begins to pace around the office. “If I had been here, I would not have let that happen.”

“Spencer—”

“I’m serious.” His eyes find yours, wide and pleading, attempting to get you to see reason. He crosses back to you, hands gently cupping your face again. “That is not your role. You’re not in the field. You’re not bait. You’re not expendable.”

“I was fine with it,” you try, your voice wavering. “JJ was there—”

“Fine?” He glances around Rossi’s office. “You’re hiding, honey. Hiding isn’t fine. You shouldn’t have to feel on edge here.”

“I’m not… hiding. Rossi told me to move in here while Voit’s in the building.”

Spencer freezes yet again. For a second, the words don’t seem to compute. He scoffs, because that’s the only sound he can make.

“He’s… here?”

“They’re using him for the case,” you explain softly. “He’s under constant supervision, but—”

Spencer’s face hardens, all emotion drained except for the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Where is he?”

“Spence, you can’t—”

“Where. Is. He?” His voice is low, barely controlled.

Before you can stop him, he’s striding out of Rossi’s office. You call his name, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t wait for you to follow him, just storms through the bullpen with long, confident strides that are fueled by something electric.

You call his name as you follow behind him, but it’s useless. He knows how the BAU operates when they’re desperate, knows exactly where to go.

You hurry behind him as he finds the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms.

Through the glass, Voit sits at a metal table, calm, whistling like he’s bored.

Spencer stops. His shoulders rise with a sharp intake of breath, then his jaw clenches tight and he moves forward, pushing the door open.

The click of it shutting behind him is final. You stand behind it, arms hanging limply by your sides as you move to look through the glass, raking a stressed hand through your hair. Their words are slightly muffled behind the glass, the surveillance video crackling with static.

Voit looks up, smirking. “Dr. Reid. I was wondering when I’d get the pleasure.”

Spencer doesn’t sit. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Spencer says, voice low. “You don’t speak to her or about her. You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her?”

Voit tilts his head, amusement playing across his features. “That’s a bit controlling, don’t you think? Besides… it’s hard not to look.”

Spencer leans in slightly, his tone dropping even lower. You can feel the coldness through the glass.

“I’ve spent my entire life studying men like you. I know exactly how you operate. Every game, every pathetic attempt to hold on to control. You may believe you hold the power here – but you don’t. And I’m not going to let you so much as breathe her name again.”

Voit studies him. His smirk falters for a second, but he pastes it back on. “You think you scare me?”

Spencer’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t care if I scare you or not. I care that you understand me. You think you know her? All you have are pictures and words you’ve twisted into some sad fantasy. You’re delusional. You don’t know her. You’ll never know her. You don’t even have the capacity to understand who she is.”

There’s a flash of something – anger, or frustration – in Voit’s eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

“You weren’t even here,” he says slowly, a last ditch attempt to control the situation. “You let her go through all of this alone.”

Spencer braces his hands  on the table, leaning closer, ignoring the jab. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to stay quiet about her. If you try anything – anything, even a look – I’ll make sure that the rest of your cooperation is miserable. And when it’s done, I’ll make sure you’re sent far, far away from here. I’ll even move you myself if I have to.”

Voit’s eyes flicker again, but he stays silent. Then, finally, he smiles, though this time it’s thinner. Forced.

“She married someone… interesting.”

Spencer straightens, gaze hard. “She married someone who will never let you near her.”

He turns and walks out. The click of the door feels louder than any threat.

You watch the whole conversation with wide eyes, frozen in the hallway behind the glass. Only when Spencer’s eyes land on you does your breath return.

The sharpness in his face softens instantly.

“Spence,” you whisper.

He’s quick to stand in front of you again, arms wrapping around you, standing between you and the glass to shield you from Voit, from every nightmare you’ve had since he stepped into your orbit.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice close to breaking now. “God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through any of this.”

“Don’t,” you whisper into his chest. “You don’t have to apologize for being gone.”

“Yes, I do,” he says, pulling back enough to look at your face, scanning your expression like he’s checking for damage. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”

“You’re here now,” you say softly.

Something shifts in him at that. His grip on you gentles, his forehead pressing to yours for a beat.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m here now. And I’m not letting him get anywhere near you again. Ever.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s grounding himself, before steering you down the hall with a protective hand at your back.

“Come on. I need you to fill me in on everything so we can put this bastard away.”

The scent of homemade lasagna fills every corner of Rossi’s dining room, rich and comforting, feeling like a warm hug. Candlelight flickers off the polished wood of the table, casting a soft glow over the familiar faces gathered around it.

Emily and JJ are leaning toward each other, laughing over some half-told story, while Tara is smirking at Luke, teasing him with what sounds suspiciously like a ‘your mom’ joke that makes Garcia nearly choke on her wine.

At the head of the table, Rossi presides like a proud patriarch, his easy smile softening into the knowing look he gets when he’s watching his family – because that’s what this is.

The clink of glasses, the scrape of serving spoons against dishes, the shared laughter – it all feels like a balm after the storm of fear and chaos that’s been hanging over you for weeks.

The case is finally over. Voit is gone – locked away in a high-security federal facility, miles away from Virginia, exactly as Spencer promised he would be. The shadow he cast over the BAU has been lifted, replaced with the quiet relief of knowing he’ll never come near you again.

You sit tucked into Spencer’s side, your chair so close to his that your legs brush with every subtle movement. His arm drapes lazily over the back of your chair, but there’s nothing casual about the way his fingers occasionally trace along your shoulder, a quiet reassurance that he’s here and he’s not going anywhere.

“So, seriously,” Garcia says, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “You actually told Voit that you’d make ‘every second of his cooperation miserable?’ Because that, my love, does not sound very on brand for you.”

Spencer’s cheeks tint the faintest shade of pink, his mouth twitching as though he wants to deflect but doesn’t know how.

“Don’t be so quick to put him in a box,” Tara says, lifting her glass with a sly smile. “I’ve seen first hand that this man is capable of going a little ‘cell block D’ when he wants to.”

That gets a round of laughter. Luke sips his drink, muttering something about “picturing Reid in a prison movie.”

Spencer shrugs with faux modesty, clearly trying to downplay the story, but you squeeze his hand under the table, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.

“I was watching,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice. “and I can confirm the rumors. It was a little terrifying.”

His eyes flicker to yours, warmth and affection softening the curve of his mouth. “Well I couldn’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, so low, only meant for you. “Not then. Not ever.”

Your heart does that familiar little stutter. You squeeze his hand back, your thumb brushing over his wrist. Around you, the noise of the table continues – clinking glasses, Garcia’s dramatic retelling of her latest shopping spree – but all you can feel is the steady beating of his pulse under your skin.

Spencer shifts closer, his knee brushing yours under the table, his shoulder leaning into yours like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. He dips his head just slightly, voice lowering into a soft, intimate tone that makes the rest of the world fade.

“I missed this,” he says, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Missed you. The normal.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to rest it against his shoulder. “Me too,” you whisper.

His arm slides more securely around you, pulling you against his side. You feel the warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the spices from dinner. It feels like coming home.

Another joke gets cracked across the table – something about Rossi’s pickiness when it comes to wine – and Spencer chuckles softly, but his gaze comes back to you, hazel eyes glimmering with something so tender and steady that your breath catches.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing the soft scratch of stubble there.

Spencer’s fingers squeeze yours again. With the soft look still in his eyes, he leans down – just close enough that the rest of the table seems to vanish around you – and kisses you.

Unhurried. Sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. I’m here, I love you, I’ll keep you safe – all the words are wrapped up in the gentle press of his mouth against yours.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the smile ghosting across his lips.

“I love you,” he whispers, soft enough that it’s just for you.

“I love you too,” you breathe, your hand reaching up to brush your thumb against his jaw.

“Alright, alright,” Luke groans from across the table, smirking. “Get a room, you two.”

JJ swats Luke’s arm without missing a beat.

“Let them live,” she says with a grin. She catches your eye across the table, and there’s a quiet understanding in her look, like only she really knows just how much you needed this peace.

Rossi stands a the head of the table, glass in hand, his smile soft but full of pride.

“To family,” he says simply, voice carrying across the table.

Everyone else lifts their glasses, the echo of their voices warm and unanimous. “To family.”

You clink your glass gently with Spencer’s, leaning into his side as his arm tightens around you. The warmth of the team, the glow of the evening, the simple comfort of being here with him – it all settles perfectly in your chest.