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ghosts-to-reid · 6 days ago

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AFTERSHOCK ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x liaison!reader

summary: you were held at knifepoint. spencer wasn’t there, but now he is — sitting outside the shower, whispering sea otter facts, and touching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort | w/c: 3.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, reader works for the BAU, friends/coworkers to lovers, story starts after a hostage situation/being held at knifepoint, mentions of bruises and cuts and blood and a gunshot but no major injury (to reader), fingering, p in v, spencer asks for consent like a million times #king, kind of open ending

a/n: omg my first request 🥲 i made reader an assistant media liaison bc i liked the idea of her having minimal field experience + working closely with JJ. i was envisioning like young, s2 spencer here (specifically glasses reid when he goes to check on Elle in her hotel room hence the header but hey, imagine what you wish). hope you enjoy, kind anon! 🦦

The lights were too bright.

Not in a metaphorical way, but literally. Overhead fluorescents buzzed in the corner of your vision as a paramedic waved a penlight in your eyes, asking questions you could barely process.

“You know your name?” he asked. You nodded. Or at least you thought you did. Maybe you answered him verbally — you couldn’t say for sure. “Good. You’re gonna be okay. Just some bruising and minor cuts. We’ll get your neck bandaged up then you’ll be good to go.”

This time, you heard yourself thank him, but your voice didn’t sound like your own.

In the moments after the standoff ended, everything had blurred. You remembered the moment you realized he was about to slit your throat — and how you kept your voice level anyway, how you kept talking to distract him until the team broke through the front. You remembered Hotch yelling your name, and Derek rushing forward as the unsub yanked you tighter against him — right before the single shot that brought him down rang through the air. You remembered insisting you were fine. “It’s just a few scratches.” But your hands had trembled when you signed the incident report, and your voice had cracked as you hugged JJ and tried to tell her you were okay. You remembered blood on your blouse, though it hadn’t been yours. And then you thought of Spencer.

Spencer.

You hadn’t seen him since before you’d gone into that warehouse backroom, when he was told to stay at the precinct while you were sent in to try to talk the unsub down. You were the suspect’s type — it seemed like it made sense, at the time.

Now, hours later, your ears still rang faintly with the sound of a gunshot and sirens. The scent of sweat and antiseptic clung to your hair. You were stiff from tension, from crouching for too long, from being held with a blade tight against your throat. And though the medics cleared you, your body didn’t quite feel like it was yours.

So when you got back to the hotel and opened the door to your room, you weren’t surprised to find Spencer already sitting there.

His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, white-knuckled. His legs bounced slightly, shoulders curled inward. As soon as he saw you, he stood so quickly it looked like it surprised even him.

You stared at him for a moment. He somehow managed to look even worse than you felt.

“Hi,” you said softly.

His throat bobbed. “Hi.”

You closed the door behind you. Leaned against it, unsure what you needed, only that it might be him.

“JJ told me you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“I’m not. Just… tired. Shaky. A little out of it.” You tried to smile, but it faltered. Your knees felt too weak to hold the weight of your composure.

“Could you—” You paused. Swallowed. “Will you stay? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and stepped forward, his arms coming around you so gently it nearly broke you.

—

You had worked with Spencer Reid for nearly two years. As assistant press liaison, your job at the BAU was mostly behind the scenes — handling media inquiries, prepping briefings, coordinating with JJ. Occasionally you went into the field, like you had today. And over time, you’d gotten closer to the team. Closer to Spencer.

He was your best friend. The kind who noticed when you were quiet for too long. The kind who annotated articles he thought you’d like. Who remembered your coffee order down to the exact milk-to-cold brew ratio. Who once lent you his beloved purple scarf because you were shivering, and never once asked for it back.

You’d always told yourself that’s what it was — just friendship, albeit the rarest and gentlest kind. You two had never crossed the line. Never even came close.

But still, there were moments.

The brush of hands when passing files. Gazes that lingered a little too long when you laughed. The quiet way he always listened intently as you spoke, even in a room full of louder voices.

It was nothing. It was everything.

And you didn’t let yourself dwell on it.

Not until today — when you saw him across the hotel room, eyes wide and wounded, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. That look wasn’t friendly. That look was something else entirely.

—

You sat together on the edge of the bed for a while — not really speaking, just breathing the same air. You noticed the redness in his eyes, the way he rubbed his palms together like he needed to feel something real.

“I should probably shower,” you said eventually, your voice small. You were still in the same clothes from the scene, crusted with dirt and dried blood. “But I don’t… I don’t really want to be alone.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I could sit in the bathroom with you, if you want. I won’t, uh, look or anything. I’ll just— I’ll be there.”

You nodded, your chest aching.

The hotel bathroom was a little dated, the kind with a plastic curtain and a light that hummed faintly when switched on. You undressed slowly, hands trembling, and stepped into the spray. Warm water hit your skin, but the shivering didn’t stop. You called out for Spencer to let him know he could come in.

“I’m here,” Spencer said gently from the other side of the curtain. You heard the soft thud of him sitting down, back against the tub.

“Thanks,” you said. Your voice sounded a little steadier than you felt.

“Did you know that the human body has over two million sweat glands? They’re actually most concentrated on the soles of your feet.”

You laughed — a surprised, soft sound. “That’s… weirdly interesting.”

He chuckled too. “I read once that just hearing someone else talk about non-threatening subjects can help slow down your heart rate. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system.”

You swallowed as you massaged shampoo into your scalp. “Keep talking, then.”

So he did. He told you about an article he read on sea otters. About how they sometimes hold hands and cuddle while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. About how Saturn’s rings are made mostly of ice and dust, and how they’re slowly disappearing. About a study on how people who read a lot of fiction are generally more empathetic, and how he thinks that’s probably true, especially when applied to you and your collection of romantasy novels.

When you turned off the water, you stood there for a moment, breathing in the steam.

You reached outside the curtain for the towel you’d hung on the hook earlier, wrapping it around yourself before you stepped out carefully onto the mat. Spencer stayed seated, gaze averted, but lifted his arm to offer you the white fluffy hotel robe.

“Here,” he said, voice soft, still not looking.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it from him with fingers that brushed his. You slipped it on over the towel, grateful for the extra warmth, and tied the sash tightly around your waist.

He finally glanced up then, eyes scanning your face for any sign of how you were holding together.

“Can we go sit down?”

He stood immediately. “Of course.”

Together, you stepped out of the bathroom, his presence quiet beside you. You sat on the edge of the bed and he joined you, leaving space but not distance.

It was then you finally noticed it: he looked so tired. His shoulders sagged like he’d been carrying something too heavy, and you wondered how long he’d been holding it all in. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something raw in the way he held his hands — like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Spencer blinked a few times and stared down at his knees. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked.

“I… I didn’t realize how scared I was. Not really. Not until I saw you standing here again. When I was back at the precinct and heard what was going on, what he was doing to you, I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Your chest ached again. You reached for him instinctively — not with any plan, just the need to touch something steady. Your hand found his face, palm against his cheek, and you felt the tremble in his jaw.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

He turned into your touch slightly, eyes fluttering closed. A breath escaped him — a shaky, wordless thing.

“I keep thinking about what could’ve happened,” he murmured. “About how close it was. And I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to finish that sentence,” you interrupted gently. “I’m here, Spencer. It’s over.”

The silence stretched.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked at you like he was finally seeing something he’d never dared to let himself look at too closely — not until now.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back to your eyes. Then away entirely, as if embarrassed.

You smiled, small and a little awkward. “Spencer…”

He didn’t move. Just stayed there with your hand pressed to his cheek and his gaze trained on the sheets, as if he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he shifted even an inch.

“I know it’s not helpful to spiral into hypotheticals, but… I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about how close it was. How close I came to never seeing you again. And it made me realize…”

He trailed off, brow furrowing like he was debating whether to keep going. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. You waited.

“I realized that if I lost you,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t just miss working with you, or… talking to you, or being your friend. I’d miss you. Everything I never said. Everything I always pretended I didn’t feel because it wasn’t—because it wasn’t appropriate, or logical, or fair.”

Your breath caught. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“I just don’t know if… if you’ve ever thought about it. About me. About… us. About, um, being more than just friends.”

The room spun gently. Not in a bad way — more like the moment had tipped sideways and you were falling into it, a new gravity you hadn’t dared even imagine until now.

You stared at him.

For a second, your brain scrambled to fill the silence with something. A joke. A change of subject. A safer version of the truth.

But the look on his face — the quiet devastation of it, like he was already preparing to apologize for crossing a line — cut straight through every instinct to deflect.

Because of course you’d thought about it.

Every late night on the phone. Every smirk across the briefing room. Every friendly touch on your shoulder that lingered half a second too long. You’d buried it all under layers of friendship and professional distance.

But it was there. It had always been there.

And after everything you’d been through today, you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

“Spencer,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

His breath hitched, and he finally lifted his eyes enough to meet yours.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” you admitted.

His eyes widened slightly. You could feel the warmth radiating off him. The tension. The fragile possibility hanging in the space between your bodies.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Course I have.”

“Then can I—” He stopped and laughed a little, awkward and embarrassed. “God, I don’t even know how to ask.”

You smiled. “Try anyway.”

“Can I kiss you?”

You took a long, deep breath, then whispered, “Please.”

He leaned in slowly, hesitantly — and when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t confident or practiced. It was cautious. Careful. A little awkward and clumsy. But it was him, and it was you, and it was real.

His mouth moved against yours like he wasn’t sure it would last. You kissed him deeper, steadier, until you felt him melt a little — into the moment, into you.

He held your face like you were something sacred. You tugged him closer like you’d die without the contact. He whispered your name against your mouth, like he was still trying to make himself believe you were there.

The kiss stayed soft for a long time — tentative, exploratory. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell. Like you were both waiting for the moment one of you might pull away and realize this was a mistake.

But you didn’t, and when his hands drifted down to your waist, he paused.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper against your skin. His fingers trailed across the terrycloth material of the hotel robe. “You’re… you’re not wearing any real clothes right now. Maybe we should stop.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t you dare stop. It’s definitely okay.”

Still, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he needed to hear it in more than words.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he murmured. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m expecting anything. We don’t have to—”

You shook your head before he could finish, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I know. You’re not messing anything up.”

His eyes searched yours, still uncertain.

“I want to. I want you,” you whispered.

You reached for him, guiding his hand to your chest like you needed him to feel how steady your heartbeat had become — proof that this wasn’t panic. This was choosing. Choosing him.

He took a long breath, then slowly, he eased you down onto the pillows.

When his fingers brushed the tie of your robe, he paused again. “Okay?” he asked, eyes flicking to yours.

You answered not just with a nod, but by threading your fingers through his hair. “Spencer. Please, I need this.”

He let out a soft, quivering breath, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along without even knowing it.

And still, he didn’t rush.

He loosened the tie and slipped the robe from your shoulders like it was something precious. Beneath it, the towel clung to your damp skin, and when you let it fall open, he didn’t look away — but he didn’t devour, either. He just gazed at you like you were something precious and rare, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to see you this way.

He undressed, too — slowly, thoughtfully — until there was nothing between you but skin and breath and unspoken things neither of you had ever dared say before.

Between each move he made, he kissed you again — your temple, your shoulder, the soft curve of your wrist, your neck just above the bandage covering your cut. And every time he asked if it was okay, you gave him a variation of the same answer:

“Still okay.”

“Still yes.”

“Still want you.”

His hands moved with aching care — not wandering, but learning. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch of skin, every breath you took beneath him. His mouth found the bruise along your ribs and lingered there, brushing a kiss so gentle it nearly undid you.

When he rose up on his elbows, his hair fell softly around his face. You reached up and tucked it behind his ear, and the way he smiled — shy, grateful, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real — made your heart twist.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, more sure. It was gentle, then a little deeper. Then everything, all at once. His mouth opened against yours and you welcomed him in, arms winding around his back to pull him closer. You felt his weight shift, the warmth of his thigh sliding between yours, the subtle grind of his hips.

His hand found your cheek again before sliding down to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your breasts — then lower. When his fingers finally brushed between your legs, you gasped.

He pulled back instantly, worried. “Too much?”

You shook your head, breathless. “Not at all. Just… it’s you. My brain’s still processing.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

“Keep going,” you whispered.

His fingers moved with cautious intent, like he was still learning you, like he was determined to get it right. He traced slow, deliberate circles, his touch light enough to tease but steady enough to draw a soft moan from your throat.

“That good?” he whispered.

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere behind your breath. “Better than good.”

He kissed your shoulder, your jaw, your lips again — never straying too far from your mouth, as if needing that closeness to anchor him. One finger slipped inside you slowly, then another, stretching you with exquisite care. His other hand cradled the side of your face, grounding you in the moment, in him. Every stroke of his fingers sent heat curling through your belly, your hips tilting toward him without conscious thought. He was watching you now, eyes dark and tender, his breath uneven with each sound you made.

“God,” he murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb softly across your clit. “You’re so responsive.”

You managed a breathless laugh, clinging to him. “Guess we’re finding out a lot tonight.”

He swallowed hard, like he didn’t know what to do with that — like it meant more than either of you were ready to say aloud. But his pace never faltered. He curled his fingers experimentally, eyes never leaving yours, and smiled when you moaned softly.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that.”

You could feel it building, not fast but steady — pressure, heat, ache. But before it crested, before it could consume you entirely, you reached for him.

“Spencer,” you breathed.

And he knew what you meant.

He withdrew his fingers, kissed you like it was the only language he knew — and as your body trembled beneath him, aching for more, he paused.

One hand stayed at your cheek, the other braced beside your shoulder as he shifted his weight between your thighs, lining himself up with deliberate care. He looked down at you then — really looked — as if the entire world had narrowed to the space between your bodies.

“Still okay?” he asked in a soft, comforting whisper. “We don’t have to, you know. We can still stop.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. You reached up, brushing hair back from his forehead again, and held his gaze.

“I know,” you murmured, “but I want this. I want you.”

His breath hitched — and only then did he move.

Slowly, carefully, he eased into you with a soft, broken sound, his breath catching in his throat as your body welcomed him in.

You gasped again, overwhelmed — not just by the sensation, but by the way he fit against you like he was always meant to be there. Like this was what you’d always been waiting for.

You held his gaze like it tethered you to something solid — like it kept you both from slipping back into fear or doubt or the thousand what-ifs still echoing from the day.

He moved cautiously — each roll of his hips asking if you still wanted this, and each time, your body answered by drawing him closer, moaning his name like a promise.

A soft sound escaped your lips as he pressed deeper. You tightened around him, and his breath hitched.

“God,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you feel… incredible.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, your chest rising to meet his. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, exhaling shakily as his hips stilled. “I can’t stop.” His voice dropped, cracked and honest. “This is surreal. And I keep thinking about what could’ve happened if the team didn’t find you in time.”

“Spence,” you said gently, cupping his cheek, “I’m here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

He rocked into you again, the motion tender and deliberate. “I’m not,” he whispered, “not when I’m with you.”

You gasped softly, clutching at his shoulder blades as he began to find a rhythm, unhurried but overwhelming.

“Talk to me,” you breathed. “You always talk when I need it. Can you still do that?”

His forehead rested against yours as he nodded, his voice warm and broken between thrusts. “You’re so beautiful like this. I mean, you’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought that. But this is… something else entirely. And you’re so soft, so open.” He kissed you, slow and searching. “I can feel every part of you. It’s—God, it’s even more than I thought it would be.”

You arched into him, breath catching in your throat. “More?”

He groaned softly, moving deeper, a flicker of something reverent in his eyes. “More real. More… you. You’re letting me see all of you, and I—” His breath faltered. “I don’t want to miss any of it.”

You smiled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer weight of it all. “You’re not. I’m right here.”

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your breath, your softness, your heartbeat against his. And then his hand slid between you, fingers circling where you needed him most — slow at first, then firmer, perfectly in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking with restraint. “Please. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You clung to him, gasping his name, overwhelmed by the way every nerve in your body seemed to fire at once — not just pleasure, but everything: safety, want, the ache of almost losing this before you ever got to have it. Your body arched into him, chasing the edge he offered so tenderly, so completely.

When you finally broke, it was all-consuming — a tremble that started deep inside and rippled outward, your nails digging into his back, your eyes wet, your breath catching on a cry. And as you came apart in his arms, you felt him follow, felt the shudder in his body as he moaned your name against your neck and held you like you were the only real thing in the world.

Afterward, he didn’t move far. Just wrapped his arms around you and held you like a lifeline — like he couldn’t bear to let go even for a second.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence said it all.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, your fingers still trembling slightly. “You were exactly where you needed to be,” you murmured. “Somewhere safe. And you’re here now. We both are.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, slower. Like something steady. Like a promise.

—

Later, beneath the hum of the hotel air conditioner and the softened static of silence, you let your body sink into his. The worst had passed, but the aftershocks of what happened earlier in that warehouse still lived in your body — in the ache behind your eyes, in the way you reached for Spencer without thinking, in the unspoken things now pulsing between you like fresh bruises.

Spencer stayed awake beside you, his fingers tracing quiet, grounding patterns along your spine as his other hand held yours tightly. He looked down at your intertwined fingers and thought about the sea otters again, a small, barely-there smile curling at his lips.

You didn’t know what this would become — only that something had shifted. But as you felt the hush of his breath against your neck, you drifted off. And for first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were bracing for the next wave of tremors.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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ghosts-to-reid · 6 days ago

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His face when he realized 🥺🥺

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ghosts-to-reid · 6 days ago

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Special Agent Fox Mulder Pencil Pitcher

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ghosts-to-reid · 6 days ago

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Tumblr you are a beautiful thing

,,,, hey ,,,,, how y’all doin ,,,,,

#that’s so funny #the notifs TITLE???#THATS BRILLIANT

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ghosts-to-reid · 9 days ago

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stayed up all night reading a fanfic n it turned out to be incomplete and it hasn’t been updated in 3 years

#im guilty of doing this #im sorry guys x

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ghosts-to-reid · 21 days ago

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Spencers Satchel

got emo thinking about what has been in his satchel‼️

this was uploaded more than a week ago on my Patreon! Members also got a new upload this morning titled the Reid effect with dad!spencer🤭🌕

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ghosts-to-reid · 23 days ago

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i'm so done with seeing and finding purely smut fics, what happened to yearning?? what happened to developing plots??character development??fluff?? angst?? hurt/comfort?? what happened to those monologues of characters that hurt your heart and made you go insane AGH

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ghosts-to-reid · 2 months ago

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You really don't know when it began. It certainly wasn't planned. When you met Spencer, you just found him to be a bit quirky, certainly pleasant to be around. You didn't expect this to happen.

The casual moments running into one another turning into invitations to events, to hang outs, to sitting in one another living room, movie nights. He became an integral part of your weekly routine, and you a part of his. At least, when he was around. There were times he'd disappear, and you wouldn't hear much from him. Which was fine, you understood his job well enough from what he'd explained to you.

He'd just gotten back, calling you on the phone with a slightly uneasy voice asking if you'd mind him coming over. You asked if he'd eaten, he said no, so you ordered his favorite take away, and chocolate frosted sprinkled donuts for dessert. You didn't expect to see the sling his arm was in, the scrape along his cheekbone.

A delicious meal and one hell of a story later, you were both sitting on the sofa, and it hits you then. His genuine giggle as he watches the TV, stomach full, body warm, and donut in hand. You love him.

Shit. Shit, shit.

You're so lost in your mind you don't realize his eyes are locked on yours, that gentle furrow to his brow as he asks you if you're okay.

You stare for a moment longer, then push forward before you can overthink it, pressing your lips to his softly. He kisses back immediately, letting out a slight hiss as you part. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sorry, I just-" he looks down at the sling, letting out a breathy chuckle as his cheeks flush pink. Then you laugh. A real genuine laugh. And he laughs in return, realizing how ridiculous it is that one kiss from you was all it took for him to forget himself completely.

You cuddle a little closer on the sofa, and decide you'll talk about it when this episode of Doctor Who is over. You love him. You love him.

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ghosts-to-reid · 2 months ago

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No safety. No food. No aid. No water. No healthcare. No education. Is this what it means to live? Is this what world accept as life?

If a group of animals were trapped, starved, and cut off from the world like this, people would be outraged. But because it's us—human beings—somehow, the world looks away.

These are unbearable days. Everything feels heavy. Each hour presses on my chest like I’m being suffocated.

My family needs urgent help.

Basic survival has become nearly impossible. Bread—just bread—now costs over $25 a day to make.

We are not asking for luxury. We are begging for life.

Please, if you’re reading this: help. Reblog this post. Talk about us. Donate if you can. Even a small act can mean everything right now.

#crisis #humanrights #emergency #donate #pleasehelp #tumblrcommunity #survivestories #reblogtohelp #signalboost

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ghosts-to-reid · 2 months ago

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i’ll miss borrowin’ yours books to read the notes in the margin ꪆৎ

pairing : spencer reid (post prison) x fem!reader

w/c : 2k

genre : ANGST. with a happy ending i’m no sadist

warnings : mentions of emotional distress

summary : spencer reid came back a different man— quiet, closed off, like the parts of him you loved were locked away. but you never stopped waiting. never stopped reading the dog-eared pages and the ink he left behind. and when he finally lets you in, it’s soft, slow and everything he thought he didn’t deserve.

a/n : i had another fic in mind, ended up writing this at 3am… will post the one i had in mind eventually!

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯

It’s been a month and three days since the day Spencer got out of prison— and somehow, it settles like dust in your chest.

Light, but impossible to ignore.

You hadn’t been dating long when he was framed—meeting him in a grief group a few years ago, followed by a run-in at a bookstore.

He handed you a copy of your favourite book, Jane Eyre with notes and commentary: half analysis, half personal tangents.

For a person so awfully shy and awkward with women, he found himself confident enough to say,

“I think you’ll like this”

You fell for him there, in the ink. Spending countless nights reading the books he’d given you, or grabbing one from his home library and shyly asking him if you could borrow it. Hoping to understand his mind. His view on many aspects of life.

You’d never felt so happy. He was there, and suddenly a part of your life was a little brighter than others.

Until he wasn’t there.

His letters stopped— not because he didn’t want to write, but because they wouldn’t let him. Until you had to hear about his bruises, or how you couldn’t visit him anymore.

This left you wondering whether the parts that made him annotate books were still intact—still there for you.

Now it’s been a month. He’s home.

But not entirely.

You catch glimpses of him— when his fingers hover over your books, not quite touching them. When he involuntarily flinches at your touch, whispering hushed apologies. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Doesn’t want to be like this with you.

You started re-reading the Jane Eyre copy he gave you the night you realised Spencer was gone.

It was still on your nightstand, paperback having grown rusty and worn out from how many times you’d picked it up.

He pretended he didn’t see it whenever he was at your place.

Tonight though, he doesn’t pretend.

You’re in the kitchen humming, making dinner for the both of you. Something warm, easy. You thought he was sleeping.

You were proven wrong as he stood in the hallway, a book in his hands. Not just any book— Jane Eyre.

Turning the stove off, you approach him. You didn’t mean for that to happen— For him to hold the book with shaky hands and be unable to meet your gaze.

Dinner is surely long forgotten by now.

“You know, I—“ You started, but the lump in your throat felt heavy. Spencer was still not looking at you.

“I just— I started reading it after you…”

Silence fell upon you. He looked at you, finally. The hurt and amusement in his eyes could almost make you cry— or wrap your arms around him.

God, you wanted to do that for so long.

“You kept it” He spoke, voice barely above a whisper. Like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to say anything at all.

You nod, your lip caught between your teeth. It’s hard for you to explain why— And he should know. He’s a damn profiler for god's sake.

He knows you. He knows that you probably read the book over and over again because it reminded you of him. But it wasn’t just that.

That part he doesn’t know.

You sit in silence that night. Not entirely uncomfortable, and that’s just because you’d managed to get a smile from him. Even if it was wobbly and almost tearful.

A few days later, he’s shut you out again.

Not in the obvious way— he still comes over and spends time with you. He still kisses your forehead goodnight—But there’s a distance. A distance that wasn’t there before.

You noticed he doesn’t touch the book anymore— or you for that matter. He doesn’t touch you unless you initiate it.

You want him to yell— to say anything. You hate this silence— this chill that has settled upon the both of you.

It gets harder when he cancels your plans.

You always invited him over. You knew his home didn’t feel safe for him anymore, and he shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone.

It’s hard for you to understand why he keeps pulling away, especially when he needs someone right now. You wonder if it’s you— if you’re not right for him. If your presence doesn’t bring him comfort.

The thought makes your eyes sting with tears.

You’d shut down that night as well.

Lying on the bed, the copy of Jane Eyre in your hold, blankly staring at it. It’s a hard night. And you don’t feel like holding it in.

Spencer leaves calls, but your phone is on silent. He feels like an ass for pushing you away— canceling your plans.

The silence from your side makes it only worse. He can tell that something is wrong.

It’s like he doesn’t even know himself anymore. He doesn’t understand why he keeps pushing you away— why he has you at arm's length when in reality, you’re his favourite person.

It’s never been you. You were never the problem. But the closer you get, the more he retreats. It’s like he doesn’t want you to see the broken parts of him, the ones that are beyond repair.

Spencer knows you deserve someone better, someone who doesn’t flinch every time they feel vulnerable.

He hates how prison has changed him. How he put up these walls around him and drove you away.

So Spencer sits on his couch, phone in his hands as he struggles with the thought of calling you again. He feels like he doesn’t deserve your voice right now. Not after tonight, or the night before.

He wishes he could tell you that prison didn’t just steal time from him—it stole pieces. Pieces he doesn’t know how to get back. Pieces you used to fit into so easily.

You were probably one of the few people— if not the only person who made him feel seen without judgment. And now, he’s terrified you’d seen too much.

Spencer Reid hopes that another person he cherishes so much hasn’t given up on him yet.

You’re still in bed when you hear the knock on your door— soft, hesitant. Barely there. At first, you think you must’ve imagined it, but it comes again. Three gentle taps.

Spencer.

You move slowly, heart thudding against your chest as you don’t know whether you should feel hope or fear.

Spencer’s already standing there when you open the door. His shoulders are tense, his jaw sharp and expression hard. He prepared for the worst.

Not this.

The sight he was met with— made his face fall entirely. You looked absolutely spent.

Eyes red, rimmed with tears. Your hair was in a messy braid, loose pyjamas on you. You looked as if you’d spent the entire evening in bed.

Which you did.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The look in his eyes is something you hadn’t seen in a while— But you’re sure you’re imagining it. Especially after all those days spent of him pushing you away.

Until he speaks.

“Sweetheart, can you look at me? Come on, baby”

You’re terrified to meet his gaze. You’re so sure for a moment you’re hallucinating. You must be.

He tries to reach for you— grab your wrists. But he’s truly horrified when it’s you who flinches. You’re the one to take a step back— stumbling away from him.

His breath catches, hands falling limply to his sides like he’s just being struck.

“I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—“ He attempts, but the words crash and tangle on his tongue, useless.

He takes another step closer to you.

“Angel—“ He calls gently, the pet name making your eyes tear up again. You hadn’t heard him using those sweet names in such a long time.

You’re still silent.

“You flinched” He says again, voice low.

Bottom lip trembling, you couldn’t meet his gaze yet. You hadn’t meant to flinch— you hated that you flinched. You felt as if you shouldn’t be the one to break down.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me” He speaks softly. “Not ever, not you”

There’s a pause so thick, you could fall right into it. But he stays still now. He doesn’t dare touch you again, even if his whole body aches to.

“I’m not— I’m not afraid of you”, you whisper finally— wiping your tears frantically.

“I’m afraid I’ve already lost you”

It comes out broken. You wanted to curse yourself for falling apart.

In three quick strides, you’re pressed against his chest. One of his hands goes to your head, stroking your hair. The other is on your waist, pulling you tighter as your muffled cries fill the room.

You’d hugged him when he got out— hugged him a few times after that as well. But now, it was different. The feeling of his arms was something you were so sure you’d lost— Something you weren’t used to anymore.

But here he was, holding you.

“No, angel— you haven’t lost me. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry” He whispered, over and over again.

Your cries only intensify, to the point where your knees almost give up. Spencer holds you up, guiding you to the touch where he pulls you in his lap.

“Shh, I’m here” He soothes, peppering kisses on your temple.

“Do you know why—” You started, but the sob in your throat caught you off.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just cradles you closer to him, kissing your forehead again. He decided by then that he’d never let you go again. He didn’t want you to be like this because of him.

“I kept borrowing your books and re-reading Jane Eyre because—“ You paused, taking another shuddering inhale.

“Because reading the notes in the margin made me believe I could understand you”

Your words physically hit him. His grip on you tightens, firm— not painful in any way. He’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you close.

“I never wanted you to feel like you had to read between the lines”, he murmurs— voice rough.

“It was the closest I could come to reading your mind” You continue, the trembling of your lips not being unnoticed.

“Oh, sweetheart” He coos, guiding your head to rest on the crook of his neck again.

He doesn’t realise when— or how, but you’d fallen asleep on him after crying.

It’s the first night you lie tangled up in each other's limbs— The first night he doesn’t wake up plagued by his nightmares.

Small steps.

The next morning, he wakes up before you. He gets your favourite coffee and tries to cook you breakfast but fails miserably so. For someone with an eidetic memory, he sure as hell made you wake up by the smell of burnt toast.

“Spence?” You croak out, padding down the hallway toward the kitchen. You’re tired— events from last night hanging on you heavier than they should.

“Hey, baby,” He says softly, pulling you in for a hug. He hates how you tense at first. He hates himself for causing this to you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, and murmured, “Sorry for the smoke alarm symphony”

You chuckle amidst your sleepiness, arms locking behind his middle. “It’s okay, you tried. That’s what matters”

Spencer feels as if something clicks back into place. There, in the soft morning light— with you in his arms again.

He reads to you for the most of the day— Jane Eyre. The book that brought him to you.

And this time, he’s not reading to escape— he’s reading to stay.

888 notes · View notes

ghosts-to-reid · 2 months ago

Note

hi,

i have a rq for s!10 spencer reid, nsfw, the whole point is that he’s really sloppy while kissing. i have a dim restaurant on a first date in mind, really great chemistry, sexual undertones in conversation. they can end up either on one’s apartment or in the restroom

thanks so much, waiting xx

Loose at the Neck

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Top! Male! Reader

Word count: 2.1k+

DNI: Fem Aligned and Minors

Author's note: Ugh this is such a great idea oh my gosh. I'm.. gonna be so real with you guys, I'm only up to s!9 💔 I looked up some photos of him in s!10 for reference, saw the tie, and got this idea. Hope you enjoy!! :)

It’s times like these where Spencer has no idea if he likes wearing ties or not. Sure, he loves it when you grab it—fist curled tight in the fabric to yank him in for a kiss—but it also takes longer to strip off and just get to you.

But right now? Yeah. He thinks he enjoys them.

Dinner ended a few minutes ago. You’re both tucked away in the darkest corner of a booth at the restaurant Derek insisted was “classy but with potential.” Potential for what, you didn’t ask—but you’re starting to understand. So this is how he gets the girls, huh?

Thankfully, the BAU pays a pretty penny, so neither of you are sweating over the check. The only thing you have to worry about right now is if someone sees Spencer—unbuttoned, flushed—and you, clearly grinding under the low table.

You have him on your lap, his legs straddling your thighs in a position that would look ridiculous if it weren’t so hot. Both of you are hunched down just enough to stay hidden, trying not to rise above the privacy of the booth’s high back.

Spencer loves kissing you. He really does. But every time… he just gets so dumb for it. Can’t think straight. His brilliant mind fogs up, thoughts scattered like static electricity. All he knows is you.

It starts with a brush.

The corner of your mouth catches his when you shift, and that’s all it takes. Spencer freezes for a second—his lips barely parted, his pupils wide like he’s been hit with some kind of chemical high. Then he leans in again, chasing the warmth like he can’t help himself.

His mouth lands a little off-center. His kiss is open, wet, and just shy of desperate. He’s not neat about it—not at all. It’s like he forgets how to kiss with precision, all those sharp edges of his mind turned soft and unraveled under your touch. He sighs into your mouth, then hums, and then groans softly like the sensation is dragging something deep out of him.

It’s messy. His nose bumps yours. His bottom lip drags against your upper one. When he pulls back for breath, a faint string of spit stretches between you for half a second before it breaks, and god, he’s flushed everywhere. Cheeks, ears, even the tips of his fingers where they’ve curled into your shoulders, trimmed fingernails leaving marks through your dress shirt.

“Sorry,” he breathes, blinking like he’s just come up for air. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You did,” you whisper, grabbing the knot of his tie again, pulling him back in. “You want to apologize?” you murmur, fingers sliding along his jaw to tilt his head up again. “You can do it with your mouth full.”

And he melts. You feel it—the way his spine gives, the way his mouth slackens and turns hungry, the way his long fingers clutch your shoulders through your shirt like you might vanish. He kisses you like he’s never kissed a man before. Or maybe like you’re the only one he's ever wanted to. He kisses like he’s never been allowed to want something this much before. Like it’s hunger, not habit.

And the thing is, you love it.

You love how he forgets himself. How he doesn’t care if it’s too eager or too much. How he falls apart with every touch of your mouth. Right here in the back of some overpriced restaurant, wrecked and panting. His tie’s already loose. His curls damp at the edges. And still—he doesn’t stop. He kisses you again and again, tongue against yours, then your cheek, your jaw, the space just below your ear.

The table creaks slightly as you shift, pulling him closer.

“This is…” he murmurs between kisses, “...probably not what Derek had in mind when he recommended this place.”

You laugh against his lips. “He never should’ve given us the booth in the back.”

Spencer grins, and then kisses you again—hot and open-mouthed, with more tongue than finesse, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not even dessert, considering he's sweet enough.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are flushed and unsteady. His curls are wrecked from your hands, your shirt is tugged halfway from your waistband, and your lips—his especially—are red and spit-slick.

You thumb at the corner of his mouth, wiping a smear of your own lip balm from his skin. He licks instinctively, tongue flicking out—and it’s done. You’re lost.

“I need you,” he whispers.

The words are soft, but you feel them like they’ve been shot into your chest.

You barely manage to breathe: “Okay. Your apartment or mine?”

He doesn’t hesitate. His eyes flick toward the hallway.

“That’ll take too long,” he says, already climbing off your lap, tugging you after him. “I need you now.”

The tension between you snaps like a rubber band. In a blur, you're both standing—though calling it “standing” is generous when Spencer’s dragging you behind him by the wrist, half-hiding your joined hands in his suit jacket like two teenagers up to no good.

You slip into the hallway unnoticed, heart thundering in your chest. The lighting is dim back here too, golden and quiet, the music from the main room muffled like it’s been swallowed in velvet.

Spencer shoves the door to the men’s restroom open with one hand. It clicks shut behind you a second later.

You spin him and press him hard into the wall. He gasps, lips parted—ready—but you just look at him for a second. Let him feel how much control you’re holding back.

“Now?” you ask, voice rough, just to watch him nod.

“Yes. Please,” Spencer whispers.

You smile, dragging him in for another kiss—hard, hot, claiming. His hands scrabble for your shirt, but yours are already there, gripping his waist, grinding your hips into his until his knees tremble. You keep him pinned, kissing him like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He moans into your mouth, needy and soft.

You barely pull away to mutter against his lips, “You’re gonna have to keep quiet for me.”

“I’ll try,” he pants, eyes wide, voice wrecked.

“You will.”

His knees nearly buckle.

Being a germaphobe, Spencer never imagined he'd willingly do anything in a public bathroom. But then again, he’s never had someone like you.

It's now you realise you haven't even made it to a stall.

It’s the wall. It’s always the wall—cold tile against Spencer’s back, your palms braced on either side of his head like you’re caging him in, devouring him whole, the back of his pants pull down slightly, with two of your very own fingers searching his insides for that spot that makes him go wild.

He's moaning and crying out, honestly a little scared that someone will walk in, but the pleasure from his lower half pretty much drowns it out, especially when you reach another hand around to his front to rub his very red tip.

"Mmmmph, fuckk.." He bites down on his lips. "S'mbody's gonna walk in.. in on us.." he moans breathily as you bite down on the junction of his neck.

His eyes cross a little inwards as your ring finger presses down on his walls, dead center on his prostate. Seeing his reaction as you put your head on his shoulder to stare at his pretty face, you know you've found it, and, admittedly, decide to abuse that spot.

Fuck, he wants to scream and cry and cum, but you told him to be quiet. So he will.

you gently run your hands over his torso, your fingers light touches contrasted the way your fingers thrusted into his hole, and it drove Spencer crazy, he wasn’t expecting you to be so rough and gentle at the same time, it was mind breaking and almost too much to handle — but he always handled it, he always took everything like a good boy and you made sure he knew that.

“m’gonna cum- oh fuck-” Spencer groaned, his eyes watering desperately as his hands claw at your wrist, blunt nails leaving little marks in their wake as he tries, and fails, to push your hand away from his leaking tip.

He’s so wet, the loud squelching sound causing his ears to go red, a constant reminder of just how horny you can make him — it’s a bit embarrassing really.

“please—, I can’t- fuck” Reid blabbers on, his eyes rolling back as his thighs quiver, ass clenching around your fingers. he’s close, he’s so fucking close and he’s sure you’re about to make him cum, hopefully for the first time that night.

“c’mon baby, can’t have you cumming this hard without my cock, hm?” you say, and by the time you finally, finally slow down and pull out your fingers, Spencer’s lips are wrecked—red and kiss-swollen, spit-slick.

His curls are damp with sweat and frizzing at the edges from where you dragged your fingers through them. His tie hangs off-center, rumpled and caught on one of the buttons you half-ripped open on his shirt.

He looks ruined.

And god, he looks good.

You keep him there for a second longer, body flush against his, your breath ghosting over his neck while he gasps softly in the crook of your shoulder. Your hand slips from his hip to cradle the back of his head, grounding him as his knees wobble.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him.

Spencer’s eyes flutter open. They’re glassy and dazed, like he’s not entirely sure what dimension he’s in. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. He licks his lips, blinks once, and then leans forward like he needs to kiss you again just to stay upright.

You stop him with a hand under his chin, thumb brushing his lower lip.

“Breathe,” you murmur. “You with me?”

He nods, but it’s lazy. Distant. Like his brain’s still playing catch-up. “Mhm.”

When you finally let him go, Spencer sags a little, head tilted back to rest against the cool tiles. You reach down to fix his collar, tucking the edges of his shirt in just enough that he looks barely decent again.

He watches you do it, eyes fluttering every time your fingers brush his throat.

“…You are dangerous,” he mumbles, voice low and hoarse.

You huff a quiet laugh, smoothing his tie. “You dragged me in here, remember?”

“I didn’t know I’d survive it.”

You lean in again, brushing your lips over his jaw as you murmur, “You did more than survive, baby.”

The word makes him shiver. You feel it all the way down his spine.

Spencer stares at you, lips parted, absolutely blissed out. “You can’t just call me that after—after that—”

You raise a brow. “After what?”

He whines, quietly, and thumps the back of his head on the wall once. “You know what. You know what.”

You chuckle and offer him a hand. “Come on. Before someone walks in and you have to crawl out the window to save face.”

He takes your hand but doesn’t let go when he stands. In fact, he twines your fingers together and holds on like he doesn’t trust his legs yet. When you open the door to peek out, he ducks close behind you, still breathing just a little too fast.

The hallway’s empty. You pull him out, keep walking until you hit the front of the restaurant again. The maître d’ glances at you both—then quickly looks away. Spencer’s tie is crooked. Your shirt’s unbuttoned at the collar, your hair mussed. You look thoroughly disheveled.

Neither of you says anything until you’re outside, the warm night air hitting your face like a wake-up call.

Spencer blinks up at you, flushed and glowing. “So…”

You smirk. “Still glad you wore the tie?”

He laughs—soft and breathless—and nods, squeezing your hand. “Yeah. Though next time I might just wear a collar and save you the effort.”

You raise a brow. “Careful, doctor. I might take that seriously.”

He shrugs. Innocent smile, flushed cheeks. “Maybe I want you to.”

You stop dead on the sidewalk.

He keeps walking a few steps before turning back, smirking now—full of mischief, eyes glinting in the low light.

You take one slow step toward him, then another.

“I hope you know,” you murmur, catching him by the tie again, “you’re not getting out of my sight the rest of the night.”

“I was counting on that,” he says, breath catching as you pull him close again. “Your place?”

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ghosts-to-reid · 2 months ago

Note

Hi!

I have a request for early seasons Spencer in a relatively new relationship Sleeping over at readers place the first time. Spencer being nervous about cuddling and affection in general.

Just straight up the fluffiest fluff imaginable.

Thank you! I’ll be waiting

The First Time— Not Like That.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Word count: 1.4k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: This is such a cute idea, i just knew i had to get to it straight away! Honestly I'm writing this from experience, based on how I acted when i went to my fiance's house for the first time lol. Hope you enjoy!! :))

Idiot.

That's the one way Spencer would describe himself as of this current moment.

Sure, he has the vocabulary of the entire oxford dictionary stuck in his head, but right now? He's an idiot. An awkward idiot. An awkward idiot who's standing in your bedroom doorway as you make yourself comfortable, urging him to join.

And he’d nodded, murmured a quiet “okay,” and then proceeded to do absolutely nothing that resembled any form of movement towards you.

He’s been stiff all evening.

Like, noticeably stiff.

His satchel is still sitting by your front door, half-unzipped, like even his belongings aren’t sure if they’re allowed to stay. He’d perched on the edge of your couch like it was some sort of Victorian chaise reserved for royalty. You’d offered him tea—made it exactly how he liked, with three sugar packets already stirred in and the fourth one left on the saucer in case he wanted to make it obnoxiously sweet, the way you’d teased him about once before. And he’d smiled, almost shy, like the gesture meant more to him than he could put into words.

But the cup’s still full. Barely touched. Lukewarm now. He had just been holding it, fingers wrapped too tight around the ceramic, eyes flicking around your apartment like he was trying to memorize every detail while simultaneously calculating the fastest exit route in case he accidentally makes a fool of himself.

He didn't know where to put his shoes. You had to gently nudge him into taking them off when he stepped onto the carpet like he was entering hallowed ground. He apologised when he used your hand towel. He asked if he should sit somewhere else when you curled up next to him during the movie.

You’re not offended. Not even a little. You know this is new for him—being in someone else’s space like this. Being wanted, and welcomed, and safe. You know he’s used to chaos, to hotel rooms and BAU briefings, to walls that aren’t really his and spaces that don’t feel like home.

So this? This quiet apartment. This night off. This soft bed with the creaky springs and the extra blanket you laid out just in case.

This is probably the most foreign territory he’s had to navigate in a while.

You’d kissed his cheek earlier—casual, sweet—and you felt the way he shivered. Not from discomfort. From something deeper. Reverent. Like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Now, he’s standing in your bedroom doorway like crossing the threshold might set off some emotional tripwire, and you're here, inviting him to bed— WOAH. Not like that. At least.. he thinks so? No matter how fast he thinks, that's a little too fast for him right now.

But he wants to cuddle. Of course he does. He’s been thinking about it all evening, the way your arms would feel around him, the weight of your hand between his shoulder blades, your heartbeat steady under his ear. And now you’re right here, just a breath away, and he’s… frozen.

He can't. He just can't. What if he starts sweating really badly? Like, from his hands. Or worse, his pits. And then you’ll wrinkle your nose and shift away, and then you’ll think he’s gross and never invite him over again. And what if—God—what if he drools in his sleep?

Woah. He paused. That was a spiral. He needs to take a deep breath, like you taught him. You'd never do something like that.

..Right?

He inhales.

Then exhales.

Then does it again, slower this time—like you’d coached him through after a particularly stressful case, sitting knee-to-knee in your living room with his hands in yours, teaching him how to ground himself. You’d said it so gently. "In through the nose, Spence. Hold it. Out through the mouth. Good."

He should do that now. He really should. Because you're not even looking at him like he's weird. You're just… waiting. Lying there on your side, propped up on one elbow, watching him with the softest little smile. You even patted the space next to you, like some sort of romantic invitation he’s terrified to accept.

Spencer wrings his hands, then stops when he realizes that might just activate the dreaded palm sweat. He drops them to his sides instead and shuffles a little closer, still hovering awkwardly by the bed like a stray cat that doesn’t quite trust the food bowl isn’t a trap.

“You okay?” you ask, voice light and full of affection. Not mocking. Never mocking.

“Y-yeah,” he croaks, which is exactly what someone not okay would say. “Just—uh. Processing.”

Your brows lift, amused but patient. “Processing whether or not you’ll survive cuddling me?”

“Exactly,” he says, pointing at you like you’ve just solved a riddle. “That. Yes.”

You laugh, and god, it’s the prettiest sound. You hold your arms open toward him like a promise. “Come here, you dramatic little beanpole. I won’t bite.”

He flushes immediately. Beanpole? He’s going to think about that for the rest of his life. But he moves, slowly, carefully, like he's approaching some sacred relic. He climbs into bed next to you with all the grace of a baby giraffe learning to walk, knees knocking into yours, elbow accidentally jabbing your pillow, and—

Then your hand finds his.

Soft. Sure.

He shuts his eyes and takes a breath, like you taught him to. In for four. Out for four.

"Spence?" Your voice cuts gently through the quiet. He feels it before he hears it—low and close, humming through the mattress. "You okay?"

He turns his head slightly, cheeks already pink. “Yeah. I just… don’t really know what to do with myself.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Do you wanna lie here?” You tap your chest lightly with a crooked smile. “Just for a bit.”

He blinks. Looks at you. Then nods, tiny and quick, like a secret.

He shifts slowly, like you’re a museum piece he doesn’t want to break. When he finally settles on your chest, it's with an exhale he didn’t realise he was holding. His ear rests just over your heart, and your arm curls instinctively around his back, hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades.

You’re warm. And steady. He can feel the way your chest rises beneath him, the slow rhythm of your breathing, the soft pressure of your palm.

And Spencer?

Spencer dies.

Or at least it feels like it. His heart is racing, and his lungs might have just stopped functioning, and he has no idea what to do with his free hand because oh, God, it’s touching your waist, and you’re warm and your hair smells so good and he’s probably holding his breath again but—

You sigh against him, content and safe, like you want to be here.

And suddenly it’s not so terrifying anymore. His muscles begin to loosen. He dares to stop holding his cheek up, like he's scared that his brain a made of a million sand bags and will crush your heart if he dares to allow himself to relax. You push his head down onto you completely, and hum in approval.

“Is this okay?” you ask.

He nods against you. “It’s… really nice, actually.”

You hum, thumb brushing slow circles into his spine. “Good. 'Cause I was worried you’d combust from overthinking.”

Spencer huffs a laugh into your shirt, eyes fluttering shut. “I almost did.”

There’s a study—somewhere in his head—about how 20 seconds of hugging can significantly reduce stress levels. He remembers reading it on his computer once, the details etched into his eidetic memory. But more than that, he remembers the day vividly because you had brought him a croissant from the bakery across the street!

The study involved nearly 200 participants who were subjected to a stressful task. Those who received a 20-second hug from their partner beforehand exhibited lower cortisol levels, the hormone associated with stress.

Now, lying here with his ear pressed against your chest, he counts the seconds. Not because he wants to leave, but because, for once, the math feels kind. He recalls that oxytocin, the "love hormone," is released during physical touch, promoting feelings of trust and bonding. This hormone can reduce cortisol levels, the body's primary stress hormone.

He thinks about how this simple act of cuddling, something so foreign to him, is now providing a tangible sense of calm. The tension in his muscles eases, and he feels a sense of peace wash over him. It's as if the scientific principles he's studied for years are now manifesting in real-time.

Spencer smiles softly, his eyes closed, and thinks, "So this is what all the research was about."

277 notes · View notes

ghosts-to-reid · 2 months ago

Text

As Cool As I Think I Am

Summary: The 5 times Spencer tries to be cool, and the 1 time he doesn't care.

Alternatively; Spencer never thought he was cool, but he found himself wanting to be just for you.

[a/n] Recommended to be read after, "A Question Unasked", and is a roundabout sequel to "Mixed Messages."

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem! (mentored by Hotch!) reader| cw: slight spoilers for s1e04, s1e06, s1e08, s1e10, and s1e18 | description of canon-typical violence, timeframe switches because I can, and Spencer being an oblivious, lovesick idiot (can't believe this version of him survived all of this lol) | word count: 7.2k

Amazing. You had called him, “amazing” during the Arizona case and that was all that had been occupying his mind as of late. He had been called brilliant before. Been described as bright, gifted, hell, he was called a genius even. Yet that was the first time anyone had said anything positive about him.

Removed from his intellectual capabilities.

It made him think that there was more that he could offer than just his never-ending stream of knowledge and incessant rambling.

You had seen that in him.

Seen that he was 'amazing.'

But he certainly wasn’t feeling that way now.

“On SWAT we broke shots down into three steps." Spencer nodded as he listened.

"One: Front sight. Focus on the front sight, not on the target. Two: Controlled trigger press. Three: Follow through. After the shot, you come right back to the target. Now, what did you do wrong?”

He sighs with his eyes closed. “I didn't follow through.”

“Right. You came off the target to see where you hit.”

Hotch had been observing him for the past few minutes to prepare him for his assessment tomorrow, and yet it still felt like he was making no discernable progress.

He had memorized every trick, every form, every physics interplay that could better the ballistics of his shot and yet he still couldn't do it.

"Hotch, my firearms qualification is tomorrow morning. I barely passed my last one." He had said, putting the gun down.

He feels his unit chief gently push him aside to demonstrate and he gets in position.

"Front sight," He aims his gun.

"Trigger press," He presses down on the trigger, resulting in a gunshot to the target.

"Follow through." He finally says. Keeping his eyes forward with his finger still depressing the trigger until he holsters his gun again.

"You do those three things, you'll hit your target every time." Spencer shakes his head.

He tries to replicate the steps again, but only fails miserably.

He has been doing that. He is doing that. And yet he still keeps missing.

If this wasn't part of his job, maybe he wouldn't have cared all too much about his gun proficiency. Or lack of.

And yet it was.

And it was imperative that he learned it to keep his place on the team, but he had been losing hope.

"They're going to take away my gun."

Sensing his frustration, Hotch empathizes with him.

"Profilers aren't required to carry." He groans at that.

"Yeah, but she does and she's great at it."

God, you must've thought he was pathetic.

Aaron laughs internally at that. He knows exactly who the younger one is talking about.

He had seen the way that Spencer had been watching his 'protege,' and it didn't take being a profiler to know that he was absolutely smitten. If he hadn't known any better, he would've thought that Reid's frustrations stemmed from wanting to seem more experienced in front of you.

And Hotch saw no problem with that, at least for now. On the contrary, the two of you working together seemed to have bolstered his focus on the case. Making the team more efficient with their investigations.

He also thinks that it helped because you seemed to return Reid's sentiment, which is why he had brought you along to help him.

So when Spencer turns and sees you walk in, he blanches.

As much as he really liked your presence (you were friends, right?), he really didn't want to embarrass himself in front of you.

He does that more than enough on his own.

But it seemed like your mentor didn't care.

Hotch says your name with a greeting before excusing himself which tells Spencer that he had planned this from the start. He sighs at that. Chest feeling heavy at the pressure.

He sees you give him a polite smile, which he's come to recognize to be your way of easing him, and he returns it.

"I've heard about your progress." Spencer rolls his eyes at that.

"More like regress. I'm sorry that you have to be here." You snort at his joke but shake your head to assure him.

"I'm right where I want to be. "

His heart fills, even though he knows that not what you meant.

"Why don't you go ahead and show me how you fire that gun?"

He nods and waits for you to put on your ear muffs and goggles before he returns to his position. Calming himself down as he remembers Hotch's words.

Front sight, trigger press, follow through.

He fires three bullets and sees them all hit the whites of the target, which makes him sigh for the umpteenth time.

He puts the gun down and lowers his ear muffs to look at you. Seemingly deep in thought, chin resting on your hand, with eyes travelling slowly up and down his form. Observing.

Scrutinizing.

Assessing.

He can't help but feel naked under your gaze.

He always knew you were smart. The cases you've helped solve were more than proof of just that, but he knew that even you couldn't solve the mystery that was his aim.

He couldn't expect that of you. He relies on you so often already.

He briefly wonders how there's such a different between you and him. You joined the same year, joined the same unit, and worked with the same people on the same cases. How was it that you seemed calmer, cooler, and more prepared for anything more than he ever was?

Spencer firmly believes that intelligence cannot be quantified. And if anyone ever doubted him, he would just point at you and say that you had him beat everywhere despite what any number might have to say otherwise.

Case and point. you had been talking to him about something very important and thoughtful and he had been zoning out the entire time.

"I um,–– what?"

You shake your head and gesture to his gun once more. "Show me your form again."

He takes his gun hesitantly, but readies himself the same way he did earlier. The only exception being that his finger isn't on the trigger.

He hears that telltale, almost bored, 'hm' of yours before you speak again.

"Tuck your chest in."

He's read countless firearm manuals and instructions and he's never heard of that before.

"I'm sorry?"

"Tuck your chest in." You say it again, but it's still not making sense to him.

Unable to voice or even act upon his confusion, he watches as you wait with an impassive face before asking,

"Can I touch you?" He lets out a shaky, but immediate 'yes' and you move to stand beside him.

Given your calm and nonchalant demeanor, he anticipates a more impersonal touch. For lack of a better word. He expects a shove. Maybe a push, to correct him into the right place.

So when your hand comes to softly rest on his stomach, fingers splaying across the expanse of his undefined abdominal muscles, he feels his breath hitch. Upper body slightly crumpling in on himself as he does.

He's surprised he hasn't dropped his gun.

"Dr. Reid,"

He's also surprised that his heart hasn't stopped. With how you said his name, and how close you are– he can already feel your soft breath gracing his ear–

"You're an autodidact, aren't you?"

A self-taught person, he thinks.

"I–– I am." Curse his shaky voice.

"You know, there are some things that can't be learned by just reading textbooks and looking at diagrams."

He feels you tap his stomach and he suddenly feels hot.

"Feel this?" He feels you engulfing his senses, that's for sure. But he nods slowly.

"Remember it. Your center of gravity is different from the subjects in those graphics. So the form you need to take is likewise different."

And just like that, all too quick for his liking, you move away. Hand leaving him just like whatever depraved thought might've been running around his head.

He hesitantly looks back at you, and you gesture to his gun again. Noticing how your free hand is resting on the gun in your holster.

A Glock 19, he remembers.

"Go ahead and shoot like that now."

He does, in the same way that he's compelled to follow your voice like always–

Front sight, trigger press, follow through.

And fires three shots.

To his surprise, he manages to shoot the target's chest. Not quite centered, he admits, but its a vast improvement from his previous attempts.

"I– I did it." He feels the disbelief on his face when he looks at you again. He's expecting you to look just as shocked as he does. After all, you saw just how egregious his aim was. So it surprises him when he turns and is greeted instead with the small smile on your face.

Not the same polite smile that you usually give when you're at work, no. It was a soft, genuine smile, or so he thinks.

"I never doubted your capabilities, Dr. Reid."

He beams under your praise. Blooming like a flower under the warm radiance of the Sun. Once again subject to that brain-freezing sensation from a few weeks ago.

If he just remembers everything you told him today, which wasn't a lot, he theoretically should pass his firearm qualifications with no problem.

And maybe, just maybe, he'll get to see you smile at him again.

After all, he had always wanted for you to look at him. Actually look at him.

Maybe if he passes his test this time, you will.

----

The following day, he doesn’t pass his test.

And he is much more embarrassed now than he ever was before.

He returns to the bullpen with his head down. Already expecting everyone to know of his failure.

He really didn't want to see if you were one of the ones that had been looking at him.

What he doesn't see is that you were.

But you weren't disappointed at all. You wanted nothing more than to reassure him. To tell him that you could always help him again, and that you didn't mind the extra work if it weren't for the stares that you had been getting back.

Seemingly turning your what-would've-been act of friendship and care into an expectation and responsibility.

"Make a wish!"

"Come on, man. Blow, baby, blow!"

"I thought you were full of hot air, Reid."

"They're trick candles, Spence, okay? They–– They're going to come back on every time."

While Spencer is glad that he’s spending his birthday with actual people, there's one in particular that he's missing.

He also feels sort of embarrassed that he's having a full-on birthday at his workplace. Though he is very thankful that his friends care about him enough to do this.

"Hope you like chocolate." JJ says with a laugh and he is only now recognizing the cake. Previously too caught up in blowing out the undying flames to even notice the festive dessert that supported them.

"Where's the cake from?" The blonde only gives him a look that he can't quite understand, but he is immediately distracted when he feels a draft from where Hotch passes by him.

He looks in the direction he came from and lo and behold, he found the very person he was missing.

He gets up, wanting to at least get a greeting from you, but he's interrupted by Gideon asking him something before he can even try.

"You having fun?"

He knows that he's asking him, but he can also see how his eyes aren't quite addressing him back. Instead, looking up a few inches above him.

He gives a tight lip smile when he realizes just what he's looking at.

God, he felt pathetic.

“Yes, definitely. I am definitely– having fun.”

"Make a wish?" He asks another question and that’s when Spencer sees what he's doing now.

Ever since he first exhibited signs of interest in you, he knew that his mentor would be the first to clock them. He couldn't even hide it if he tried. If there was anyone on the team that he knew would figure it out this quick, it would've been him.

He expected it.

What he didn't expect was for Gideon to show disapproval for it.

For you.

Back during the Arizona case, he remembers how Gideon had interrupted you when you were explaining something. And that's when he realized you were going to have a hard time.

You were going to have a hard time because of his own rapidly growing interest.

Because he froze when you said one nice thing about him, then proceeded to wow him with your observational skills.

He didn't want Gideon to think that you were being a distraction to him, so he instead chose to show just how well the two of you had worked together. Even going as far as to double down and reiterate your statements to convince him of that.

And it seemed to have worked, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Can I take this hat off?"

He wanted nothing more than to do just that before you notice him, but his mentor just shook his head.

"I wouldn't."

He doesn't know it's because Gideon knew you found it cute.

By the time that he notices the elder doesn't really care about the conversation anymore, probably too distracted by the TV behind him, his gaze finally focuses on you.

The very person that he had intended to talk to.

The one he intended to talk the entire time before he got sidetracked.

You still hadn't turned to look at him though, or make an attempt to greet him. Not even a laugh to mock him for the huge, 'Happy Birthday' hat that sat on his head to make him look like a dunce!

Instead, you were staring at something. Or rather, someone.

He turns his head to look just where you were and there he sees his unit chief, your mentor, on the receiving end of your intense gaze.

Just like always.

He shakes his head and decides to just go talk to you, but he is once again interrupted. This time by Hotch with a solemn expression on his face.

“Sorry guys. Party’s over.”

You immediately spring into action at his words, completely missing his hand that was just about to come up to wave at you. He tightens his lips into a thin smile.

Spencer's starting to doubt Morgan and Elle's words.

–––––––––––––

The sentiment is rectified when he finally receives the one thing he had been looking forward to on his birthday, and it wasn't the gift.

Not even the greeting.

It was being able to be in your presence. Being able to spend time with you. The you that wasn't so stressed or strict about work, or the case, or your boss.

It was just him and you. You and him. And the scarf that seemed to warm him just as much as his heart warmed at the sight of your smiling face.

God, what he would do to have this with you forever.

Spencer is well aware that likes you.

Hell, even the rest of team knows it by now, but he's starting to fear that his unconscious mind is more aware of that than his conscious one.

Case and point, he had been having dreams.

Nightmares, actually.

Nightmares that he can't help but think will happen if he takes his eyes off of you for even a second.

Morgan had asked him earlier when he was making coffee if something was causing him to lose sleep. If you had been causing him to lose sleep, he had asked with a teasing smirk.

And while normally he would've flushed and stumbled at his implication that a night of you had been keeping him up, he admits to what's been plaguing his mind.

Naturally, he doesn't tell him the full nature of his night terrors. But his friend doesn't need him to. Not with the way that his eyes try to find yours every chance he gets, focus going in and out of the conversation like an adjusting lens.

Spencer fears that one day, no matter how strong or smart or clever you are, it's his negligence that'll place you on the receiving end of a killer's weapon.

And that there's nothing that he can do to stop them from landing the finishing blow.

He knows that it's not rational, but he also knows that dreams are rarely, if not never, rational. Studies show that around seventy to eighty-percent of dreams contain bizarre or irrational elements. This included unusual settings, impossible scenarios, and illogical developments to be featured in the unconscious brain.

Doesn't mean that he's alright with seeing it so often, though.

What's worse is that he knows that it can very much happen during the BAU cases. And that he can't even prepare himself for that scenario.

He's practically deadweight on the field with his still erratic aim and bambi legs, he's surprised you aren't sick of him yet.

He laughs a bit at the thought. Clutching a portion of his scarf—the only thing that has been keeping the nightmares at bay— as he promises himself that he won't leave your side.

Especially not in the confounding forest of McAllister, Virginia.

Which is why he's stuck in his current position.

“Dr. Reid, I need you to check back downhill and see if the deputies have returned.” He looks at you incredulously.

“What? No! I can’t leave you here– ”

He doesn't know what exactly you found in the abandoned house, but he knew that it wasn't wise to leave you with no one but a high schooler.

You might think he's not all that different from the kid, but he's at least trained to be an FBI agent.

“We need the rest of the sheriffs and the crime scene team here.”

You looked dead into his eyes, yet he still didn't relent. No matter how reasonable your request was.

In any other situation, he might've thought you were cool. That you were handling the situation like a natural, and that you were very responsible for taking charge when he was there with his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

But he didn't want to leave you. Not when you looked like you've just seen a ghost.

He grasped your shoulders, firmly but gently, and practically begged for you to come with him.

Stating that what you were feeling was a completely normal physiological response. That your body was sending neropinephrine to your brain to help regulate the stress and compensate for whatever was happening inside of you and that it would be safer to stay together––

But when he sees you ice him out– concealing all remaining traces of shock or fear or worry– he freezes.

His eyes raked across your features, biding his time. Committing every micro-reaction, every hair out of place, every faux-calm movement of your eyes before he had to let you go with a nod. Leaving hurriedly to find anyone that can help and constantly looking back at you to assure his consciousness that you were fine, and that you would be fine.

When he saw that the other sheriff wasn't there yet, much less anyone for that matter, he immediately went back. Running uphill fast to get to you.

To make sure that you were alright, that you were alive, and that no one was coming to hurt you.

Which is how he found himself here.

Gun held to his head by the very high schooler that, he thought, wouldn't have been of help if another dangerous person had shown up.

When you raised your hands and dropped your gun in surrender, he was scared of what would happen to you both if he didn't act quick.

But he was even more scared of what could happen to you if he doesn't talk his way out.

Fast.

So that's what he did.

––––––––––

He didn't get to check on you, he realizes.

He knew you were able to knock the kid out, he was there when he helped you distract him, but he must’ve been wheezing because he was the first one to get ushered out and checked on.

He wants to tell them to check on you. That you had landed pretty badly when the unsub was able to push you back, but he can hardly even hear his own thoughts.

The siren of the police car, the medic talking to him, the rest of the team discussing the case's outcome, and his own heart in his ears were simply too much for him.

By the time that things had settled down, he notices that you still aren't there with him. He worries and whips his head around wildly before his eyes find yours already looking at him.

Doing so with an expression of regret or grief etched onto your face.

He sighs in relief, and gives you the best smile he can give to assure you that he's okay despite having been worried sick.

He needed you to know that he was fine. That it wasn’t your fault. That he was glad you're okay too.

That he was so impressed with what you had done despite the circumstances, and that you had handled the situation way better than he knew anyone on the team ever could.

So when you seem to turn away from him, he briefly wonders if something was actually wrong.

He tries to look back on what might've happened. Wonders if there's something he didn't see when he came back, or when he was away––

And that's when he realizes something.

Could he have put you in more danger when he came back to check on you? That he had accidentally sabotaged your takedown?

He sighs. He must've looked so pathetic in front of you getting grabbed like that–– but he's not sorry.

He had been doing that for your safety and for his own peace of mind–– he wasn't going to apologize for caring about you.

He'll make it up to you somehow.

The next time you go on another case together, which you two inevitably will, he'll make it up to you.

That, he promises.

He actually doesn't get to work with you again. So he decides that he can make it up to you by narrowing down the unsub's identity.

In fact, he hasn't seen you at all since the team first arrived at the crime scene.

You had been working with Hotch and Morgan on more field operations, leaving him with Elle and Penelope doing background checks on possible suspects. And while he wasn't with you, he'd like to think that he's still enjoying the company.

Well, that's what he would like to think.

He has no problems working with Elle. She was a nice colleague that seemed to occasionally humor his rants and got the job done quickly. And Penelope was someone that the both of you really got along with. Occasionally having this back and forth unique to the three of you.

But they weren't you.

Still. What he thought about you can wait later. He still has to think about his escape route if the two break out into a fight.

Right now, the three of them had staked out one Michael Russo who they anticipated would call his hitman, the suspected Unsub. They were hoping to get a name from what they could pick up from his end of the call, and they did.

Problem was,

"Russo's got eleven associates named Vincent." Spencer raised his brows at that.

Vincent is a name of Latin origins. He shouldn't be surprised that the mob had a handful of people with that name, but it was kind of too on the nose at this point.

"Oh, make that ten. Vincent Cellito died last summer. But here's something––Vincent Sartori."

He really wants to find this guy, so he chooses to keep looking through the list. Ignoring the growing tension between the two girls.

"Currently doing six at Dannemora for racketeering."

Spencer then speaks up again, "How about this Perotta? There's not much on him."

Garcia makes quick work to pull up what seemed to be deleted records and that's where they find something interesting.

"Alcohol addiction at 14, violent outbursts, assaults,–– Once threw a Molotov cocktail at someone sitting in their car." She can't believe what she's reading.

"Several notations for aggression," He adds, but this is where he sees something truly wrong.

"He once scheduled a visit to an infirmary to gain access to a–– boy who looked at him for too long?"

He really didn't want to meet this guy.

"No fear, no remorse, quick temper. And he was smart enough to stay off the radar as an adult," Elle interprets. "Paranoid personality. Could be our guy."

And he really didn't want you to meet him either.

All the evidence is stacking up against him though, so you just might have to. He just wished that nothing bad would happen when you did.

––––––––––

While right now they weren't sure if he was the unsub, he was definitely someone who fit their profile. He saw some LEO's bring in a guy who had essentially been cuffed at every limb, accompanied by Hotch and Gideon, but he had yet to see the others.

He sees Morgan, who is walking alongside Elle (she went to see what all the commotion was about) but with who he sees next, he feels his stomach drop. Heart rate spiking in contrast to an all time high that he's practically sure he has tachycardia.

"What happened to you!?"

He got up from his seat to run over but you just shake your head.

You had come back with your clothes and hair in disarray, a bleeding nose, and a a busted lip. A complete disparity to the normally clean-cut and professional look that you had strived to maintain.

Even when you had been tackled to the ground a few cases back, the damage wasn't nearly as bad as this.

It's Derek that answers his question for him though.

"Perotta hit your girl up in the head, Reid." He chooses to ignore the joke. Too worried as he tries to check on your head but you just softly squeeze his hands to reassure him before you push them away.

Still not looking at him as you finally speak.

"It wasn't that bad. He hesitated. It could've been worse."

He doesn't like your answer.

If you had just been hit in the head and yet your nose is bleeding, that was a clear sign of a concussion. And the cut on your lip had to be from a fall. On asphalt or onto another material, it didn't matter to him since both are just as bad.

As he expresses that, you just tell him to drop it and then move away from him.

Before he can say more however, Hotch comes back into the room with his usually stern expression. A bit of worry lacing his tone, Spencer notes, as he orders you.

"Go home."

He's staring you down, but it seemed you had a lot more to say to that.

"Sir Hotchner, I would be of much more use in here. It is imperative that all available resources are focused on the retrieval of James Baker." He sighs because you're right, but that doesn't seem enough to satisfy you.

The boy-genius hates it when you use reason to get your way.

"Fine. Help Reid and the others with the evidence. We can narrow down his area of operation from there. They should be arriving soon."

You shake your head adamantly. "Sir, I can handle the interrogation--"

"No you can't!"

Spencer surprises himself with his outburst, but you don't even turn to look at him.

It's Hotch that gives him a very pointed stare though before continuing,

"Reid is right, agent. We'll handle the interrogation, so please busy yourself here." He says it with a finality that is indicative of his departure but you stop him one last time. Hand going up to rest on your mentor's collar.

He sees you gesture to your own, and Spencer hears an intention in your voice that he can't quite understand.

"Let's not give him a weapon, sir. He's pretty strong."

He sees his boss nod, and he takes off his tie. Putting the cloth into your awaiting hand, and you grip it out of instinct.

Reid zones out as he sees this interaction in disbelief. Did you normally touch the others like this?

You had completely brushed off his concern, not even looking at him. And yet when it was your unit chief that told you to do so, you had simply followed?

He thought he was starting to become an exception to you, but had he been reading the signs wrong? It could very much be a possibility as he was never good at doing so.

Even later when he had been sifting through the bags from the suspect's van, you still didn't respond to him. Even going as far as to ignoring Penelope's offer to watch the tapes they had found in Perotta's van. Shaking your head, 'no' with a faraway look in your eyes.

Just what had exactly happened while he wasn't by your side?

At this point, Spencer’s convinced that you would never like him.

If not for you having eyes on literally anyone else but him, then definitely because he had disappointed you. Desecrated the honor that came with being an FBI agent.

Just because he had been distracted.

A whirlwind of emotions had been flurrying inside him since the very beginning of this case, but he swears that he had never meant for this.

He doesn't even remember how it happened. Which baffled him, given his memory. But he thinks it's because he couldn't have cared less about the past few hours.

He had been stuck babysitting Lila only because you had told him so. Entrusted him with her because you thought that he was the best person to guard her, to comfort her.

He didn’t know it was because you had a feeling he’d be safer by her side.

And some part of him was flattered that you had said all this about him. Especially when all Lila would hear from him were endless praises of your name, of your work, and your caring nature.

But another part of him felt ignored. Pushed aside.

He doesn't know when it had happened, but Hotch had stopped pairing you together some cases ago. Saying something about you needing physical training, though he sincerely doubted that.

He thought that things were going well between you two. He had just been trying to find the perfect window where you would see him in a good enough light.

A good enough light that would make you say 'yes' to going on a date with him.

He didn't even care that the pretty blonde was interested in him. He only agreed because you stressed her safety more than any other target thus far. But the attention that she was giving him?

That was all that he wanted from you.

All he'd been wanting for months.

And when he had kissed her, all he could think about was you. How it would've felt if it was you in his arms, how you would react if it had been you that he was touching.

But then immediately after, how you would react to him kissing another girl.

God, he was pathetic.

He knew that you had been having a hard time lately. And he also knew that it had a lot to do with your work, how he did his, and his safety. That was all you ever stressed about when you were with him.

If he was safe.

You'd think he'd learn that by now, but he hasn't. Which is why even when he knew all this, his heart still ached as he sees you cry into Morgan's arms. Sobbing like no tomorrow. All because of something he did.

All because he took all your hard work, that had been focused on keeping him alive, and essentially throwing it right back at your face.

His negligence did that.

And he supposes that now, he can't do anything to get into your good graces anymore. Not when Derek Morgan seemed to better at doing his job as a federal agent, and his job as your friend.

When he finally gets changed into dry clothes and enters Lila's house, he doesn't miss the way that you turn from him. He also doesn't miss the glare the other agent was giving him. Nor the careful hand that had been rubbing up and down your arm.

Something that he wished he could've been doing instead.

––––––––––

God, he wanted to be anywhere but here, considering this is where it all went downhill.

"Did you give Lila Archer a collage?" Gideon had started the interrogation, so even if he did want to leave, he couldn't.

"What?"

"There's a photographic collage above Lila Archer's sofa. She says you gave it to her."

But the faster that they could get this done, the faster he could apologize to you.

"So? I didn't make the damn thing." Parker had laughed out, clearly not comprehending the severity of the situation.

"So you just happened to give her a work of art containing most of her life in it?" Spencer pushed but was surprised to see his ex-classmate seemingly have no recollection of the situation at all.

Something was wrong.

If it wasn't him, then who––?

"I––no, no. Look, I lied. I just wanted her to like me. I met her here, and she was a fan of art. Someone gave me the piece to give to her, but I told her it was from me."

It can't be––

"I said I found it, and I thought she'd love it."

"And who gave it to you?" Morgan had finally asked.

"Her name's Maggie Lowe. She uh––She works on Lila's show."

When Spencer hears this, he immediately goes to call you on his phone. Maggie Lowe had gone to Juilliard with Lila and was the production assistant that he swore he saw go in and out of her trailer.

If he wasn't so distracted, he would've fucking noticed that.

But his phone doesn't even ring for a few moments before the call is declined.

What the fuck was happening?

Before he could ask anyone else, he heard Derek speak up.

“Sweet girl, listen to me. We have a name, and it’s ‘Maggie Lowe.’ We’re on our wa—" Spencer tries to talk to you through Morgan's phone, but is knocked off balance when the man turns around in shock.

"Christ man—we're on our way back over there, okay? Stay put and we’ll let Hotch and JJ know.”

"Let me talk to her!" He practically begs, but before anyone could even understand what he was saying, the call is ended from your side.

"Reid, what the hell were you trying to do?"

He's shocked at his own actions too, but that's not what's on his mind right now.

"She dropped my call but she answered yours? And since when did you start calling her that?"

He knew it wasn't fair, especially after what he had done, but just when did you and him happen?

"Since you started being a dumbass. Get over yourself, kid."

Everyone then started making their way to the two SUV's parked outside, but Spencer took the one that Morgan was driving.

He wasn't done with this conversation.

He tries to call you again, but this time, it looks like the line is busy. What was going on, where were you? He tries Lila's phone, even though he's sure she won't pick up and nothing either.

He has half a mind to ask Morgan to call you, in case you were just being petty and ignoring him, but he feels his phone vibrate. He suddenly hears his phone ring, and he hurriedly answers without checking the caller ID.

Hoping that it would be you on the other hand as he called out your name.

"Nope, sorry hon, it's me." It was Garcia's voice, but it sounded like she was shaking. Sensing the urgency in her voice, he instinctively puts his phone on speaker.

"Reid, I need you to listen to me very carefully— I've already alerted officials in the area, but your unsub? Is in Lila Archer's house."

You can't keep doing this, he thinks. You can't keep scaring him like this, because he's starting to feel so sick.

He looks to his friend in the driver's seat and sees him nod when they make eye contact. Speeding up as they thank Penelope before she ended the call.

At this point, he could care less with how pathetic he might've looked. No longer caring about how uncool you thought he was, or whatever might've been going on between you and Morgan, or if you still had a crush on your boss— none of that.

They had left you behind with Lila and no one else.

Spencer had always feared that one day, no matter how strong or smart or clever you are, it's his negligence that'll place you on the receiving end of a killer's weapon. And that there's nothing that he can do to stop them from landing the finishing blow.

If the reason you were alone and held captive by some psychotic shooter was because he had pissed you off enough to even dismiss his help?

He might never forgive himself for it.

When they arrive, he immediately gets out of the car. Ready to run in and ambush Maggie by himself if he has to when Lila runs into his arms. Holding a gun in her hand as if it were a bomb.

A Glock 19 that he's seen you use since his first official cases on the team.

He notices Morgan, Elle, and Gideon were already out, but Hotch and JJ have still yet to arrive.

He knows that he should wait until further instructions. That there wasn't a protocol for this specific situation. Or maybe there was, but his IQ of 187 had always been slashed down to 60 whenever you were involved.

When he hears a gun fire from inside the house, he's the first one that starts running.

He's thankful that he wasn't alone when he did though.

By the time that Maggie had been apprehended, you were already well on your way to the nearest hospital. According to the clock from inside your room, and the news report that had been playing, a full twelve hours at the very least had passed since then.

You tried to remember what had happened. Tried to remember how you screamed for help once you had subdued her. How she shot you when you tackled her.

Probably with the intention to kill you, then herself had you not talked her out of it.

You groan as you feel the blooming pain in your side. Probably from the GSW that you're going to have to note in your action report.

And then you remembered how you realized what you felt for Spencer and the rest of the team.

You shake your head despondently.

When you look back on every situation where you had essentially put yourself on the line for his sake, you notice that you had really been doing that out of your own volition.

That you had been doing it because you didn't want him getting hurt.

You just didn't like that the the team was turning it into some sort of responsibility.

And sure. Maybe the others were complicit in pairing you up, or guilty for giving you odd looks, but they probably wouldn't have done that if it wasn't something you were already going to do.

God, you felt so pathetic.

You don't think you can handle looking at Spencer now. Not after your existential crisis, and certainly not after what you said before he left.

But luck has a way, so it seems, to constantly elude you.

You note this as you see the very man that you had been thinking of slowly opening the door and perking up when he sees your eyes on him.

Well, as perked up as he could be. Given the circumstances.

"How uh—, How are you? A-Are you...okay?"

You take in how he looks when he asks. Dark rings encircling his eyes, (he had been up all night waiting for you), usually neat hair in a mess (he had been running his hands through them nonstop), and shirt all crumpled from being hunched over for so long (a different one, because he just couldn't stand the vague scent on chlorine in his old one.)

Your heart sinks at the sight and you beckon him closer with your strong hand. Echoing his question.

"Are you okay, Dr. Reid?"

He lets out a shaky breath when he finally hears your soft voice again, slowly approaching you as he does. He was so worried that the last words he would hear from you would be your disappointment, but he persists.

"Can you please answer the question? I don't like it when you pretend like you're okay when you're obviously not."

His hand finds its way to trace little patterns on the back of yours. Occasionally looking up at to see if he was hurting you, before continuing when he sees that he isn't. Feeling too shy to do anything more.

You roll your eyes at the gesture. Flipping his hand to rest on the hospital bed and slipping yours on top of his. Giving it a soft squeeze.

"I could be better." You then squeeze his hand again. "Is this what you were trying to do?"

He thinks for a while, as if not really understanding your question, before nodding vigorously.

You smile at the sight but then feel your regret from a few hours ago come rushing back.

"I'm really sorry. For...everything." You don't think he knows what you're apologizing for, but you do it anyway.

If not now, when?

Spencer laughs a little at that but shakes his head. "Morgan told me about what you said. Back at Lila's. Well, more like he told everyone while we were waiting for you to wake up."

You nod. Suddenly feeling guilty for trying to make contact so you try to let go, but he only entangles your fingers once more. Intertwining them as much as he can since this is the closest that he can afford to have you right now.

He feels his lips tightening into a thin smile before he says what's been haunting him for the past few hours.

"I'm sorry that you had to deal with me for so long. I never meant to burden you like that or make your job harder."

"No, Spencer please," you start, rubbing the only part of his hand that you could reach with your thumb.

"You were never a burden. I was just—caught up in a bunch of things."

He doesn't miss how your usual eloquence evades you. Which gives him a bit of an idea as to how unscripted and vulnerable you were being with him right now.

And as much as he should hate this for you, he'd love it if you would learn to be a bit more vulnerable in front of him. Even if it was a departure from your usually starched blazers, pressed blouses, and clean-cut exterior.

He still thought you were cool just like this.

"Have I ever told you that I thought you were really cool?" You weakly snort at that.

"If by 'cool,' you mean constantly worrying about how everything could go wrong, then yeah. I'm super cool."

He shakes his head at that, but it looked like you weren't done.

"I think you looked cooler, though. Especially when you were next to the pool trying to dry your gun. You looked like a wet rat."

He groans at the mention but you continue to tease him.

"Hey, you were a handsome wet rat. Still a rat, but... you know. From Vegas. Arguably not as bad as the ones from New York. Now though, you're a handsome dry rat."

Now that, he just wines at. You weren't being fair.

How could you make him go through all this and then say that?

Did you know what kind of effect you have on him?

The two of you continue to sling back jokes at the other, a common thing you used to do before things went south. And just enjoying each other's presence.

Holding his hand as you absentmindedly started massaging it. He didn't even notice how his hand had been shaking since the moment you first held onto it.

He was so so glad you were alive. That you were still here, with him. And there's no place he would rather be than where you were.

"So. How about you start telling me what you've been up to while I've been knocked out, hm? What have you learned, genius?"

He's learned a quite a lot, while you were away.

He learned that he should probably encourage you to have more breaks. Learned that you should both talk to each other, and everyone, a bit more. And he learned that you two weren't so different after all.

He's also learned how much he really liked your smile, your laugh, your soft touch, and the way that his name fell from your lips.

He doesn't tell you any of this, however.

Opting to instead tell you about the numerous facts he's picked up during the case, and how much he hated Hollywood.

[a/n] And with that, this marks the end of this specific timeline! I've honestly loved writing with this reader's specific personality in mind, and I'm looking forward to how she'll mellow out when she learns to be more honest.

I have a few ideas for one shots regarding this specific dynamic, but if you enjoyed it as much as I did, please tell me what you thought about this short series! And if you have any idea on what you'd like to see next from these dumbasses, send an ask my way!

Thank you so much for liking them thus far.

Like my work? Consider tipping me!!

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ghosts-to-reid · 2 months ago

Text

Sweet Escape

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

words: 6.0k

warnings: slow burn, reader and spencer are oblivious idiots in love (reader more so)

summary: Spencer and (Y/n) navigate the slow unraveling of their friendship as buried feelings, a drunken confession, and a forgotten note at the BAU push them toward something more. A quiet shift becomes impossible to ignore.

a/n: tried something new this time, this story contains six parts (all are in the same chapter here lol dw), each part of the story corresponding to a different aspect of the slowburn, we have how spencer caught feelings, how reader did, missed chances, confessions, etc, hope you like it!

Part 1: The Shift

It started on a Tuesday. Which, honestly, was fitting— Tuesdays were always the worst. The kind that dragged like molasses, heavy and colorless, where even the fluorescent lights at Quantico felt dimmer than usual.

(Y/n) had come in late. She was drenched from the rain, hair sticking to her cheek, shoes squeaking against the tile. She mumbled something about the metro breaking down and then tripping over a puddle. Spencer had glanced up briefly from his file, half-expecting her to be irritated or miserable.

She wasn’t.

She was laughing.

Not politely. Not reserved. Full-body, head-thrown-back laughter as she peeled off her coat, dropped her soaked bag, and nearly slipped again trying to kick her boots off. JJ tried to help and nearly got hit in the face by a flying heel. It was chaos.

And she was just— Radiant.

Spencer blinked.

It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed her. That would’ve been months ago, probably. She was hard not to notice— sharp-eyed, quicker with a comeback than most, warm in a way he didn't often see in this line of work. But this was different. This was the first time he saw her.

Really saw her.

The way she always filled a room without trying. The way her smile made other people instinctively smile back. The way she was a little clumsy and didn’t care, the way she tried to hide how much she cared about cases even when it tore her up inside. He had known all those things in the abstract, the way you know a fact— like gravity, or the freezing point of water.

But right then?

It hit him like impact trauma.

He watched her laugh until tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, watched the way she looked at everyone else with such unguarded fondness, and he wondered— When did I stop thinking of her as just a teammate?

Because now he couldn’t stop.

Now he was noticing things. Little things.

Like how she always chewed on the end of her pen when she was reading. Like how she hummed under her breath when she was focused. Like how she always saved the last donut in the box for Garcia, even when she didn’t say anything.

Or how, that same morning, soaked and messy and late, she still handed Spencer his usual coffee— black, two sugars, extra hot.

“I figured you’d forget to take a break,” she said simply. “You get like that on paperwork days.”

He blinked at the cup. Then at her.

“You think about that?”

She shrugged. “I think about you.”

Just like that. No hesitation. No implication. Just honesty, handed over with a cup of coffee.

And Spencer— Spencer felt his pulse skip a beat. Because he thought about her, too.

Just… not like that. Not until now. Not until her smile did something to his chest he couldn’t quite name.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, a little too quickly, and took the cup with hands that were suddenly too warm.

She had already moved on, rifling through her files, feet still damp, hair a mess, completely unaware that the axis of his entire day had just tilted beneath her rain-soaked boots.

And Spencer sat back in his chair, sipped his coffee, and realized with horrifying clarity—

Oh. This might be a problem.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 2: The Fall

It wasn’t sudden.

She’d known Spencer for a while. They worked together. Traveled together. Spent more time with each other than most married couples did. She knew his coffee order, his go-to obscure facts, his nervous tics, the way he tugged his sleeves when he was thinking too hard.

He was Spencer. Reliable, brilliant, slightly feral around whiteboards. Hers, in that quiet, unspoken way you claim someone who always saves you a seat.

But then one morning, something… shifted.

It was during a briefing, of all places. She was half-asleep, balancing a coffee on her knee and trying to keep up with Garcia’s rapid-fire details, when she glanced over and saw him— brow furrowed, lips slightly parted, fingers moving absently as he mentally sorted data like a magician laying out a trick deck.

He looked beautiful.

And that was annoying.

Because he’d always looked like that— messy curls, soft eyes, the kind of face you don’t forget. But she’d never noticed it like this. Not in a “why is my stomach doing weird things and why is my brain short-circuiting” kind of way.

He caught her looking and smiled, small and distracted.

Her stomach flipped.

Oh no.

That smile. That goddamn smile.

He smiled like the sun rising through fog— tentative, shy, like he didn’t know he was allowed to. It was the kind of smile you wanted to tuck away somewhere safe.

She looked away too quickly, cheeks warm.

Nope. Not going there. He’s your friend. Your genius, gentle, too-good-for-this-world friend. This is just hormones. Sleep deprivation. Maybe the coffee’s too strong.

Except it wasn’t just that.

It was the way he started rambling about parasite reproduction on the flight to Phoenix, and she hadn’t even rolled her eyes— she’d just… listened. Genuinely. Because he was passionate and awkward and unapologetic, and God, when was the last time someone cared about something that much?

It was the way he always noticed when she was having a bad day. The way he never made a big deal out of it— just slid a granola bar across the table or quietly rerouted her paperwork when she was too tired to see straight.

It was the way he said her name. Soft. Like it mattered.

It was the way he laughed once, sharp and unfiltered, when she tripped and called herself a “danger to national security,” and how he kept smiling for ten whole minutes after.

It was all of that. And more.

And it pissed her off.

Because she hadn’t signed up for this. She hadn’t meant to like him. She wasn’t even sure she did like him like that. Maybe she was just imagining it. Romanticizing friendship.

Except she wasn’t imagining how her heart jumped when his hand brushed hers. Or how she remembered everything he’d ever said to her, even the throwaway facts. Or how she’d started wearing the perfume he once said reminded him of “a field in late spring, just after it rains.”

She was screwed. She was falling for Spencer Reid.

And worst of all— He didn’t seem to notice.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 3: Fate's cruel joke

Spencer

Spencer didn’t mean to look.

He really didn’t. He’d walked into the coffee shop near Quantico for a quick refill and some mental quiet. But the universe— cruel, dramatic, always five steps ahead— had other plans.

There she was.

Seated near the window, hair lit golden by the morning sun, fingers curled around a paper cup.

And not alone.

The man across from her was tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking in a “probably played varsity something” kind of way. His hand brushed hers casually as he passed her a pastry. She laughed. Not politely. Not restrained. That full, unguarded laugh Spencer used to think was reserved just for—

Oh.

Spencer’s feet rooted to the floor. He watched— helpless, invisible— as she leaned in closer. Her expression was soft. Comfortable. Familiar. She looked... happy.

It knocked the air out of him.

He turned and walked out without his coffee.

The weight in his chest didn’t hit him all at once. It bled in slow, like a pressure system closing in. And he couldn’t explain it—not even to himself. Not at first.

He told himself he was just surprised. Caught off guard. It was normal. People dated. She had every right to. She was beautiful, kind, smart, the kind of person who made other people feel like they mattered.

Of course someone would want her.

Of course she’d want someone, too.

Later that week, they were elbow-deep in paperwork, one case closed and another already looming. The bullpen was unusually quiet. Even Garcia’s playlists had taken the day off.

Spencer was at his desk, flipping a pen between his fingers, eyes fixed on the page in front of him but reading none of it. Across the room, (Y/n) was laughing softly with JJ over something on her phone— shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at her mouth like it lived there now.

Spencer looked away.

A few minutes later, Morgan sank into the chair across from him, sliding a file folder across the table like it was just another update.

“You alright?” Morgan asked, voice quiet.

Spencer didn’t look up. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Morgan gave it a beat. “Let me rephrase that. What’s bothering you?”

Spencer hesitated, tapping the pen against the corner of the file. He sighed, finally putting it down, and leaned back in his chair.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean… it’s not that I’m upset. She’s happy. That’s a good thing.”

Morgan watched him closely but didn’t speak.

“It’s just… new,” Spencer said. “This feeling. I don’t really know how to name it yet. It’s not jealousy. At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve never really felt jealous before. It’s more like—” He paused, searching. “Like something doesn’t sit right. Not because he’s wrong for her, but because… I don’t know where I fit anymore.”

Morgan didn’t press. Just nodded slowly.

“She’s still your friend, man.”

“I know. I know that,” Spencer said. “It’s just… different now. I didn’t expect it to be.”

There was a pause.

“Reid,” Morgan said gently, “I’m not here to tell you what you’re feeling. That’s your own puzzle to solve. But whatever it is—it’s valid.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his gaze distant.

Morgan continued, “And for what it’s worth, it’s okay if it is jealousy. Or grief. Or fear. Sometimes those things tangle up when we care about someone more than we realize.”

Spencer stayed quiet.

Morgan stood, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m not going to meddle. But I’ve seen the way you look at her when you think no one’s watching.”

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet his, something unreadable passing between them.

Morgan offered a faint, understanding smile. “You’ve got feelings for her. That’s not a crime.”

“I can’t talk to her about it,” Spencer said softly. “Not right now. She’s happy.”

Morgan nodded. “Alright. Then just… be there. The way you always are. But don’t lie to yourself about what this is, man. You don’t have to do anything yet. But you do have to feel it.”

Spencer looked down at his hands. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

And outside, across the room, her laughter echoed again— effortless, warm, distant in a way he’d never quite felt before.

It didn’t hurt. Not exactly.

But it ached.

Reader

The moment she realized she couldn’t keep doing this, she was halfway through a dinner she wasn’t even really tasting.

The man across from her— Nate, nice, funny, not Spencer— was telling a story about a sting operation gone wrong in White Collar, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.

Spencer would’ve laughed at that detail.

He’d have interrupted with some wild statistic about entrapment cases or ethical loopholes, and they would’ve spiraled into one of their weird back-and-forth debates that no one else enjoyed but them.

She missed that. God, she missed him.

Nate smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re doing it again,” he said gently.

She blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me all weird,” he said. “Like you wish I were someone else.”

Her throat went dry. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and weirdly, he meant it. “You’re not trying to be cruel. But… I think you’re in love with someone else.”

“I—” she started. But then stopped. “I didn’t mean to be.”

“Yeah,” Nate said, soft. “We never do.”

There was a silence that stretched between them, long, not bitter, but full.

“I’m still glad I got to know you,” he added after a beat.

“Me too,” she whispered.

She didn’t sleep that night. She barely sat still. She just kept replaying things in her head— conversations, touches, jokes that stuck to her ribs. Everything Spencer. All at once.

The way he smiled when she made a dumb pun. The way he noticed when she was too tired to speak and filled the silence for her. The way his eyes always flicked to her first in the middle of a case, as if to ask you okay?

She had to tell him. She would tell him.

So she did what anyone would do in a full-blown romcom panic: she got dressed, grabbed her keys, and all but ran out the door.

But fate, as ever, had a crueler script.

She found him outside a bookstore downtown. He was laughing. Not his usual soft chuckle— the rare, full kind that showed his teeth and squinted his eyes.

And she wasn’t the one making him laugh.

The woman standing with him was beautiful. Effortless. She had one hand on his arm, the other holding an iced coffee. She leaned in when she spoke, laughed like she meant it, and when Spencer nodded at something she said, it was with a softness that knocked the wind out of (Y/n)'s chest.

She stopped in her tracks.

He looked… content.

The moment crystallized into something heavy.

Because what was she doing? Running through the city in the hopes of changing something that maybe wasn’t meant to change?

Spencer deserved someone who wouldn’t hesitate. Someone who could love him loudly and surely, not someone who'd spent months burying feelings out of fear.

She turned on her heel, words still crowding her throat, never spoken.

She didn’t see Spencer glance up, scanning the street, eyes narrowing faintly like he thought he saw someone in the crowd.

And then the moment passed.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 4: Limbo

There was no dramatic fallout. No confrontation. No big emotional speech.

Just a quiet agreement made without words: this is fine.

This is enough.

And maybe it was, for a while.

They went back to being friends. Or at least, a version of it. The kind with polite check-ins and scheduled banter, the kind where every glance carried a weight neither of them acknowledged. No one else seemed to notice the shift. They still laughed at each other’s jokes. Still sat beside one another on the jet. Still passed each other files with fingers that never quite touched.

But it wasn’t the same.

Not really.

Spencer smiled too quickly now, and it never quite reached his eyes. He’d started excusing himself more often, slipping away under the guise of paperwork or old case reviews. Sometimes he’d leave before she even noticed he was gone.

And (Y/n)— she’d become careful.

Measured.

Her words were gentler, less pointed, her jokes shorter. She never touched his arm when she laughed anymore. Never lingered at his desk just to see what he was working on. She still brought him coffee sometimes, but now it was just coffee— no notes, no inside jokes scrawled on the side in sharpie. Just a cup, placed quietly beside his files.

No one else questioned it. If anything, they seemed relieved things had settled. Whatever undercurrent had rippled beneath their friendship before had apparently smoothed out into still waters.

But still waters could be deceiving.

Because underneath the surface, it churned.

Spencer noticed everything. The slight dip in her voice when she said good morning. The way her smile faltered for half a second too long whenever their eyes met. The way she never mentioned the guy from the coffee shop again— Nate, or something— and how she never said why.

And (Y/n)? She was haunted by almosts.

Almost told him. Almost called. Almost reached for his hand when they sat side by side in a too-quiet stakeout. Almost said his name like it meant something.

But she never did.

Because maybe he was happy now. Maybe that girl from the bookstore meant something. Maybe (Y/n) had missed her moment. Maybe she was just his friend, and maybe that would have to be enough.

So they stayed in that in-between. Not lovers. Not just friends.

Just two people orbiting each other, close enough to feel the pull, but too scared to crash.

And the worst part?

Neither of them knew the other felt the exact same way.

Not yet.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 5: Liquid courage

It had been a long week.

The kind where the hours blurred into bloodstains and autopsy reports, where sleep came in two-hour bursts and meals were just granola bars crushed into coffee lids. By the time the team stumbled into O'Keefe's Pub on Friday night, they looked like the before picture in a stress commercial.

But after a couple drinks and Penelope’s insistence on a round of shots “for emotional exfoliation,” the weight started to lift.

Somehow— because life had a sense of humor— everyone else filtered out by midnight. JJ’s babysitter had called. Morgan was texting a girl. Emily bailed early with the promise of takeout and bad reality TV. Even Garcia left, citing a single word reason that needed no elaboration— Kevin.

And that left Spencer and (Y/n).

Alone. In a bar. Buzzed. Warm with the kind of alcohol that made the lights seem softer and the world less sharp around the edges.

(Y/n) was mid-rant about how buffalo wings were “the most overrated bar food in the history of civilization” when Spencer leaned back in his seat, eyes still half-drowsy but smiling.

“You wanna get out of here?”

She paused. “Is that code for something?”

He rolled his eyes, grinning. “I mean, just… get out. Walk. Anywhere that doesn’t smell like spilled beer and disappointment.”

She laughed. “Only if there’s food involved.”

“There’s always food involved with you.”

“Yeah, and?”

Spencer stood, wobbling just slightly as he offered her a hand. “Come on, chaos. Let’s go see if the world’s still awake.”

They wandered aimlessly, shoes thudding against the pavement, their shadows long under the streetlamps. The city felt gentler at night— hushed and slow, like it was exhaling after holding its breath all day.

They stopped to buy street fries from a food truck, the kind that were probably illegal in three states but tasted like heaven when you were tipsy and sleep-deprived. (Y/n) insisted on drowning hers in hot sauce. Spencer winced.

“You’re going to regret that in like twenty minutes.”

“And yet, I live on the edge.”

“You cried eating mild salsa last month.”

“That was emotional crying,” she said primly, licking sauce off her thumb. “It had depth.”

He laughed— really laughed— and she felt it all the way in her ribs.

They passed a fountain and dared each other to jump in. They didn’t, but she did splash him, and he yelped like a cartoon character and threatened to have her arrested for crimes against humanity.

At one point, they passed a bakery with the lights still on. The sign in the window read Baking at Midnight: Back Soon. (Y/n) pressed her nose to the glass dramatically.

“They’re mocking us,” she said. “This is targeted harassment.”

Spencer smirked. “You had street fries and a cocktail with three umbrellas. I think you’ll survive.”

“Barely.”

They kept walking. Past sleepy storefronts and quiet bus stops and the occasional dog walker who looked at them like they were unhinged. They probably were.

But it felt easy. Safe. Familiar in a way they hadn’t been in a long time.

Eventually, they landed on a park bench just off the river, fries long gone, the night stretching out like a secret between them.

Silence settled, not heavy— just there. Companionable.

And then Spencer said, softly, “I missed this.”

(Y/n) turned to him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean— this. Us. Whatever this is.”

She nodded, slowly. “Yeah… me too.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the edge of his jacket. His knee bounced once, and then stilled.

“What happened to us?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked out over the water, watching the way the streetlights shimmered against it, like the night was made of little floating pieces of gold.

Then she sighed. “Alright, what I’m about to say is going to make both of us extremely uncomfortable, so I apologize in advance,” she began, hands tucked between her knees. “But if I don’t get it out of my system, I might explode. Like, physically combust. You’ll have to scrape me off this bench with a spatula. This is definitely the alcohol talking and I am absolutely going to regret this in the morning— if I even remember it, which is questionable at best, honestly.”

Spencer blinked, both amused and alarmed. “...What?”

She barreled on. “So if I start rambling, please stop me. Actually, no, don’t stop me. I have to say it. But also maybe do stop me. You know what, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Spencer blinked again. “You haven’t said anything.”

“Oh. Right.” She swallowed, then blurted, “I like you.”

He froze.

“I mean— like, like you. More than friends. I like you in a way that’s really inconvenient for both of us, and I’m so sorry because I know you were just being a good friend and I was supposed to be cool about it, but then you kept being you, and I couldn’t help it.”

He stared at her, stunned into silence.

“And I know you’re not really into the whole feelings thing and you don’t like change and this is probably making you incredibly anxious and I swear I didn’t plan this, I’m just drunk and dumb and emotionally compromised.”

“(Y/n)—”

“And it’s not just that I like you, it’s how I like you. I like the way you get really animated when you talk about something you love, even if no one else understands a word of it. I like the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking too hard. I like how you always know when I need a break before I do. I like how you never make me feel like I'm too much.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.

“I like how your voice changes when you're reading out loud. I like how you never remember your umbrella but always remember mine. I like how you smell like books and peppermint. I like—” She broke off, covering her face with both hands. “God. I like you so much it’s embarrassing.”

There was a long pause.

Then, gently— “Hey. Breathe.”

She peeked through her fingers.

Spencer’s expression was soft. A little overwhelmed, a little stunned, but not in a bad way.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “You don’t have to apologize for feeling something.”

“Even if it’s wildly inconvenient?”

He gave a tiny smile. “Especially then.”

She let out a breath, shaky. “Okay. Cool. Awesome. So. Now what?”

Spencer looked down at his hands. Then at her. Then back again.

“I like you too, you know?” he said, almost in a whisper. “I have for a long time.”

She blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen either. It just… did. One day I looked up and you were laughing about something— something completely ridiculous, probably— and I realized I hadn’t stopped thinking about you since.”

“Oh,” she said, very softly.

“And I thought it was just… admiration. Or friendship, you know? But it wasn’t. Not even close. I like the way your eyes light up when you're excited. I like how you always pretend not to be scared during horror movies but grip the popcorn bowl like it owes you money. I like how you leave me little notes in the margins of case files just to make me laugh.”

She was staring at him, eyes wide and glassy.

“I like you, (Y/n). In all the ways I’m not supposed to. And I didn’t say anything because… because I thought I’d ruin what we had.”

“You didn’t,” she said immediately.

Spencer smiled, just a little. “You didn’t either.”

There was a beat. A breath.

She exhaled, a mix between a laugh and a sob. “God, we’re such idiots.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But at least we’re honest idiots now.”

She sniffed. “So… now what?”

“Now…” he hesitated, smile deepening, “we admit we’re both way too drunk and the chances of remembering any of this tomorrow are pretty slim.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said, slumping back against the bench.

He chuckled. “But— just in case we do want to remember… I have an idea.”

She turned to him again, cautious. “Go on.”

“We each write a note. Something simple. ‘I meant it.’ Or ‘I didn’t.’ Whatever. Doesn’t matter. We hide it in each other’s desks at the BAU. And if we find it when we’re sober… we’ll know.”

She stared at him. “That’s… that’s genius.”

He beamed a little. “I have my moments.”

“This, this is why I like you.”

That stopped him cold for a second— she didn’t notice.

She stood up, wobbling slightly. “Alright, Doc. Let’s go break into a federal building.”

He laughed and followed her into the night.

They made it to Quantico in one piece. Miraculously.

The bullpen was dark, lit only by the soft blue glow of emergency lights. The place was deserted, eerily quiet— except for the whispered shushing and badly stifled giggles echoing from two very drunk federal agents.

“Shhh,” (Y/n) hissed, tiptoeing down the hallway like a cartoon burglar.

“We’re literally allowed to be here,” Spencer whispered back. “We have clearance. We work here.”

“Yeah but it’s more fun if it feels illegal.”

Spencer blinked. “That… doesn’t track.”

“You don’t track.”

“That doesn’t even mean anything—”

“Shhh!”

They burst into silent laughter and tripped over each other on their way to the bullpen.

(Y/n) nearly crashed into his desk, catching herself just in time. “Okay,” she breathed, sobering a little. “Notes. Where’s the paper? Where does Hotch keep the secret government paper stash?”

Spencer reached into his own desk and pulled out a yellow legal pad like it was contraband. “We’re writing this on the record,” he said dramatically.

They sat side-by-side, giggling and shoving at each other’s elbows, each scribbling furiously like they were signing a peace treaty that could expire at dawn.

“What are you writing?” she asked, squinting over his shoulder.

“No peeking!” he said, shielding it with his hand. “That defeats the whole purpose.”

She rolled her eyes and refocused on hers. “Fine. No take-backs.”

They folded their notes— sloppily, unevenly, with way too much tape because they kept forgetting which drawer the stapler was in— and swapped places.

(Y/n) tucked hers in the back of his top drawer, between a pack of gum and a copy of Statistical Models in Behavioral Science. Spencer wedged his under her desk calendar, hidden behind a sticky note that said “remind JJ to never pick lunch again.”

“There,” she said. “It’s done. The pact is sealed.”

Spencer turned to her, lips parted like he was about to say something else— something probably profound or sweet or hopelessly analytical.

But then she swayed slightly, and her hand brushed his.

And the air between them shifted.

Not dramatically. Not like the world tilted or the stars aligned. Just a small, quiet pause— one breath longer than it should’ve been.

She was still smiling, tipsy and sleep-heavy and happy in a way he hadn’t seen in weeks.

And Spencer— gentle, brilliant, usually-overthinking-everything Spencer— leaned in. So did she. It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t a thunderclap. It was soft. Tentative. A shared breath, a question answered.

Their lips met in a kiss that was more laughter than logic, more hope than heat— warm and unsure and a little clumsy, like a secret they’d kept too long finally letting itself out.

(Y/n) pulled back first, eyes wide. “Was that…”

Spencer blinked. “Yeah.”

“Should we—”

“Maybe we shouldn’t—”

They both paused. Then grinned.

She reached out, brushing a thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Well. That was overdue.”

“I blame the fries,” Spencer said solemnly.

“I blame Penelope’s tequila.”

“Fair.”

They lingered another minute in the silence, not quite ready to leave the moment behind.

Then she nudged him with her shoulder. “Walk me to my car, genius?”

He stood, already reaching for her hand. “Only if you promise not to fall asleep in the passenger seat again.”

“No promises.”

They left the bullpen behind— two notes tucked away in drawers, two hearts lighter than they’d been in months— and disappeared into the quiet warmth of the night.

And in the silence that followed, Quantico stayed still.

Waiting.

The next day

The bullpen was too bright.

Spencer winced slightly as he stepped in, coffee in one hand, sunglasses still perched on his face despite being indoors. He wasn’t hungover, exactly— he didn’t drink enough to be. But he was sleep-deprived and jittery, and his chest still felt too full. Or too empty. He hadn’t decided.

(Y/n) wasn’t in yet.

He told himself that was fine.

He told himself a lot of things.

Settling into his chair, Spencer reached for a pen— only to knock his top drawer halfway open.

A folded scrap of paper peeked out from between the gum and the behavioral science book.

His breath caught.

With careful fingers, he picked it up, recognizing her handwriting immediately— slanted, loopy, a little rushed. His thumb brushed over the crease as he unfolded it.

“If you're reading this, congrats— either we remember everything and we’re in love now, or this is about to be very awkward for exactly one (1) of us. Either way, here’s a fun fact: statistically, kissing your coworker is a terrible idea. …But you’re worth skewing the data for.” — (Y/n)

Spencer laughed. Quiet. Genuine. A little breathless.

He folded the note back up, gently, like it was something precious, and tucked it into his pocket. He turned toward her desk, smiling instinctively—

But she wasn’t looking back.

She was sitting there, just a few feet away, utterly unaware. Sipping her coffee. Typing up a report. Like it was any other morning.

Spencer’s smile faltered.

She hadn’t found it.

The note— his note— was still hidden, wedged under the calendar like some half-finished confession. She didn’t know. Last night hadn’t landed for her the way it had for him.

Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe she hadn’t looked. Maybe she had looked and—

He didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, he turned back to his desk, refocused on the file in front of him, and took a long sip of coffee that didn’t quite burn enough.

Whatever last night was— drunken giddiness, emotional overflow, wishful thinking— he’d carry it on his own. At least for now.

He could wait.

He always did.

——————————————————————————————————

Part 6: Sweet Escape

A couple weeks had passed.

Life returned to normal— at least, that’s what they told themselves. Cases came and went, paperwork piled and shrank. The days blurred into late nights and early flights and coffee-fueled briefings. And somewhere in the middle of it, they slipped quietly back into their rhythm.

Friends again. Close again. But nothing more.

Not because they didn’t remember. Not because it didn’t matter. But because neither had said anything.

The note (Y/n) had meant to find remained lost in the chaos of her desk, buried under files and candy wrappers and the noise of everyday life. Spencer hadn’t mentioned it. He hadn’t needed to. Something between them had changed after that night— softened, stretched, turned inward— but it never quite crossed the line again.

Not until tonight.

They were just back from a case. A bad one. Long and tangled and sad in the way some stories just are. Most of the team had gone home as soon as they were wheels-down. Morgan was first out, muttering something about needing a shower that might double as an exorcism. Emily left with Penelope, who’d shown up in full sparkle to “emotionally supervise.” JJ and Hotch were the last to trickle out, both exhausted and too sleep-deprived to even say goodnight properly.

And then it was just them.

(Y/n) sat at her desk, a little sideways, lazily spinning a pen between her fingers. Spencer was across from her, legs stretched out, head tipped back against his chair.

“You know,” she said, voice rough with fatigue, “if we survive another one of these weeks, I think I deserve full naming rights over the jet.”

Spencer cracked a smile, eyes still closed. “You’d name it something unhinged like ‘Cloud Boss.’”

“I was thinking ‘Flight Risk,’ actually.”

“That’s worse.”

She grinned. “You love it.”

Spencer pushed himself upright, gathering his things with a slow, almost reluctant motion. He looked at her for a beat— quiet, unreadable— and then said softly, “Goodnight.”

She nodded, still smiling. “Night, Spence.”

He turned and walked toward the elevator, footsteps echoing in the mostly empty bullpen.

(Y/n) stretched, groaning a little, and began packing up. Her desk was a mess— typical for post-case chaos. She reached to move a half-crumpled folder when something slid free from underneath it.

A small piece of paper.

Folded.

Her heart stuttered.

She opened it slowly.

And read the words inside.

To: Drunk You From: Also Drunk Me If you're reading this, we either made very good or very questionable choices. I meant everything. Even the part about your hot sauce addiction being a cry for help. P.S. I like you too. A lot. Like... "statistically improbable but emotionally devastating" a lot.

Everything hit at once— the rooftop, the streetlamp laughter, the hot sauce fries, his hand in hers, the kiss. The kiss. Oh god.

She stood so fast her chair skidded behind her.

Bag slung over one shoulder, the note clutched tight in one hand, she sprinted for the elevator.

It was already nearly closed— just a sliver left. She slapped the button hard, breath catching.

The doors stopped.

Spencer stood inside.

He looked up, confused. “(Y/n)?”

She stepped in, breathless.

“I remember now.”

He blinked. “Remember what?”

“Come on,” she said, still breathing heavily. “You know what.”

He just stared at her. Blinking. Quiet.

“I…” she faltered, heart hammering. “Really?"

"(Y/n), I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Never mind.”

The doors began to close again. And then, just before they sealed, he reached out.

Caught her by the wrist. Pulled her in. Her back hit the elevator wall. And without a word, Spencer leaned in and kissed her.

Slow. Certain. Tender. Like it had been waiting. Like he remembered every second of it. Her free hand curled into the front of his shirt. His fingers slid behind her neck, his other hand at her waist. The kiss deepened, soft and aching and everything they hadn’t let themselves say.

The elevator kept moving.

But they didn’t notice.

Not anymore.

She broke the kiss first, breathless and blinking like she’d just come up for air. Her forehead rested lightly against his as she caught her breath.

“…Why the fake out?” she asked, half-laughing, still clutching the note in her hand.

Spencer smiled, and it was all mischief.

“For making me wait two weeks.”

Her mouth dropped open, affronted.

“Okay,” she said, pointing a finger at his chest, “fair enough, but you are so lucky that was adorable.”

“I know,” he said, completely unrepentant.

And before she could come up with a snarky retort, he kissed her again.

Just because he could.

Just because she let him.

Just because, finally, finally— they didn’t have to pretend anymore.

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