#but half of them did kinda get eaten by the algorithm

[theshiniestgemstone]

Gideon x reader who is really smart

okay so as I was writing this, it’s kinda giving the same energy as one of my upcoming series. v excited to share and this is almost like a little taste of a bigger project I’ve been working on

Gideon never saw himself ever gaining the courage to ask you out. You’d arrived at the Salvation Center on a Monday, bouncing your foot while waiting to meet with Jesse, Judy, and Kelvin. He stopped in his tracks, giving you a once-over before he felt his cheeks bloom warm and his hands get clammy.

You weren’t like the others that filtered through the compound. You had a sharp, focused look in your eye, like you were already solving problems before they hit the table. Even then, you still smiled politely when Jesse cracked one of his inappropriate jokes, and you nodded along with Judy’s enthusiastic rambling about worship aesthetics.

He was more than impressed when he’d read your resume over his dad’s shoulder. Multiple degrees under your belt, languages, and all in fancy font, he was soon afraid of you.

Like, actual fear. The kind that made him sit up straighter, brush his hair back, and pray you wouldn’t ask him anything math-related. He’d hide a smile when you crunched numbers in your head, writing them down before Martin had even finished his sentence. The way you clicked your pen, nodded to yourself, and then underlined a total. It was ridiculous how hot that was.

Gideon wasn’t used to being around people like you. People who were smart and cool. And funny. And terrifying in a really specific, spreadsheet-wielding way.

He figured you wouldn’t look at him twice. But then one day, you did. You caught him staring during a budget meeting. And instead of calling him out, you tilted your head and smiled.

Your first date was impromptu. Lunches overlapped and the last two chairs in the food court ended up with half-eaten meals, far too wrapped up in conversation to think of anything else.

You’d been explaining something. Some kind of funding clause in the bylaws he couldn’t quite follow, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your hands moved when you talked, the way your eyebrows twitched when you tried to simplify a concept just for him. He made you laugh, too. Not the polite kind of laugh people gave the Gemstones because they were supposed to, but a real, surprised one that burst out when he called Judy the CFO, Chief Freak-Out.

You stayed there until someone from the center texted you both, wondering where you’d gone.

“I guess that was lunch,” you said, glancing at your barely touched salad.

“I guess it was a date,” Gideon replied, then immediately looked horrified with himself.

But you just grinned, standing up and brushing off your slacks. “Good. I like when smart investments pay off.”

He didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

Now, Gideon never thought of himself as stupid. He earned good enough grades to get through high school with a special cord. It wasn’t valedictorian, but he was still in the top double digits of his class. He could fix engines with a fre tutorials and a thick enough manual, knew his way around a sermon, and had enough charm to talk his way out of a speeding ticket or into a job.

But when he got to know you, really know you, he found himself struggling to keep up.

Conversations drifted easily with you. One second you were breaking down the complexity of marketing Christianity in ways that were covert but not misleading, the next you were talking about the societal implications of algorithmic polarization. Then came developmental theory, bouncing from Piaget to Erikson like you were switching radio stations.

By the fourth date, Gideon was nodding along, until he wasn’t. He blinked and cut in gently. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”

You paused mid-sentence, blinking once, and for a brief second he braced himself for the usual reaction, disappointment, irritation, or that awful, pitying smile.

But instead, you softened. “I’m sorry, Gideon,” you said quickly, voice kind. “Sometimes I forget that I read too much.”

Then you backtracked, calmly and clearly, explaining everything without making him feel like he was back in high school again. And that was when he knew.

Not just that he liked you, but that he really liked you. Because you made him want to learn more. Not to impress you, but to keep up with you. To walk beside you instead of trailing behind.

He adored you. More than he ever thought he could adore someone. It wasn’t just the brilliance, though that alone would’ve knocked him off his feet, it was the way your mind never seemed to rest. You were always thinking, always calculating, always three steps ahead of the room. Sometimes too far ahead. Too smart for your own good.

He’d watch it happen: the way your brow would crease just slightly, your fingers tapping against your leg as your mind spun out into a dozen hypotheticals. What if you missed something? What if the numbers were wrong? What if someone found a flaw in your strategy or a hole in your logic? You chased perfection like it owed you something, and when it kept slipping through your fingers, it wore you down.

That’s when Gideon would step in. He would quietly, gently, with a steady hand on your back and a soft “Hey, babe,” like a grounding wire.

He didn’t try to fix it with solutions, not right away. Just with presence. Sometimes he’d drag you out for a walk, or settle behind you on the couch and start braiding your hair just to give your mind something else to focus on. Other times he’d pull you into his lap and kiss your temple until your breathing slowed.

“You don’t gotta carry it all,” he’d murmur. “Let me take some.”

And you did. Eventually.

In turn, you shared your world with him, not to impress, but to invite. You sent him articles you thought he’d like, highlighted the parts that reminded you of a conversation you’d had with him. You started watching documentaries after dinner together, curled up on the couch with popcorn and commentary. He didn’t always catch every reference or statistic, but he’d ask questions, and you’d light up all over again, because he wanted to know.

You made each other better. Stronger.

And on nights when you fell asleep mid-episode, glasses slipping down your nose and laptop still open on your lap, Gideon would just smile to himself and whisper, “God, I love you,” like it was the most obvious truth in the world.