ghosts-to-reid

[ghosts-to-reid]

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!!

[ghosts-to-reid]

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.

[ghosts-to-reid]

౨ৎ booked & busy - s.r. ౨ৎ

you doze off while studying for finals. spencer is there to take care of you.

pairing: spencer reid x grad student!reader genre: fluff content: established relationship, gn!reader, reader is not taking care of themself, spencer uses pet names, tooth rotting fluff wc: 818 a/n: currently suffering through finals and cannot get my brain to focus. so this itty bitty blurb is the product. i wish i had a spencer to make sure i took care of myself. requests/asks are open! my masterlist!!

Your eyes are starting to blur after reading the same sentence for the fourth time, making no more sense out of it than you had the first three times. You're sitting cross legged on the couch, surrounded by papers, articles on the topic you're writing a dissertation on. God, this is your passion, but sometimes you wish you had picked something a little bit easier.

You scrub your hand over your face, sighing and knocking your glasses askew. There's too many big words, and you haven't gotten nearly enough sleep to process all of them. You've been so busy drafting this paper that you haven't been sleeping properly, and Spencer hasn't been around to make you. You chew absently on your thumbnail, shuffling a stack of papers around, trying to find a specific one. Had it even been in that stack? Did you completely imagine that quote?

You sigh again, setting your highlighter to the side. The words are swimming behind your eyelids, becoming little blobs on the page. You're honestly not even convinced they are words. Maybe this author is just making words up, and gaslighting you into believing they're real because of their credentials and the fact that it's been nearly a week since you've gotten a proper rest.

Maybe if you just close your eyes for a moment, you could get them to focus...

---

Spencer is headed back to your shared apartment. He's just gotten home from a long case across the country, lasting nearly a week and a half, and hadn't let you know that he was coming home. He was intending on surprising you, but when he walks in, he finds you fast asleep on the couch, your head tilted back, your mouth slightly open.

Spencer's heart nearly melts in his chest. God, did you have to be so cute? He wonders for a brief moment why you're not sleeping in your bed, but clocks the articles spread out over your lap and the couch. He smiles, and makes his way over to the couch, careful not to disturb you.

Spencer gathers up the papers, stacking them neatly and setting them aside on the coffee table. He gathers you carefully into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, and carries you off to bed.

---

You wake up horribly disoriented. When did you climb into your bed? You blink slowly, reaching up to rub at your eyes. And your glasses are off...

You sit up, looking around the room, blinking blearily, and you see a man sitting on the other side of the bed. He's reading, his fingers skimming along the pages, his lips pursed in concentration. He looks over at you as you sit up, his dark curls falling into his eyes, and immediately his features soften. "Hi, baby," Spencer says fondly, reaching out for you. He wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you to him, closing the book and setting it carefully on the nightstand. The tips of his fingers slide underneath the material of your shirt, tracing along sensitive skin.

"Hi," you say breathlessly, surprised to see him. "You're... home."

"Try not to sound so excited," Spencer smiles, tucking a stray piece of your hair out of your face. This is his favorite way to see you- soft, sleepy, a little lost, and all his.

"I'm- I was studying, and now I'm in bed," you tell him, your eyes widening almost comically. "Christ, I need to finish that chapter of my dissertation, I have pages due this weekend, and-"

"Sweetheart," Spencer interrupts gently. "You need to sleep. You can't do anything while you're this tired. You'll end up having to rewrite the pages anyway, and that's just going to make more work for yourself."

You bite your lip, considering this for a moment. You know he's right, you're too tired to really focus, and the bed is warm and inviting. Spencer is looking at you with those soft eyes, the expression he saves just for you, and you suddenly can't find it in yourself to move away from him.

"Okay," you whisper, tucking your nose into the soft hollow under his jaw. It fits perfectly into the spot, like it was made for you.

"Okay," Spencer repeats softly, placing a kiss on your forehead. "Go to sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up, and I'll make you tea, and we can figure out a work schedule for you to get your pages done."

You sigh, nuzzling further into his neck, hiking a leg up to drape it around his thigh. "You're too good to me, you know."

"Just giving you what you deserve," Spencer murmurs, running a gentle hand through your hair. "Go to sleep."

You fall asleep like that, tangled up in one another, the smell of him surrounding you. Old books, rain, and a hint of lemon.

It's the best sleep you've gotten in weeks.

[ghosts-to-reid]

Game of Pretend

[Spencer Reid x Reader]

summary: In which friends with benefits go undercover as a married couple and they ended up playing the part almost too good.

pairing: spencer reid x f!bau!reader

w.c: 2.7K

warnings/content: criminal minds case related stuff; suggestive content (no smut!); graphic descriptions of violence and wounds; idiots in love/friends with benefits trope; their love language is touch, you'll notice that; just a little bit of angst.

A/N: and I'm back. again. this challenge motivated me to write cause I was really going through it. but anyways. this is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins “Undercover Challenge” with the prompt “Characters go undercover as a married couple” and the dialogue prompt “I'm just acting.” “Oh, so you can make your heart race on command?”

navi

masterpost

criminal minds masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“He’s looking over here.”

You looked at your partner, taking a sip of your non-alcoholic beverage slowly as you slightly inclined your neck to watch the UnSub having a drink in the other end of the bar counter.

“Let’s start the show then.” You winked at Spencer, earning a scowl that he quickly masked into a loving smile towards you.

Such an in love husband.

“He’s staring at her.”

JJ’s voice boomed into your ear as a warning as you reached for Spencer's hand, intertwining your fingers.

“My mom wants us to visit her first thing after the honeymoon.” You said, playing with the straw of your cup. “We should extend it.” That got a laugh out of him and you felt his curls tickling your temple as he leaned closer.

“We can do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Yeah, baby.” You didn't know why the nickname surprised you but it did.

Spencer watched as your eyes traveled across this face in contemplation, wonder. He's just playing his part.

“Whatever I want huh?” You hummed softly, cheek leaning on your hand. Spencer knew that expression. He has lived with it these past months whenever you were going to do something you knew would piss him off. Often to tease him.

God he hated that look. Your teasing was relentless.

He pulled a strand of your hair behind your ear, his hand lingering near your cheek. His touch was warm and in spite of not really being a fan of physical touch, you'd always find yourself leaning closer to Spencer at certain moments. He represented some type of safety to you, you never really read too much into it, but you also never denied yourself to be close to him when you wanted to.

The way his eyes briefly shifted from behind you to you again told you the UnSub was closer this time.

“We could maybe do that thing in bed we were thinking of trying…”

The way Spencer choked on his own spit — he had a drink but he didn't even touch it — made you grin so big your mouth could split open. What he did with touches you were able to do with words.

“Kinky.”

You heard through your earpiece and Emily's voice almost got you to crack. You didn't.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Well, I have a few ideas I’ve been wanting to try but yeah, it's not like we have all the time in the world now.” You bit your cheek, hating the fact that he paid with the same coin. You, on the other hand, felt your neck heating up. His honey brown eyes stared you down and you saw the edge of his lips quivering in amusement. Caught you. You could read his thoughts.

“Oh, shit! I'm so sorry, miss.”

And you needed the UnSub to act to get out of your staring contest, you didn't know if that was good or bad.

First move — to accidentally bump into his victims with his drink ✓

Perfectly done.

Second move — the victim goes into the women's bathroom to clean herself up.

Now, it's your move.

Spencer heavily glared at the man as he insisted to buy you another drink, but you squeezed his arm and brought his attention back to you. Your voice was calm and calculated, a pointed gaze sent his way. I'm going to the bathroom, watch out for his partner. I got him.

“I’ll come with you.”

You halted, practically feeling the guy's gaze on your back. He had walked away after apologizing a thousand times but he was the one to watch the woman enter the bathroom while his partner stayed outside with the car, ready to take off.

They had fallen for the bait, it had been a simple stakeout. The whole reason the women were caught without any commotion was because they went into the bathroom alone. So why the fuck did Spencer want to come in with you? It wasn't part of the plan.

“Honey, it's the women's restroom.” You laughed as if that was the most funny thing in the world. Hotch’s deep angry voice resonated through the earpiece, telling Spencer off. You didn't have time to dwell on it because you were already moving away from your husband's pouty figure.

Flashforward and you were sitting in the back of an ambulance with an EMT tending to your superficial wounds. Nothing serious happened, a minor physical conflict when the man noticed you were about to fight back. He got a punch in your eye. You knocked him out with a swing of your leg. That was it. Still, Spencer was fretting.

“You need a head CT.”

“You need to calm down.” You told him with a sigh after pulling him away from the EMT so he would stop bugging them about your health. “Jesus Christ, I've been through worse. Relax.”

“He had a syringe to your neck—” He started and you interrupted him with a bored tone.

“Didn’t even graze my neck, Spencer.”

“It could've!”

Your voice was resigned because you were tired. All you needed was your bed and sleep twenty-four hours straight. That fucking duo of bastards had you and your team chasing them for a week. “Okay, honey, drop the overprotective husband act. We're off the stage. I'm fine.”

Spencer seemed to get the point and left you alone. After Hotch congratulated you for a good undercover job, he let you know you were not going back tonight because the jet would only be ready in the morning. So yeah, no warm bed with your soft mattress and your fairy lights tonight. Just the old musty bedding in your motel bedroom. At least it was a room for one, you didn't have to share with anyone else neither would you have patience to do it.

Emily and JJ followed you on your way to your room. You noticed their exchange of looks right away.

“Spit it out.”

JJ blinked innocently at you. “What?”

Pressing your thumb against the bridge of your nose, you tiredly said, “You two are either flirting shamelessly right in front of me or silently discussing something about me. I believe is the second option so spit.it.out.”

Emily wasn't one to beat around the bush when it was something she wanted information on.

“You and Reid at the bar.”

“You mean where we served as bait to catch the UnSub?”

“That kinky talk all of a sudden, I mean.” Emily smirked as JJ chuckled beside her.

The only thing you could do was offer her a blank expression. You also knew how to play dumb like JJ just did a few seconds ago.

“Oh, please. He didn't even bat an eye at you!” She carried on, raising a brow. “Something’s going on, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at them.

“What is this, fifth grade?”

Emily let out a groan that echoed the hallway just as you reached your door. Their respective rooms were a few doors down.

“Told you she wouldn't reveal anything.”

“I had hope.”

You rolled your eyes before pressing your key in the keyhole and opening your door. “Goodnight, girls.”

You liked certainty.

It was so much easier when people would be straight forward and simply put the cards on the table to avoid misunderstandings.

You've had that trouble in relationships throughout your life. The experience of navigating a situationship on eggshells. Am I giving too much expectations? Am I having too many expectations? Is this even worth my time? Sometimes you just wanted to take the edge off. Simple and effective. No strings attached.

Somehow, you never had that issue with Spencer. That doubt.

“Serendipity,” he said one night. Your limbs were tangled under the sheets and he just blurted out the word as if you were supposed to know what it meant without any context.

You looked up at him, your lashes barely letting you open your eyes since your latest activities had tired you out. “What?” You were used to Spencer’s random bursts of smart comments.

“It means when you…” He paused to kiss the back of your neck, causing you to squirm away only briefly, a smile growing in your lips. “... find something good accidentally…” another kiss, his hands wrap around your waist slowly. “without meaning to.”

“Oh.” You turned around as his arms caged you in, supporting your torso against his chest. You liked how his eyes seemed relaxed after you spent a night together. Ever since you met Spencer, he never had a healthy night sleep. Either because of a good book or worry. He never really rested. You had that in common. That was probably why you two clicked immediately in more ways than one. “You’re saying i’m that something good you found, Doc? Careful, I'll start thinking you’re getting attached.”

Certainty was in your agreement when you decided to turn friends with benefits. Things were pretty clear for the two of you since the beginning. Both wanted to just… forget about your jobs for a little while. And that's what you did.

That agreement was none of everyone's concern but yours. So you didn't tell anyone. It was your own thing, which was going well so far.

Too well.

You were too good at ignoring signs. All your life, you've been so focused on not getting attached that it usually worked well in your favor. But you realized you fucked up when after a bad day the only person you wanted around was him. And sex wasn't what you had in mind. Spencer’s presence was inviting and all you desired after being (barely) beaten up was to tangle your limbs with his and call it a night.

That's bad. Your brain warned. Very bad. Cut it off before it gets worse.

You stood in front of his door, staring at the wood as if it would knock on its own. Why were you even there? Maybe you should apologize because you felt like you did something wrong when he looked pissed moments before he left the crime scene. But then you remembered that he left. How dare he?

He answered your harsh knocks with a confused frown. His glasses were perched up on the tip of his nose, probably had slipped down while he tried to sprint to answer the inconvenient person at the door in the middle of the night.

“Is everything okay?” You entered without an invite and crossed your arms, waiting patiently until he closed the door. You were mad. You didn't have any reason to be mad.

“You left.”

He placed the book you only now noticed was on his hand on the nightstand. His nose scrunching up in confusion. “Left what?”

“You left the crime scene.” You left me — you wish you had say but you would've sound like a jealous girlfriend. Which you were none. “Didn’t wait for anyone.”

He didn't reply right away, his eyes accessing you carefully. He wasn't mad anymore. He wasn't even mad before. Just frustrated. You were just doing your part of the job and he let emotion go in the middle. It happens. Though the absolute terror he felt right before he got into the restroom was another thing. He never felt that before, it didn't just happen.

“I was tired, just wanted to… get some rest.” His eyes then softened which contributed to you feeling like a fool. “I’m sorry I didn't wait for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

He nodded, approaching you with careful steps. He wanted to redeem himself. You sighed in exasperation, running a hand over your face but you flinched when you touched your wounded brow.

With a gentle touch to your chin, he tilted your head upwards to check on your wound. Your eyes followed him every move. You felt like you could melt into a puddle. His touch was exactly what you needed.

“Does it hurt too bad?”

“No.”

“It may still be sore.” He observed, brushing your hair away from your forehead. Your eyes fell shut, you couldn't help it, your body had its own mind. “I’m sorry I reacted that way. It wasn't professional.” He mumbled after a long pause between the two of you. You had already given up on your tough act, resting your cheek against his chest as his fingers worked through your hair.

“Fuck professional.” You said, nuzzling against his neck while your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You fit perfectly and that would always amaze you. Spencer never rejected your touch and it made you wonder, for a moment, if you were being unbearable. That thought was quickly shut down by him pressing you closer.

“Your heart is racing.” He pointed out, both of his arms tightening around you as if that was supposed to make it better.

“I’m just acting.” You whispered, enjoying the sound of his laughter after you said it.

Spencer leaned back, quirking up an eyebrow looking down at you “Oh, so you can make your heart race on command huh?”

“I bet you got a scientific fact just on the tip of your tongue.”

“When you exercise, your heart rate increases,” he started slowly and you felt his fingers draw up your shirt slightly. You liked where that was going. His raised his hand until it was right by your chest, so he pressed his open palm right by your heart. You ignored the shivering. “It is actually very easy to raise it. When you take the stairs… When you're running on a treadmill…” He lowered his lips to your neck. “But when you're not doing any hard work with your body, let's say, it's even easier. Like now.”

The way he pressed kisses down your neck made your eyes flutter shut.

“If you're experiencing strong emotions like excitement or… stress? Which I know isn't the case right now, is it?”

“Oh, shut up.”

He chuckled, kissing the corner of your mouth. Before he could move to your lips, you drew back, but not so much.

“I came here to talk to you about something.” He withdrew his hands from your waist, his fingers traveled up your arms and he squeezed them reassuringly, urging you to go on. “So… this. Between us. It's cool, right?” Suddenly, you weren't good at communication at all. You barely remembered your own name.

“Yes?” His brows furrowed slowly. “Why? Do you want to stop?”

Your brows shot up. “No! No. That's not— it's not about that.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I mean…” You place a hand on his chest, taking a deep breath so you could gather your thoughts. “It’s not that it's wrong. But. Have you ever considered…”

Spencer tilted his head so he would catch your gaze. “Considered…?”

“Becoming serious. Exclusive. Like a—you know.”

You would've pushed him back annoyed because of how his face was scrunching while he tried to prevent a laugh. He was laughing at you. He held you back, hand crawling up your back to keep you in place. You felt like a fool.

“Yes.” He whispered, cupping your cheeks to make you look at him despite your annoyance. “Yes, I do want to be a couple. Exclusive. Whatever you want to call it. I want you to be my girlfriend.”

“Don’t sound too excited.”

“But I am excited.” Spencer emphasized, pulling your face closer which made you smile a little. “I was waiting for the right time, I didn't want to pressure you. I thought you would cut me out of your life and I'd rather just… stay with our deal instead of that being the case.”

“I’d never cut you out of my life, Spencer.” You said with your shoulders slumping in disappointment that he even thought that.

He nodded, resting his forehead on yours and silence took over both of you for a moment. Just your breathing balancing together.

“Stay the night?” His request was useless because you were about to do that anyway.

“Mhm, yeah, I'll stay.”

“Good.” He kissed you, his warm hands wrapping around your waist. “Girlfriend, right?”

You let out a loud groan. “Shut up.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[ghosts-to-reid]

hi lovely,

is there a way you could do one where all the members of the bau are talking about relationships (so like rossi talking about his 3 wives etc.) and the reader talks about how toxic her past relationships were and spencer mumbles something like “i could do so much better” and morgan hears it and exposes him? and it mayyybbeee ends with them kissing somewhere that they think is secluded but actually isn’t and everyone sees and becomes really proud of spence for finally making a move? i feel like it would be really cute :)

thank you so so much you’re awesome !!

- 🐚

offer — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of boyfriends forgetting anniversaries and forgetting to text back , a/n: ELE !! this is so so so so old ohmygod i just found this in my drafts </3

“I’ll have you know that I was not the problem in my marriages,” Rossi declared, his tone defensive as he stood next to Emily’s desk.

It was late—far later than any of them should have still been at the office—but for some reason, the entire team had collectively hit a wall of boredom. What had started as chatter had somehow devolved into what could only be described as a group of high schoolers gossiping in the cafeteria.

Derek, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk plastered across his face, raised an eyebrow. “Three divorces, and you weren’t the problem?” he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Come on, Rossi.”

You couldn’t help but laugh under your breath, the sound barely audible but enough to draw Rossi’s attention.

His eyes landed on you, and he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. “You seem to be enjoying this a little too much,” he said, his tone offended. “What about you, huh? You’re telling me you’ve only had flawless relationships your entire life?”

You shrugged, leaning back in your chair with a playful grin. “No, but I didn’t have three divorces either,” you shot back, your tone light but teasing.

“Touché,” Rossi said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Garcia, who had been perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, immediately leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Ooh, gossip! Nice. Tell us,” she said, clapping her hands together. “We need details. Spill the tea!”

You glanced at her, then around the room, suddenly feeling like you were under a microscope. Spencer, who had been quietly flipping through a book at his desk for most of the conversation, finally looked up, his gaze flickering toward you with mild interest.

You hesitated, feeling a little put on the spot.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you said, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt to downplay it. “Just, you know… the usual. Missing anniversaries. Forgetting Valentine’s Day. Not texting back. That kind of stuff.”

“The usual?!” Garcia exclaimed, her voice rising an octave as she leaned forward, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Honey, no. That’s not ‘the usual.’ That’s just… bad boyfriend behavior.”

You glanced at her, shrugging half-heartedly as you tapped your fingers on the table. “I guess so,” you said, your tone nonchalant but your cheeks warming.

The last thing you wanted was for this to turn into a full-blown interrogation about your love life—or lack thereof.

But before you could steer the conversation elsewhere, Derek suddenly chimed in.

“Reid,” he said, drawing out the name like he’d just stumbled upon the juiciest piece of gossip. A smirk was already spreading across his face, and you didn’t like the look of it one bit.

Your eyes darted between Derek and Spencer.

Spencer froze, his head snapping up like a deer caught in headlights. His face turned an impressive shade of red, and he shot Derek a desperate look that screamed, Don’t you dare.

Derek, of course, ignored him entirely. “Aww, pretty boy over here just mumbled that he could do so much better than your old boyfriends,” he announced, his smirk widening.

The room fell silent for a beat, everyone’s attention shifting to Spencer, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

You stared at him, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise, while Garcia let out an audible gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Even Rossi raised an eyebrow.

Spencer, for his part, looked like he was having an internal crisis. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. “I—” he started, his voice barely above a whisper, before trailing off entirely.

His face was now so red it practically matched the color of Garcia’s latest neon headband.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Spencer,” you said, your tone teasing but gentle, “did you really say that?”

He glanced at you, his eyes wide and panicked, before quickly looking away. “I—I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammered, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his book. “I just meant that… that you deserve someone who… who…” He trailed off again, clearly flustered, and you could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to find a way to dig himself out of this hole.

Derek, of course, wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. “Oh, he meant it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Pretty boy’s got a crush.”

The room erupted into laughter. Spencer, meanwhile, looked like he was seriously considering fleeing the building.

His face was practically glowing at this point, and he was avoiding eye contact with everyone—especially you.

You, on the other hand, were torn between amusement and something else—something warm and fluttery that you weren’t quite ready to examine too closely.

“Well,” you said, your tone light but your cheeks feeling suspiciously warm, “I guess I’ll have to hold you to that, Spencer.”

He glanced at you again. “I—uh—” he started, but before he could say anything else, Rossi clapped his hands together, effectively cutting off the conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Rossi said, his tone amused. “Let’s give the kid a break before he spontaneously combusts. Coffee run, anyone?”

The team agreed, wanting a reason to leave the office, as everyone began gathering their things.

You stayed seated for a moment, your eyes lingering on Spencer, who was still looking thoroughly mortified. But as you watched him, you couldn’t help but smile.

As the rest of the team filed out of the room, chattering and laughing as they headed for the elevators, Spencer remained at his desk, his head down as he shuffled papers and books into his bag.

He was so caught up in his embarrassment that he didn’t seem to notice anything around him—including the fact that you were still sitting there, watching him.

When he finally looked up and saw you, he flinched slightly, as if he hadn’t realized you were still in the room. His eyes widened for a moment before he quickly looked away, his cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red.

Without a word, he stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and made a beeline for the door, clearly eager to escape.

You stayed seated for a moment longer, your pen clicking absently against the table as you watched him go.

He paused briefly at the door, his hand on the frame, and muttered a small, barely audible “Bye” without meeting your eyes.

That was when you decided to follow him.

Grabbing your bag, you jumped up from your chair, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the now-empty bullpen. “Spence, hold on!” you called out, your voice carrying down the hallway.

Spencer's hand instinctively reached out to stop the elevator doors from closing as they began to slide shut. He held them open, as he waited for you to catch up.

You reached the elevator just as the doors started to ding in protest, and you slipped inside with a breathless “Thanks.” Spencer nodded, his cheeks still tinged with pink, and stepped back to give you space.

“That was nice of you,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence. Your voice was soft, almost tentative, as you glanced at him. “What you said back there.” You paused, your fingers nervously twisting the strap of your bag. “If you meant it,” you added, your tone unsure.

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at the elevator buttons, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his satchel. The silence stretched between you and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a mistake bringing it up. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“I did,” he said, his voice quiet. He turned to look at you, his hazel eyes meeting yours. “I meant it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay. Good,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

You realized that neither of you had pressed the button for your floor. The elevator hadn’t moved.

Spencer seemed to notice it at the same time you did. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward, his arm reaching past you to press the button for his floor. His movement brought him closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, close enough that your breath mingled in the small space between you.

For a moment, he didn’t pull back. Instead, he stayed there, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching yours as if he were trying to find the courage to say something—or do something.

Your heart was racing now, your pulse thundering in your ears, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his.

“Well,” you said, your voice barely audible, “I’d like to take you up on that offer.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you felt your cheeks flush.

But you didn’t regret it.

Not when Spencer’s eyes softened, not when his breath hitched ever so slightly, not when he leaned in just a fraction closer.

And then, before you could overthink it, before you could second-guess yourself, his hands dropped from the elevator buttons and came up to cradle your face. His touch was gentle, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks as he tilted your head up to meet his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if he were afraid you might pull away. His lips brushed against yours, warm and hesitant, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.

But then, as if he could sense your response—the way your hands instinctively gripped the front of his sweater, the way you leaned into him—he deepened the kiss, his movements growing more confident.

You melted into him, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his sweater as you kissed him back, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

And then, just as Spencer deepened the kiss again, you heard it—a loud ding, followed by a chorus of gasps.

You froze, your eyes snapping open as you leaned back slightly, turning your head toward the sound.

There, standing in the open elevator doorway, was the entire team. Garcia’s hands were clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and delight. Derek was grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Emily was trying—and failing—to hide a smirk behind her coffee cup, while Rossi simply raised an eyebrow.

Spencer, however, seemed completely oblivious. His hands were still cradling your face, his eyes still closed, and before you could stop him, he leaned in again, pulling you back into another kiss.

“Spencer,” you mumbled against his lips, your hands pushing lightly against his chest. “Spencer, stop.”

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes still dazed. “What?” he murmured, his voice low and breathless.

You gestured weakly toward the doorway, your face burning. “Uh, we have an audience.”

Spencer blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as he finally followed your gaze. His eyes widened, and he immediately dropped his hands from your face, stepping back so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet.

His cheeks turned a deep, unmistakable shade of red.

“Oh,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Oh no.”

The team, meanwhile, was still staring at the two of you. Garcia was the first to break the silence, clapping her hands together with a squeal. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “This is the best day of my life!”

Derek let out a low whistle, his grin widening. “Well, well, well,” he said, his tone teasing. “Looks like someone finally made a move.”

Emily smirked, taking a sip of her coffee. “About time,” she said, her voice affectionate.

Rossi simply shook his head, though there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Kids these days,” he muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his tone.

You, on the other hand, were torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to disappear into the floor. Your face felt like it was on fire, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Spencer, who was still standing frozen beside you, his hands awkwardly hanging at his sides.

“Uh,” you said, your voice squeaking slightly, “this isn’t what it looks like?”

Garcia let out a delighted laugh, clapping her hands again. “Oh, honey, it’s exactly what it looks like,” she said, her tone gleeful. “And I am here for it.”

Derek stepped forward, slapping Spencer on the shoulder with a grin. “Nice work, pretty boy,” he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. “Took you long enough.”

Spencer, for his part, looked like he was having an internal crisis. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to stammer, “I—uh—we—it’s not—”

He closed his mouth instantly, looking even more mortified, and you finally couldn’t help it—you laughed.

“Well,” Garcia said with a grin, “I think this calls for a celebration.”

“Or,” Spencer muttered, voice still hoarse with embarrassment, “a full-scale relocation and change of identity.”

You turned to him, still grinning, and nudged him lightly. “Sorry, genius,” you teased. “No take-backs.”

Spencer ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Wasn’t considering that,” he mumbled, his eyes flickering down to your lips for the briefest of moments before he seemed to remember that you still had an audience.

He quickly looked away, his cheeks flushing red.

The team, of course, didn’t miss a beat. Derek let out a low whistle, his grin widening. “Oh, he’s gone,” he said, his tone teasing. “Look at him. Absolutely smitten.”

Garcia gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I’m framing this moment in my mind forever.”

You and Spencer exchanged a look, both of you clearly on the same page: it was time to make an exit.

Without a word, you both started walking down the hallway. The team’s laughter and commentary followed you, their voices carrying down the corridor.

“Don’t think this is over!” Garcia called after you, her tone gleeful. “I expect a full debrief tomorrow!”

Just as you thought you were in the clear, Spencer’s hand reached for yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. You glanced at him, surprised but not unhappy, and he gave you a small, sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low. “I just… wanted to.”

You smiled back, your heart skipping a beat. “I’m not complaining,” you said, your voice soft.

For a moment, it felt like you were in your own little world, the rest of the BAU and their teasing far behind you. But then, just as you were about to relax, you heard Garcia’s voice echo down the hallway.

“I saw that!” she squealed, her tone triumphant. “Hand-holding! This is happening!”

[ghosts-to-reid]

EVERLASTING FLOWERS

❀ pairing .ᐟ bsf!spencer x florist!reader

❀ summary .ᐟ your best friend tells you he wants to give flowers to his crush, unaware of your crush on him.

❀ warnings / tags .ᐟ fluff! idiots in love.

❀ author's notes .ᐟ fun fact! i studied the meaning of flowers a few years ago for a fic i was writing for spencer,,, i scrapped it eventually but it was nice to get to reuse that information!! feel free to send me reqs if you want, i really wanna write more for him!!

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST

spencer watched intently as you put together a bouquet of flowers, consisting of white lilies, as well as white peonies, and white roses. "what's it for?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"i don't know." you shrugged, positioning the flowers, fluffing them up, "the client just asked for different kinds of white flowers, along with some white decorations."

"hmm." spencer pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, before speaking again, "did you know that lilies represent purity, peonies represent good luck, and roses represent passion? white roses have a different meaning, though. they usually symbolize innocence."

"yes, i do know that." you smile softly, "florists kind of need to know what different kinds of flowers mean. we even sell a bunch of different books on what different flowers mean."

"oh." spencer's face fell slightly, "sorry," he chuckled softly, "i didn't mean to dump information on you about something you're pretty much an expert on, already."

"don't worry." you laugh, rolling your eyes playfully, "it's actually nice that someone else knows these things. usually the only person i can talk flowers with is… well, flowers."

"alright…" your friend mumbled quietly, "well, what kind of a bouquet would you recommend i get?"

"that depends!" you smile sweetly, "who is it for? a girlfriend, a boyfriend? a friend? a crush?"

spencer's lips were pursed until he looked up at you with a smile, "well, a friend i have a crush on."

you laugh softly, shaking your head, "that's always the case, isn't it." you move around the store, gathering flower after flower, spencer admiring the amount of detail you were paying, to your task. you brought a bunch of different flowers in a bunch of different colors, starting to arrange them into a vase.

white roses, hydrangeas, baby's breath, tulips… to most people, your strange combination might look messy, but spencer couldn't take his eyes off of it. to him, watching you wrap a white bow around the vase was the most gorgeous thing he had ever witnessed.

"how much do i owe you?" he asked as you added up the cost of the bouquet on the cash register, feeling a slight pang in your chest knowing that the man you'd liked for over a year now was going to give flowers to someone else. damn you for loving plants and flowers enough to make it a career."

"$40." you said, feigning a smile and watching as spencer reached into his satchel and pulled out his wallet, placing a few crumpled twenty dollar bills onto the counter. "wanna write a note for the recipient?"

spencer nodded, and you took one of the little note cards you kept for bouquets, handing it over to spencer along with a pen. you watched as he wrote something onto the small note, each flick of the pen making your heart ache even more, his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration, before he folded it, and his lips curled up into a smile, "done."

"alright. i assume you want to give it to them in person." you pushed the bouquet towards him, "good luck."

spencer look down at the bouquet, letting out a small chuckle before pushing it back towards you.

"delivery costs extra."

"i know. that's why i'm delivering it myself." spencer said, pushing the note to you, "read it."

you rolled your eyes, betting that this was some practical joke spencer thought to be funny. unfolding the note, your eyes widened as you read the words spencer had written down in his traditional chicken scratch.

"to my favorite florist."

you look from the flowers to spencer, back down to the flowers and then back to reid.

"what is this?" you asked, chuckling softly.

"what? it's a bouquet to the friend i have a crush on."

[ghosts-to-reid]

Just finished my second consecutive 12 hour on bank holiday weekend at the bar I work at and sat myself down and went

“Let’s do some Spencer Reid-ing”

[ghosts-to-reid]

TORNADO WARNINGS - spencer reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Content warning: angst, first person pov (most of the fic), swearing, y/n used twice, micro mention of typical CM violence Word count: 2.4k Summary: years pass, but the love you have for Spencer doesn’t disappear. Even though he left you a long time ago and you haven't talked since… until now. a/n: my first truly angsty fic so please be gentle with me. I was playing with this concept for a while and finally got the courage to sit down and finish it recently. hope you like it!! 🤍

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I came to the conclusion that love is like a flower, it dies over time. But what if the hypothetical flower would be fake? What if it was made out of plastic or some other durable material? That would be true love. One that’s everlasting.

“When the last flower dies, I’ll stop loving you” he said with a shy smile passing me a fake flower bouquet. “I– JJ said it would be more romantic to give you fake flowers and say that phrase instead of giving you roses or some other fresh flowers, so I just-”

“They’re perfect, but just so you know, I will have to throw them away if they’ll die.” I replied, my tone was playful in hopes that it would calm his thoughts, which I simply knew were running at sonic speed.

The flowers made out of plastic lose color with time, the vibrance of the petals washes away and the pigment of the leaves turns into a gray-ish tone of green. But the reminder of what used to be great and strong, colored and saturated is still there.

My hand reached for the blend of fake flowers, a grimace appeared on my face. It’s been years since I’ve even talked to him. The thought came to my mind of how I shouldn’t feel this hurt after over half a decade from the break-up. I am well aware that I shouldn’t keep the flowers, not even when they bring me comfort on lonely nights, smiles on awful days, just to make me uncontrollably sob later. I know it isn’t healthy. They were the sign of empty promises. Lovely words from a liar's mouth. But I still couldn’t push myself to take them off the shelf. Throwing them away would also mean that my part of the promise would be broken as well, and I just needed that safety net to keep up the peaceful state of mind. They didn’t die yet. Sure, maybe a couple of leaves have broken off and the petals started to tear, but the fake plant was still mostly intact.

My heart didn’t feel like it was going to be mending any time soon. I wasn’t obsessing over Spencer, but when I had a rough day at work, I used to put earbuds in and play any old voicemail recordings he had left for me. The most beloved one was of him telling me how proud he was of me. It was recorded after I announced that I got promoted.

“It’s not going to work out” he muttered under his breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not interested in seeing you anymore.”

My whole body froze. Did I hear him properly? Was this a nightmare or maybe a cruel joke?

“Excuse me?” the question came out of my mouth faster than I could process it.

“I am sorry, it’s not because of you, it’s me. I just can’t continue this relationship.” he looked everywhere but not at me, which felt like opening a wound that hasn't had any time to heal.

All I could do was choke out a weak, surprised laughter as I blinked away the tears.

“It’s so cliché. You can hear it in most romantic movies.” my voice sounded like it didn’t belong to me, oddly strange.

“Actually according to Merriam-Webster the phrase was originated by Zachary Spence in a newspaper as a sporting reference, though it morphed into a break-up line in 1991, but it was widely popularized in 1993 by– what?” he answered finally giving me his attention, confused as why I couldn’t stop looking at him, but I was taking every second to let his image sink into my memory.

“It’s just that- I’m going to miss your constant rambling, the oversharing” The corners of my mouth twitched as I tried my very best to smile, even if it hurt like hell.

And I do, still, after six years, going strong with a hollow chest. The moment I took off the ring of my finger felt like a punch in the gut, though a little piece of me knew that he wouldn’t leave me without a strong, fundamental reasoning.

Now, every time I read an article about god knows what I keep asking myself: does Spencer already know that? What I tell myself, is that he is a walking encyclopedia, of course he would know. But I shouldn't care, right?

My friends repeat “life goes on” like a mantra, and my parents say “it’ll get better”. But it’s not that simple.

Not when we were planning our future together and all of a sudden it gets thrown, like pawns off the checker of a chessboard. Game over. Start again. Good luck next time… with someone else.

Of course our relationship wasn’t perfect. Though constant worrying probably has reduced my life expectancy by a long run, I would gladly rather live less with him by my side than spend eternity without him.

Then a sudden knock at the door shredded all the thoughts that occupied my head, just to replace them with a question of who could it be? It was already getting dark out early and chilly rain was hitting the windows, quickly running down the glass panes, making a calming sound.

I took one… two… three careful steps out of the bedroom, another five to the front door. My fingers touched the cover of the peephole that I was instructed to set up by Reid when I was living in my former apartment. His story about a 'murderous peeping Tom' case (which was my name for it) got stuck in my mind, so this item was the last thing I took from my old place and the first thing I installed in the new home.

A quick stare through the viewer made me stumble backwards, turn around from the door just to cover my mouth with a shaky hand and place the other arm around my stomach. Suddenly I felt the heat run through my body, that couldn’t contrast more with the weather outside. I felt sick. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and before I could regret the decision I was about to make I unlocked and opened the door.

And there he stood in all his glory though his face was drained of emotions, he had dark circles under the eyes and a shadow of stubble, quite honestly he just looked like he had seen better days. But it was still Spencer.

“How did you–”

“Garcia.” I nodded at his response. “May I come in?”

As a silent invitation I just moved away from the door frame letting him pass me in the threshold. I could feel my hands begin to tremble, my nostrils started flaring and then there was a bitter taste caused by his presence, that somehow felt like venom in my mouth. All I was thinking of at that moment was that I couldn't hold it in any longer, and that the best outlet I could think of was the door, which I slammed as hard as my strength would have let me. A loud thud filled the apartment making Spencer flinch and his hand to fly to his chest almost instantly.

“How fucking dare you, huh?” I blew up.

It was weird how quickly my emotions could change. I didn’t know that I could be this sour, until the time I heard him speak, telling me that his friend from BAU basically stalked me down, for him to walk right into my safe haven, and make all the ghosts of memories disappear and for him to stand there, flesh and blood.

“You have to hear me out. Please." He was very hurt, I could even hear it in his voice as he pleaded, but it didn’t make sense to me. At least not at first, not until he explained it to me later.

“Spencer, you broke up with me, and that was years ago. What? Did you come by to get a cookie for breaking my heart? Like goddamn it.” I was clenching and unclenching my hands, open hand to fist, again and again.

“Let me explain,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the words he was about to speak were slowly causing him a headache “It wanted to protect you, and I am sincerely sorry for hurting you. You have to understand that it was all for your safety. It wasn't my intention to cause you pain.”

“What are you even talking about?” my anger was slowly washing away to let the confusion take its turn.

“I had too. There was this one unsub, when we started getting in his way he decided to target the people who were close to us . I got worried when he-” he paced around the room and he looked like he was struggling with what words to use to make it all make sense.

“When he what?” I demanded an answer.

“We found his letter addressed to us and you were on the list. It was a hit list. Breaking it off with you was the only idea I had besides trying to have someone watch over you when I couldn’t. If I told you, you would have been trying to find another way to make it work. I know you, y/n. You would try to fight and risk your life. I couldn’t let you be so reckless”

“And what took you so long to tell me about it? It’s been years” I grabbed my shirt right around the collar and crinkled it in my first. My heart was burning in an unknown sensation, that was something I couldn’t describe. I wouldn't be able to do it even now.

“He was on a run for all those years. Just leaving breadcrumbs. We finally got him a few weeks ago,” His eyes were looking everywhere but mine and it felt like agony, though it didn’t cut deeper than betrayal. “y/n you have to know I did it all because I care about you, and it hurt me as well.”

“You know, I never… never truly found anyone, I couldn’t move on and it’s all because of you. It’s because you wrecked me Spencer. Ruin me for everyone else. Because a piece of me still loves you. A piece of me waited, but-” He reached with his hand to touch on my arm “don’t you dare touch me! You have no right to just walk back in and expect me to act, as if I wasn’t lonely and feeling unwanted for over half a decade”

I couldn’t hold back tears any longer, saying those words made me finally acknowledge the feelings I felt for so many years. And it made me ache, like someone ripped my soul out, stomped on it solely to put it back into my body again.

“We were engaged for God’s sake!” I tried to stay calm. I really did. However, yelling out my feelings made me think clearer. “And I tried to be a bigger person, tried to give you space. Forget about it, but it’s hard, when you told me it wouldn’t work out, out of the blue.”

“I tried to keep you alive y/n! And I am genuinely sorry. I am not begging you to forgive me because I know it feels like it was ages ago when we were together. I just want you to consider us and try to make it through this.”

“You sound like a crazy person right now,” I shook my head in disbelief, my mouth flew agape “lying to me, hiding the truth when omitting the fact that someone was planning to take my life, one way or another… I fear this is not something I can get over Spencer.”

From the perspective of time this wasn’t the greatest fear of mine. The thing I was frightened by the most, was that I would give in too easily. I knew I was able to forgive him, deep down I was sure I would bend if he asked me again.

“Okay,” he nodded, almost like he suddenly dissociated himself completely from being present. It felt like he mentally disappeared though his body still stood tall in front of me. He was no longer confident in what he believed in after my words, like all his will to fight for the relationship that we used to have, exited his being with a single lonely tear escaping his eye. He wiped it off immediately with the back of his hand. “I better get going then.”

"I think it would be better for the both of us, if you did." The emotions started to settle in my gut. I couldn't make him stay.

"Alright. goodnight." he said those words, probably hoping this wouldn't be our last goodbye. "Just think about it, okay?"

I nodded as I opened the door before him. When he left the tears started to flow down my cheeks again. This time they were like waterfalls of my broken heart and they were running wild. I just dropped to the floor. The loud sobs were echoing through my apartment as I curled myself into a fetal position.

"So…" you started not knowing what else to say "what do you think?"

The woman on the chair next to you carefully removed her glasses and set them on the table, along with a notepad.

"I think this story you just told me is a very unique and tragic love story," she said confidently "and a very unfortunate one at that"

You shifted uncomfortably on the couch you were sitting on for the past thirty minutes. You were nervously playing with your hands and chewing on your already puffy lips. Dumping the trauma was tiring you even more than your lack of sleep, due to the situation you were still digesting.

"Then, what should I do?" you ask looking up at the therapist, expecting a clear direction.

"I am not here to tell you what you should or shouldn't do…" she said in a calm voice and took a sip of whatever was in her white mug. "My only input here is supposed to be helping you understand your emotions, however, I can tell you to trust yourself and what you decide to do, the instincts usually don't lie"

my masterlist ♥

[ghosts-to-reid]

The Art of Flirtation

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Garcia offers to teach you how to flirt in hopes that you will finally ask Spencer out.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: fluff, awkward flirting, confessing feelings, friends to lovers

AN: I feel like it's been a minute since I wrote something for Spencer and I've been on a Criminal Minds kick the past couple days. I hope you all enjoy!

“Guys, you can’t be serious?” You stared at the girls, Penelope, JJ, and Emily, with wide eyes after almost choking on your drink.

A playful, if slightly tipsy smirk turned up in the corner of Penelope’s lips, “Oh, we one hundred percent are being completely serious.”

“Penelope, I can’t.”

“Sure, you can!” Emily chimed in.

“Why not?” JJ asked as she took another sip of her drink.

You rolled your eyes, “Because I would be no good at it, not to mention too embarrassed.”

This back and forth started after you had told Penelope how you admired her confidence and her ability to flirt with Derek unapologetically, and Penelope immediately told you that you should try and flirt with Spencer the way she flirts with Derek, and Emily and JJ excitedly agreed, much to your horror.

In your time working with the BAU, you had developed quite a crush on Spencer. He was truly the sweetest and most considerate person you had ever met, and try as you might, you were not the best at communicating your feelings. For months you had been building up the courage to ask him out, but it wasn’t going well. That’s what this get together with the girls had been for, to get some advice, but flirting with Spencer, Penelope Garcia style was not what you had in mind as helpful advice.

“How do you know for sure you’re no good at it?” Emily asked.

“I don’t think I have ever flirted with anyone in my life, and Penelope, your stuff is kind of advanced don’t you think?”

Penelope pondered your comment for a moment and took a sip of her drink. An idea popped into her head, and she bounced up and down in the booth with excitement, “I could train you!”

“Train me?”

“Yes, I can be your Mr. Miyagi! Under my tutelage, you will become a master in the art of flirtation.”

“I don’t know, Penelope.”

JJ grabbed a handful of pretzels from the bowl on the table, “Come on, what have you got to lose?”

All three of your friends could see the apprehension on your face.

“What if Penelope promises to teach you how to flirt in a more PG way? Nothing too advanced, more Flirting 101.”

Penelope nodded enthusiastically, “I can do beginner friendly!”

The idea was a little embarrassing, a grown adult being trained to flirt, but you knew you would need help if you were ever going to try and tell Spencer how you felt.

You took a breath then looked at Penelope, “Okay, take me under your wing.”

Penelope could no longer contain herself, if she hadn’t been trapped within the booth she would have jumped for joy, “Yes!”

-

Two weeks of Flirting 101 with Professor Penelope Garcia, and she had deemed you ready to graduate. In true Garcia fashion, she made you a diploma and played Pomp & Circumstance when you walked into your shared office. However, Penelope informed you that before you could receive your diploma, you had to complete your final exam…

flirt with Spencer.

To say you were nervous would be an understatement, even though Penelope agreed you could flirt with Spencer over the phone instead of in person, and you could wait until he called you. Each time your phone rang, you felt your stomach flip, relief coming over you once you saw Hotch, Rossi, or Emily’s name pop up on your phone screen.  

It was getting late, but there was no rest for the wicked, which meant no rest for the team. Penelope yawned for what seemed like the twentieth time in five minutes.

“You think you’re gonna make it?” You asked looking up from your monitors.

She waved you off, “I’ll be fine once I get another cup of coffee,” she stood and grabbed her octopus mug, “you want anything?”

“I’m good, but thanks.”

“Alright, I’ll be back in a few.”

The universe always had perfect timing. As soon as Penelope walked out the door, your phone rang and the name you had been dreading to see all day finally lit up your phone screen, Spencer. You took a few deep breaths, hoping it would help you relax, then answered the phone.

“Hey, pretty boy, how can I help you.” You cringed at how utterly ridiculous you sounded, at least to yourself.

There was a brief pause before Spencer continued, “Um, can, uh, can you check to see how many bars or clubs are within the geographical profile wen sent you guys?”

“Your wish is my command.” That one didn’t feel as weird, but you still cringed slightly as you typed away on your keyboard.

“Hey, are you okay?” Spencer said in a softer, almost hushed voice.

The concern in his voice made you want to jump ship on this whole thing, but you knew Penelope would be disappointed in you if you did, “I’m fine,” you paused, “just missing my favorite adorable genius.”

Before Spencer could respond, you finished your search for the information he requested.

“Since it’s a small town, it’s looks like there’s only one night club, if you could call it that, and two, make that three, bars.”

“Okay, can you send us the addresses for all of them?”

“Already one step ahead of that big, brilliant brain of yours.” a small smile crept up into the corner of your mouth after that one, “I sent them to each of you.”

“Th-thanks.”

“No problem, Cutie.”

Silence…and then the line went dead.

You slouched down in your chair and buried your head in your hands.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but I made you a cup of coffee and a cup of tea because I wasn’t sure which you would want,” Penelope walked back into your shared office, but stopped when she saw you slouching, “Uh-oh, what happened?”

 “Spencer just called.”

“And I missed it!” Penelope the drinks down on her desk and trotted over to you, “How did it go?”

You peeked out from behind your hands, “I think I failed my final exam.”

“Oh, it probably wasn’t as bad as you think it was.” She tried to reassure you.

You dropped your hands into your lap and looked up at her, “He kept asking me if I was alright. He thought something was wrong with me, and to make matters worse, he hung up on me, Penelope! I need to look for a new job, because I don’t think I can face him after this.”

Penelope rubbed your back soothingly, “I promise you; you don’t need to do anything as rash as quit or flee the state.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m positive,” she chuckled, “the poor boy was probably so flustered, he didn’t know what to do.”

You groaned, “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

-

It was well past midnight once Hotch let you and Penelope know that they had done all they could for the day and told the team to get some rest, and that included the two of you. When you got to your apartment, you were exhausted and were ready to go to sleep and hopefully forget about the awkward phone flirting you had done earlier.

You had climbed into bed and were about to shut off the lamp on your bedside table when your phone rang, Spencer’s name lighting up the screen.

“Oh god.” You felt your stomach drop. Why was Spencer calling you? Hotch had dismissed everyone for the night, so it was most likely not a work-related call. He was probably going to ask you about the call from earlier.

You stared at your phone debating what to do, answer the phone or let it go to voicemail. After a couple seconds of contemplation, you decided to answer, though you weren’t entirely sure why.

“Spencer?”

“Hi.”

Silence fell between the two of you. You waited for him to say something, anything, but he remained quiet.

“Did you need something, Spencer?”

“Um…” he trailed off.

A knot began to form in your stomach the longer he went without talking, and you couldn’t take the silence anymore, “Listen, Spencer. I know that call earlier was weird—"

“Were you flirting with me?” He cut you off.

It was your turn to go silent. You hadn’t expected him to be so blunt, but you were also kind of thankful for it. No more beating about the bush, you needed to tell him.

“Yes…I was.”

“Really? You were? I-I really didn’t believe Morgan when he said that’s what it was.”

You felt your face grow warm from embarrassment, “Morgan heard what I said?”

“No, no! You weren’t on speaker or anything, but I told him about it, and he told me that you had been flirting with me.” Spencer explained.

“Oh…well, um, I wanted to apologize. It was unprofessional and I clearly made you uncomfortable.”

“I wasn’t uncomfortable, I was just confused, a little flustered I’ll admit, but not uncomfortable,” you heard him let out a nervous chuckle, “and I should be the one apologizing. I shouldn’t have just hung up on you, but I freaked out when you called me ‘Cutie.’”

“Oh god.” You groaned, the mortification over everything you said to him coming back to you.

Spencer cleared his throat, “May, um, may I ask why?”

“Why?”

“Why were you flirting with me? You’ve never done it before.”

You released a sigh, “Penelope told me to do it.”

“Oh,” you heard what sounded like disappointment in his voice, “so it was just a prank or something?”

“No, no! She was just trying to help me. Look, Spencer,” you took a deep breath, “I…I really like you. I’ve been wanting to ask you out for months, but as you know, I’m not the most confident person, and psyched myself out every time I ever tried. So, Penelope taught me how to flirt, so I could try doing what she does with Derek, well not exactly what she does with Derek because that was way too advanced for me, but I obviously did a terrible job if you didn’t know that I was flirting with you.”

Spencer chuckled nervously again, “I’ve never been able to tell when someone is flirting with me, so it’s not on you.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you said I made you feel flustered.”

You heard Spencer chuckle again, but with less nerves this time, “I was flustered because I like you too.”

“What?”

“It sounds like we’ve been in the same boat and didn’t even realize it. I’ve also been trying to work up the courage to ask you out for months.”

You went silent again, but this time from pure shock.

“You still there?” Spencer asked.

“Yeah,” you slid down in your bed, “just, um…I’m just surprised.”

After another brief moment of silence, Spencer spoke, his voice laced with anticipation, “Since everything is out in the open now, would you want to get dinner once this case is over?”

You bit your lip to try and contain the smile that began to spread across your face, “I would love that, Spencer.”

“Great! We can figure out the details later. I know it’s late.”

You yawned, chuckling lightly after due to the timing, “Yeah, I’m about to turn into a pumpkin and I need my beauty sleep.”

“I don’t think you can get any more beautiful.”

Heat crept up into your cheeks at his comment, “Spencer Reid, are you flirting with me?”

You him let out a soft chuckle, “Thought it was only fair.”

“True,” your eyelids grew heavy with sleep, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, try not to miss me too much.”

“Too late.”

You smiled, “Goodnight, Spencer.”

“Goodnight.”

[ghosts-to-reid]

mystery girl blurb bc i miss them!!

1k, new bf!spencer mirrors your physical touch (and learns some of his own)

It took months of barely-restrained small talk over your shared lab bench, a few more of stolen coffee breaks and lunches, but finally, you and Spencer Reid have something concrete. (Never mind that he was all but yours by the time you spoke to him for the fifth time.)

This is all new to him, having a person to confide in, to express his every emotion to. To be honest, it's rather intimidating. He's used to being reminded to reel it in, making sure that he's not coming on too strong with his often long-winded rambles. Despite that, he's come around to letting those walls down around you. It helps that you're always genuinely interested in what he has to say. Over the short time you've dated, he's quickly gotten comfortable with allowing himself to prattle on.

However, one thing about your newfound relationship that's still difficult for him to grasp is physical intimacy. Although Spencer adores physical touch, it's something he's never allowed himself to indulge in. At most, he will sit at his mother's side when she reads to him, but now that he's lived away from her for years, he's very unacquainted with the intricacies of that sort of affection.

At the beginning, he just held himself back from everything. He was never sure what was okay, and feared embarrassment if he stepped too far.

In spite of that, he quickly grows desperate for closeness, craving the rare moments when you initiate touch.

That's what leads him to this. Although he'd never admit it, he's been studying you (more than he already does). There's a little nook in his brain that's dedicated to you, and a small part of that consists of an extensive list. Every type of touch you've initiated, and his own observances when he does the same.

The first time was an accident, really. He'd been posted up on your couch, watching you putter around your living room in search of your wallet. He was supposed to be helping you look, but he found his eyes consistently drawn back to you, unable to look away.

"Aha! Found it."

You straighten up with a satisfied smile, striding over to where he's sitting. With you standing between his knees, he has to crane his head back to see your face.

"Ready to go? I think this restaurant's really..."

You must keep talking, he knows that, but he can't possibly register anything else. Not when your hands have drifted to the crown of his head, idly running through the sandy-brown locks of hair there.

He all but melts, pupils dilating as his eyes remain fixated on your face.

Later that same night, once you've returned from the date and you're both trying to find excuses for him to stay in your apartment for just a little longer, you're leaning softly towards him in the doorway.

"I had a great time tonight."

Your smile is so sweet, and your eyes so shiny, and he can't hold himself back from mirroring your earlier movements, his hand migrating up from your waist to your head. With slow, clumsy movements, he intertwines his fingers with your hair, moving slowly back and forth.

He's terrified of overstepping, but the low sigh that escapes your lips signals to him that yes, this is something he can see himself doing. Playing with hair is the first item to join the list.

He slowly ramps up in the following weeks. The list gets countless additions. Kisses on the cheek, hands cupping necks, quick hugs for no discernable reason.

Slowly but surely, he's learning to understand his own boundaries with touch, and gets comfortable enough to explore beyond what you've expressed.

Picking you up from university one day, he steels himself before going for it. As he walks up to you, he gingerly places his arm around your shoulders, his hand landing on your upper arm.

He braces himself for a response, a notification that he's being too much, but it never comes. Instead, you turn your head, flash him a smile, then lean into his chest.

His neck is covered in a blotchy red blush, sure, but he's happier than he's ever been.

[ghosts-to-reid]

okay I just had the most adorable thought

You and Spencer just had a baby girl and the team comes to visit the two of you in the hospital.

Garcia walks in first with balloons and a giant teddy bear, Derek is right behind her with some flowers and the others follows in behind them.

Spencer is sitting on the hospital bed next to you, your little girl fast asleep in your arms.

"She's absolutely precious!" Garcia quietly squeals.

Derek sets the flowers down and pats Spencer on the shoulder, "You did good, both of you."

"Does the newest addition to our family have a name yet?" Rossi asks.

You look at Spencer with an excited smile, "Can I tell them?"

"Of course." Spencer kisses the top of your head.

"Everyone," you carefully adjust your arm so everyone can see the baby, "it is my absolute pleasure to introduce you to Diana Penelope Reid."

Garcia points to herself, her eyes welling up with tears, "Pen-Penelope? You named her after me?"

You nod, "Yeah, that okay?"

"It is more than okay, it's fan-freakin-tastic is what it is!" She hands the balloons and teddy bear off to Hotch and JJ and takes a seat in the chair next to the bed, "Hi, Diana Penelope. We are going to be the best of friends."

[ghosts-to-reid]

part five: opportunity synchronicity

— ★ opportunity knocked softly this time, dressed in shared music, fortune cookies, and a bookstore on a rainy afternoon—and for once, spencer didn’t hesitate to answer.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part three ✦ part four

Spencer's mind had been spinning for months—a whirlwind of unsaid words and aborted confessions, each one dying on his tongue before it could take flight.

He was staring at the polaroid on his desk—the one from Garcia's apartment, now framed and positioned just so—when Hotch's voice cut through his daydreaming.

"Reid. My office."

The conference invitation should have been routine. But then Hotch mentioned Delaware, which was three hours away.

"You’ve been asked to speak at a conference," Hotch said, sliding a folder across his desk.

Spencer’s interest piqued. "Really? Where? What about?"

"Delaware. Forensic advancements in cold case resolution."

"Three hours," Spencer murmured automatically, his mind already cataloging potential references, studies, case studies—

"Who else is invited?" The last conference he’d attended had been with Emily, her dry commentary balancing his tendency to ramble.

Hotch steepled his fingers. "Just you."

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. "No one?" 

He didn’t mind presenting alone—he could talk for hours about his work—but the idea of driving three hours in silence, of spending the night in some generic hotel without the familiar buffer of a teammate…

"You can invite someone." Hotch's tone was carefully neutral, but the implication hung between them like a held breath.

It was as close to interference as Aaron Hotchner would ever allow himself. But even he—a man who treated office gossip like a biohazard—had limits. And watching the two of you orbit each other for so long, caught in some agonizing gravitational pull, had apparently reached them.

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. The decision was already made. Had been made, really, the moment the words left Hotch's lips.

There was only ever one choice. Only one person he wanted beside him.

Only ever you.

The invitation had tumbled out before he could overthink it—and of course you'd said yes. Of course you'd grinned that sunrise-bright grin and declared, "God, yes, I need a break from work."

Now, an hour into the drive, your fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against your thigh as the countryside blurred past your window.

"Is it my turn yet?"

Spencer didn't need to check the dashboard clock. He knew exactly how long it had been since you'd last controlled the radio—twenty-seven minutes. The rules of your road trip playlist rotation had been established with near-constitutional precision after your third bickering match outside Baltimore.

Technically, he still had three minutes left with his science podcast.

He took one look at your pout—the one that always made your nose scrunch adorably—and surrendered. "Sure. It's your time."

Your triumphant sound filled the car as you lunged for the dial, scrolling through stations. When the opening chords of that song spilled from the speakers, your entire body lit up.

"My favorite song!" you crowed, already humming along.

The opening chords punched through the speakers, and Spencer's grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled.

Your song.

The one that had played the morning of the grocery run. The anthem of his awakening, the soundtrack to every synchronicity that had led him here—to you, to this car, to this moment.

The drive could have lasted days and Spencer wouldn't have minded—not with you in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking.

Two hours later, Delaware welcomed you with a barely lit hotel lobby and an elderly receptionist who peered over her glasses with knowing eyes.

"One room or two?"

Spencer's throat went dry. His fingers twitched at his sides as he turned to you—only to find you already answering, your voice steady despite the way your thumb worried at the ring he'd given you.

"One."

You didn't look at him. Didn't explain. Just gave him a look with a nonchalance that would've been convincing if not for the way your ring almost slid off your finger.

The receptionist's smile deepened as she took in Spencer's flushed ears, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Here are your keys," she said, handing them over with a wink you pretended not to see.

The elevator ride up was silent. Tense. Electric.

You broke it the moment the door clicked shut behind you, flopping onto the nearest bed with a dramatic sigh. "Finally," you groaned into the duvet, kicking off your shoes as Spencer hovered near the desk, suddenly hyper aware of every inch of space between you.

He busied himself with the room service menu, if only to stop imagining how your hair looked fanned out against the pillows. "What do you want to eat?"

What followed was a familiar routine—Chinese takeout containers spread between you, the scent of sesame oil and sweet-and-sour sauce thick in the air as Spencer outlined his conference talk. You listened with that focus of yours, the one that made him feel like the only person in the world, interjecting with questions that proved you'd been paying attention.

And if your feet occasionally brushed his under the table, if his hand lingered when passing you the soy sauce—well.

The room might've had two beds, but the distance between you had never felt smaller.

"Catch."

The fortune cookie arced through the air, landing neatly in Spencer's palm. You were already cracking yours open, the snap of plastic wrapper loud in the quiet hotel room.

Spencer watched as you unfolded the tiny slip of paper, your lips moving soundlessly as you read:

"Your patience will soon be rewarded."

A beat. Then two. 

Your fingers stilled around the paper, knuckles whitening just slightly. The silence stretched long enough that Spencer's chest tightened—until you finally looked up, offering a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"Maybe I'll get the raise I asked for," you joked. Your voice was slightly shaky and so was your smile. 

Spencer knew deflection when he heard it.

"What does yours say?" You nudged his foot, the contact sending a jolt up his spine.

With careful fingers, he pried his cookie apart. The paper inside was crisp against his skin as he smoothed it out:

"What you seek is seeking you — watch for the signs."

The air left his lungs in a rush. When he dared to meet your gaze, he found you already staring—both of you wearing identical, awkward smiles.

"Sounds like a threat," you giggled, the sound slightly strained.

A threat from the universe, Spencer thought.

Or perhaps a promise.

The night stretched endlessly, the space between your two beds feeling both infinite and insufficient. Sheets tangled around restless limbs, pillows were punched into submission—neither of you slept, though neither spoke of it. 

Morning came too soon.

You watched from your perch on the edge of the bed as Spencer paced, reciting his presentation under his breath for what must have been the twentieth time. His fingers danced along an invisible keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The nervous energy radiating off him was palpable.

Seizing the moment, you reached across the chasm between beds, your fingers brushing his restless hand. "Spence," you murmured, your thumb tracing idle circles over his knuckles, "you'll do great."

His breath hitched at the contact, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his palm up to meet yours, squeezing gently as he shot you a grateful smile—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your stomach flip.

A glance at his watch shattered the moment.

 "We should go," he mumbled, though his fingers lingered against yours a heartbeat too long.

The conference hall was mercifully close. As you stepped inside, you turned to him with a raised brow. "Where do you want me to sit?"

Spencer's gaze swept the growing crowd before landing on the front row. "Maybe first row?" The request came out softer than intended, barely more than a whisper.

He didn't say why. Didn't need to.

The thought of looking up from his notes and immediately meeting your eyes—your encouraging, loving eyes—was the only anchor he needed.

The conference was a triumph.

Spencer knew his material cold, but it wasn't the crowd that had his pulse racing—it was you. Sitting front and center, your gaze never wavered from him. He caught himself seeking you out between points, not for reassurance, but for the way your eyes lit up each time they met his. That particular smile—the one that started slow before blooming across your face—was becoming his new addiction.

You'd always looked at him like that.

He just hasn't understood why.

The moment he stepped off the podium, you were there, arms wrapping around him before the applause even faded.

"You did so so good, Spencer," you murmured against his shoulder, your breath warm through his dress shirt. When you pulled back, your hands lingered—palms cradling his jaw, thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks—before reluctantly letting go.

Spencer barely had time to smile at you before others approached with questions, but Spencer felt your presence like a physical thing.

Through every technical discussion, every eager handshake, he was hyper aware of you standing off to the side, smiling that private smile reserved only for him.

As an elderly man with kind eyes approached Spencer, Spencer replied to the questions with his carefully thought out answers. But he couldn’t help himself. His eyes kept darting to you. 

The way you were watching the crowd. The way you smiled proudly when you saw an elderly couple loudly compliment the conference. The way your eyes met his eyes more than once, and the way they would sparkle in ways that no one could cause but Spencer.

Spencer smiled softly as he finished his sentence, realizing he’d probably been rambling distracted for way too long now. He finally looked at the man, who had seemingly followed Spencer’s eyes.

"I remember those times," the man said wistfully, patting Spencer's shoulder. His wedding band glinted in the fluorescent lights. "Don't wait too long."

Spencer opened his mouth—to protest, to explain, to something—but the man just smiled and walked away, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and your name on his tongue.

Across the room, you looked up as if sensing his stare, your eyes crinkling in that way that made his chest ache.

The universe had given him signs. Strangers had given him warnings.

"You're not paying," Spencer insisted for the third time as you dragged him toward the diner, your fingers curled around the crook of his elbow.

"Look how cute it is!" you beamed, ignoring his protest as the neon sign cast pink halos around your silhouette. The booths and checkerboard floors looked straight out of a 1950s postcard—the kind of place Garcia would call "romantic" with that knowing lilt in her voice.

Then the bell above the door jingled, and the universe delivered its coup de grâce.

Your song.

The same one from the car, from the grocery store, from every pivotal moment of his awakening—now piping through the diner's crackling speakers as you chatted animatedly with the hostess.

You didn't even notice, too busy confirming the reservation you'd made the second his conference ended.

Spencer stood frozen in the threshold, the scent of sizzling bacon and maple syrup wrapping around him as Jung's words echoed in his skull: "Synchronicity is an ever-present reality for those who have eyes to see."

He'd analyzed the concept a hundred times since the dream—poring over texts until his eyes burned, tracing the threads that connected every "coincidence." 

The Buddhist proverb he'd stumbled upon last week floated back to him now: When soulmates meet, it's the culmination of five centuries of cosmic preparation.

Five hundred years of atoms rearranging, of stars collapsing and reforming, all to bring him here—to this chrome-and-vinyl booth where you were currently stealing his fries with that smirk he'd loved across lifetimes.

Rain began pattering against the diner windows as you split the last chocolate chip cookie—because of course you’d ordered them, because the universe seemed determined to weaponize every memory he cherished.

You gazed out at the storm, then back at him with that grin that always made his ribs ache. 

“Drip drop,” you said, crunching into the cookie with relish.

Spencer's stomach flipped. The words—your words, from that rain-soaked night—hung between you.

“Drip drop,” he echoed, the words tasting like nostalgia and longing. His smile faltered—until your ankle hooked around his beneath the table, just as he’d done to you countless times in cafes and briefing rooms. The contact burned through his sock like a brand.

“These are so good,” you mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs.

Spencer hummed, reaching for another cookie just to have something to do with his hands.

“I do hope you won’t start preferring these over mine, though.” You waved a half-eaten cookie in his face, your eyes glinting with mock severity. “I put a lot of work and love into my cookies, you know.”

"Never," he said immediately, plucking the treat from your fingers with deliberate slowness. His lips brushed your fingertips as he took it, and the sharp inhale you tried—and failed—to hide didn't escape him. "I love your cookies."

Then you grinned, kicking his ankle playfully under the table, and the moment passed—but not the promise thrumming in his chest.

The storm raged through the night—rain splashing against the windows that faded into white noise while you played chess with Spencer's travel set, your knees pressed together beneath the coffee table. 

He let you win. You pretended not to notice.

Morning brought no reprieve. Rain still splashed against the glass when Spencer appeared at your shoulder, close enough that his breath stirred your hair.

"I don't think it's safe to drive home," he murmured.

You hummed in agreement, watching water cascade down the pane.

"There was a bookstore next to the conference building," he added casually—too casually, the way he always did when trying to sound spontaneous about things he'd clearly researched in advance.

"Of course you noticed that," you laughed, already reaching for your jacket. When you tossed him his scarf—the one he'd worn religiously since that fateful morning—his hands fumbled to catch it, the wool soft and familiar between his fingers.

The walk was a disaster. Within minutes, the downpour had soaked through your coats, your hair plastered to your foreheads as you splashed through ankle-deep puddles. The bookstore owner glared when you dripped across her threshold.

"As if it's our fault it's raining," you muttered under your breath, wringing out your sleeve.

Spencer shot you that boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—the one reserved for moments when you were being "adorably incorrigible"—before offering the owner a sheepish apology.

You drifted apart naturally, pulled toward your respective genres like planets orbiting the same sun.

From the philosophy section, Spencer watched you trail fingers along fantasy spines, your lips moving silently as you read titles. Yet every few minutes, one of you would glance up—searching, always searching—until your eyes met across the stacks.

The rain drummed its approval against the roof.

And for the first time, Spencer wondered if storms had souls—if this one had waited centuries just to strand you here, together.

Time slipped through the bookstore's aisles like sand through fingers. Spencer found himself in the classics section, fingers trailing over worn spines until they caught on a rare edition of The Importance of Being Earnest.

The discovery sent a jolt through him—the same play whose quote you'd scribbled on his cookie note what felt like lifetimes ago. His thumb traced the gilded title with reverence, the memory of your looping handwriting surfacing.

"Hello." Your voice at his shoulder startled him. 

Before he could turn, your cheek came to rest against his upper arm, warm even through his damp sweater. The contact sparked a dizzying sense of déjà vu—your weight against him in the dream-library, your breath ghosting over the same spot as you handed him that fateful blank book.

"Whatcha looking at?" you murmured, tilting your head to peer at his find.

Spencer swallowed hard before raising the book for your inspection. "Oscar Wilde," he managed, voice thick. His gaze dropped to the volume in your hands. "What did you get?"

When his gaze dropped to the notebook in your hands, his breath hitched. Gold filigree curled across its cover in the exact same pattern as the book from his dream library—the one you'd handed him with that devastating promise: "This one gets filled after you admit it to me."

You lifted your head slowly—too slowly. "Just a pretty notebook," you said, cracking it open with deliberate care.

Blank pages.

Just like before. Just like always.

"It's pretty," he managed, though the words weren't about the book at all.

You went very still, your smile faltering nervously when you saw the affectionate look in his eyes . "Yeah," you agreed softly, your gaze locking with his. "It is."

The moment stretched, the air between you charged with everything unsaid.

And Spencer was suddenly, terrifyingly certain that if he didn't speak now, he might never find the courage again.

But then your gaze darted nervously past his shoulder—then froze.

"Oh my god."

Spencer turned just as you reached toward the shelf, your fingertips hovering near a weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. There, perched on the spine like a punctuation mark, sat a single ladybug.

"It must be hiding from the rain," you murmured, gently coaxing it onto your finger with the same care you reserved for his favorite books and Garcia's trinkets.

Spencer's breath caught.

The ladybug from your hair clip.

The ladybug from Garcia's book.

The ladybug that had been haunting him for so long now.

"It's so cute," you whispered, returning it to its perch with a tenderness that shattered his last thread of restraint.

When you turned back to him, a smile still playing on your lips, you found Spencer staring at you with raw, unfiltered wonder—like you'd hung the moon and every star in your wake.

Then the words burst forth like a dam breaking:

"I'm in love with you." The confession tumbled out in a rush. "And I think I have been for—for forever, and the universe keeps screaming at me about it, and at first I thought they were coincidences but there are too many, and—"

Your lips silenced his.

For one heart-stopping moment, Spencer stood frozen—every synapse short-circuiting at the warmth of your mouth against his. Then instinct overrode shock, and his hands cradled your face like something precious, kissing you back with all the tenderness of a man who'd waited lifetimes for this.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and grinning, the ladybug spread its wings and took flight—as if its work here was done.

Spencer stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless, his lips still tingling from the kiss. You met his gaze with a smile that could power cities, your fingers curled tight in the fabric of his vest.

Then you remembered the fortune cookie's promise.

"Guess my patience has been rewarded," you murmured against his mouth, feeling his breath hitch.

Spencer made a soft, questioning noise, his dazed eyes dropping back to your lips like he couldn't quite believe they'd been there moments before.

"I've been in love with you forever, you dummy," you confessed, tugging him closer by his lapels. "I've been waiting ages for you to do this."

"Really?" The word came out strangled, hopeful.

"Really."

That was all the confirmation he needed. Spencer surged forward, capturing your lips in a series of breathless, giddy pecks between stumbling words:

“I have—” kiss “—been so—” kiss “—scared—” kiss “—to do this.” kiss “But also—” kiss “—I never want to stop.”

You were giggling now, your fingers in his hair, and he was smiling so much he could barely kiss you properly, but neither of you cared.

Each press of his lips felt like a promise, each aborted sentence a love letter years in the making. The ladybug had long since flown away, but its message lingered in the space between your shared breaths.

A thousand kisses later—or perhaps only thirty, though Spencer had lost count somewhere between the philosophy section and the hotel elevator—you lay tangled together in bed as he recounted every cosmic sign.

"I was wearing a pink version of your sweater in your dream?" you asked, chin propped on his chest as you studied him. The lamplight caught the flecks of gold in his eyes, turning them molten. "Why?"

Spencer's cheeks flushed that endearing shade of pink you'd come to adore. "Well, chromatology suggests pink symbolizes affection and love in dreams," he began, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. "There was a 1978 study where—"

You pressed a fingertip to his nose, silencing the impending lecture. He blinked, then huffed a laugh.

"I think I still need to get used to this," he admitted, his breath catching as your fingers wandered across his collarbone.

You sat up abruptly. "In a good or bad way?"

"Good," he said too quickly, scrambling upright. The headboard creaked as he leaned against it, watching you. "Obviously good."

A beat of silence. 

"What?" you grinned, crossing your legs beneath you.

Spencer's blush deepened. "When did you—" He stopped. His eyes darting to the wall behind you. You grinned.

"—start liking you?" you finished, scooting closer until your knees brushed his. At his nod, you pretended to consider. "Probably at Garcia's apartment."

His eyebrows shot up. "The Polaroid?" The realization lit up his face like sunrise. "You're telling me your descent into lov—mmph!"

Your finger against his lips cut him off, though his triumphant grin remained. He caught your wrist, turning your hand to press a kiss to your palm before intertwining your fingers.

"Yes," you admitted, suddenly shy under his gaze. "You have me falling in love with you captured on a Polaroid."

Spencer's smile could have powered entire cities—that brilliant, boyish grin now shining just for you.

In the quiet that followed, you both stared at your joined hands—his long fingers slotting between yours like they'd been made to fit.

"Seems like ladybugs are our thing," you murmured, thinking of the photograph, the book, all the tiny moments that had led you here.

Spencer brought your knuckles to his lips again. "Yeah," he agreed softly, the word a vow against your skin.

The old Buddhist saying floated back to Spencer as he watched you trace idle patterns across his palm—when you meet your soulmate, remember the act to bring you together was five hundred years in the making.

Five centuries of atoms rearranging.

Of stars collapsing and reforming.

Of every seemingly random choice and chance encounter conspiring across lifetimes to deliver you here—to this moment, this bed, this perfect alignment of souls.

Your fingers stilled against his skin as if sensing his revelation. When you glanced up, Spencer saw eternity in your gaze—the same timeless connection he'd felt when you kissed him in the bookstore, when you laughed over chess, when you wore his sweater like it belonged to you all along.

He cradled your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with reverence. No equations could quantify this. No textbook could explain how every synapse in his brain now burned with the certainty that you'd been written into his DNA long before either of you took your first breath.

You were his.

He was yours.

And five hundred years from now, some version of you would still be finding each other across crowded bookstores and rainy diners and ladybug-kissed moments, because this love wasn't made for just one lifetime.

[ghosts-to-reid]

part four: manifestation synchronicity

— ★ he didn’t speak it into existence—but he dreamed it, wished it, and somehow, the universe listened

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part three

A lot of time had passed.

The dream clung to Spencer like a second skin, refusing to fade, even weeks later.

It clung to him so much that Spencer had started writing down speeches. Whole scenarios, practiced confessions of love—scripts he rehearsed late at night, sometimes whispering them under his breath, sometimes mouthing them silently while brushing his teeth. Each one ended up crumpled and tossed in the trash.

Too much. Too rehearsed. Too… not enough.

The wastebasket beside his desk overflowed with failed declarations, balled-up like the knot in his chest.

This morning, the aftermath of another sleepless night found him stepping into the elevator at 8:17 AM—late by his standards.

Morgan's car already parked in the lot. Hotch's office light already on.

The universe's meticulous order disrupted.

He sighed again as the elevator doors opened and stepped out into the bullpen, mind already racing. He hadn’t even had time to grab coffee. All he could think about was you. The way your voice sounded in the mornings, the way you said his name, the way—

"Spencer!"Your voice cut through the fog like sunlight.

He sat down at his desk just as you emerged from the breakroom, a steaming cup in each hand.

"You're late," you teased, hip-checking his desk as you approached.

Spencer's half-formed greeting died in his throat.

There you stood, dressed in a pink sweater that mirrored the sweater from his dream—same cable-knit pattern, same way it slipped off one shoulder. And the hair clip. The ladybug hair clip from your first day, winking at him like a shared secret.

The coincidence was too precise, too cruel.

"I overslept," he managed, his voice rough with sleep and something far more dangerous.

His gaze traced the curve of your neck where the sweater met skin, the way your fingers drummed against the ceramic mug—his mug, the one you always claimed was "accidentally" filled with his preferred brew.

You leaned further over his desk, close enough that he caught the vanilla-citrus scent of your shampoo.

"Well, lucky for you," you said, sliding the coffee toward him, "I come prepared."

The steam curled between you like the ghost of all his unsaid words.

“Thank you.” Spencer immediately took a sip, the warmth of the coffee on his tongue not even comparing to the warmth that was spreading throughout his entire body at the sight of you.

The conversation wandered—case files, Garcia's latest tech obsession, the questionable quality of precinct coffee—until the observation slipped out unbidden:

"I like your sweater." Spencer finally let the words fall out.

You nudged him lightly with the toe of your shoe, the contact buzzing through his thigh like a live wire. "Thanks, Spence," you said, plucking at the fabric. "Found it buried in my drawer. Haven't worn it in years, but today it just... called to me, you know?"

Spencer's fingers stilled on his desk.

Called to you.

The scarf around his neck—your scarf—suddenly felt heavier, the wool scratching at his skin in a way that had nothing to do with texture and everything to do with the way his pulse rabbited beneath it. He'd gone from treating it like museum glass to needing it like oxygen, as if the fibers had woven themselves into his DNA. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left home without it.

"Yeah," he murmured, watching the morning light catch in your lashes. "I get that."

Your smile lingered like sunlight as you stood, fingers brushing his shoulder—a fleeting touch that burned through the fabric of his dress shirt. 

"Enjoy your coffee," you murmured before weaving through the bullpen toward Garcia's office, your familiar morning ritual. Spencer tracked your movement until you disappeared around the corner, the ghost of your touch still warm on his skin.

The next hour passed in a haze. 

Files blurred together and words lost meaning until the scrape of your chair drew his attention back to earth. When you returned, settling into the desk across from him, the bullpen seemed to brighten by several lumens.

It was only when he shifted a stack of paperwork that he saw it—a glint of silver nestled against his keyboard.

Your ring.

The delicate band with its tiny engraved stars—the one he'd given you last Christmas after you'd admired it in a museum gift shop.

The one you never took off.

His gaze snapped up to find you frantically sifting through files, the crease between your brows deepening with each passing second. "You okay?"

You looked up, distress etching your features. "Spence, I can't find my—"

He lifted the ring between thumb and forefinger.

The words died as you spotted it. "Oh thank God."

He crossed to you in three strides, the metal warm from resting against his paperwork. 

"Must've dropped it when you gave me my mug," he smiled, watching the way your shoulders relaxed.

You extended your hand, palm down, fingers splayed in silent request. The implication wasn't lost on him—the ring finger, outstretched like a question he'd dreamed of answering properly.

Spencer's pulse roared in his ears as he cradled your fingers, the slide of cool metal against your skin far more intimate than it had any right to be. When the band settled at the base of your finger, something primal in his chest purred in satisfaction.

You wiggled it experimentally, then gifted him that small, private smile reserved only for him. 

"You're a savior."

He smiled back. The walk to the break room was automatic, his body moving while his mind reeled. The sweater. The hair clip. The ring. Each coincidence stacked like evidence in a case he could no longer deny—

The universe wasn't just nudging him anymore—it was shoving him toward the inevitable. And Spencer Reid had never been one to ignore empirical evidence.

The day unfolded like a carefully orchestrated symphony of impossibilities.

Lunch with Morgan and Garcia became an exercise in cognitive dissonance—three separate times, you and Spencer spoke the same words simultaneously.

Garcia had squealed into her margarita while Morgan muttered about "spooky genius telepathy."

Then the wishing well.

You'd dragged him to it with that irresistible grin, demanding he make a wish "for fun."

Neither of you knew the other had wished for the same thing—each other—coins glinting as they sank into the water like twin falling stars.

But the photograph was the tipping point.

You'd unearthed it from your desk with a delighted gasp—a candid Garcia had snuck into your drawer months ago, capturing the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder in her apartment. 

There you were, frozen in time: Spencer wearing the sweater from his dream (same cable-knit, just in forest green instead of pink), both of you absorbed in a book with—

"A ladybug," Spencer breathed, tracing the insect perched on the book in the photo. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

Your nose scrunched in that way he'd cataloged under Endearing Expressions, Vol. 3. "Cute right? Garcia must've taken this when we—"

But Spencer was already lost in thoughts.

The ring. How he had found it, the moment you thought about it. The way it felt to put it on your finger. The sweater. His gray cable-knit—the mirror image of your pink one from the dream. And the book in your hands? A weathered copy of a classic with a ladybug perched on the cover.

The coincidence was too precise, too loud to ignore.

Now, sprawled on his couch in that very sweater (dug out from the back of his closet with trembling hands), he stared at the ceiling. He traced the edges of the photo absently, his thumb brushing over your smile in the image.

The universe had handed him every clue, every sign, every cosmic nudge imaginable. Somewhere between probability and destiny, Spencer Reid had stumbled into a love story written in constellations.

All that remained was the courage to say it aloud.

[ghosts-to-reid]

I’m Alive!

Apologies for my unexpected hiatus!

I’ve been trying to reblog some stuff so you guys have content still, thank u to all the talented writers I have LEANED on with that lil button.

I’m currently in assessment hell and it is killing me 😔 but I will be done soon and able to write fics again!

I also needed to take some personal time as a very close friend of mine passed away suddenly, and it was very difficult for me to process. I am doing a lot better now though, just trying to keep his memory alive and trying to make him proud :)

I should be back by the end of the month so…

Please send requests for me to come back to!

I’ve missed writing!

Lots of love !

[ghosts-to-reid]

what is with this new wave of short ass drabbles with porn and zero plot what happened to yearning?? what happened to build up?? what happened to the character being absolutely down bad for reader?? what happened to the 10k words fics?? screaming crying and throwing up i miss it

[ghosts-to-reid]

hii can I pretty please have something where Spencer or reader wash the other's hair, maybe one got injured and can't do it themselves? anyway, love you ❤️❤️

Spencer sighed as he slid down the bathtub, his head falling into your lap as you sat on the ledge, your fingers running through his hair to try and help him relax.

Spencer had taken a brutal fall out on the field causing his whole body to ache even days later. Seeing him try to walk around the house when he was clearly in pain was difficult to watch, as soon as you heard him try to stand up you’d run to his side, wrapping an arm around him to help him get by.

Spencer tried to wave you off whenever you came to his side, but knowing that you were just as stubborn as he was at times, it wasn’t going to be so easy to get rid of you from his side.

Taking a cup and filling it with water, you ran the warm liquid over Spencer’s hair and tried to avoid it getting into his eyes. You saw him finally be able to relax, it was the most amount of relief he had felt in days.

As you lathered the shampoo into Spencer’s hair, you noticed his eyes starting to flutter shut. Knowing it would be difficult to rinse his hair if he were to fall asleep, you were quick to poke him on the nose and cheeks to make sure he didn’t fall into dreamland, both of you chuckling at your technique to keep him up.

When waiting for the conditioner to do its job, you took your time and rubbed Spencer’s shoulders and back of his neck, a sigh of pleasure emitting from him and a smile forming on your face knowing that you were able to make him feel lighter.

With everything being taken care of, Spencer sat on the toilet as you ran a towel through his damp hair and took a comb to gently brush through the bird's nest you created for him.

Finally taming his mane, you helped Spencer walk to the living room as you looked through your film selection to choose a movie for the night. After looking through every choice, you settled on a romantic comedy to lighten the mood. It might’ve not been Spencer’s first choice, but he wanted to let you choose as a thank you for taking care of him.

As the movie progressed, Spencer’s head ended up resting on your lap with your fingers starting to card through it as it started to dry. Even if you were the one who got to choose the entertainment, your biggest source of joy for the night was being able to play with your boyfriend’s hair, as it would be whenever you had the chance to do it.

You can find my masterlists here! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[ghosts-to-reid]

okay so i had a cute request for spencer x reader. the team like imagine jj emily garcia and derek are at the movies watching a horror film. they are exiting debriefing the movie about how the serial killer was so lame or whatever and suddenly garcia stops in her tracks and gasps. everyone is like something wrong and she just points like omg is that spencer reid coming out of a romance movie WITH A GIRL ON HIS ARM. and it’s just them gossiping as reader and spence are being cute, maybe reader kissing his cheek or whatever and garcia can’t believe spencer didn’t mention he had a girl. maybe they don’t intervene just then but the next day at work they interrogate him. thank you if you decide to write this! 🥰🫶🏼

cinema — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: secret relationship , mention of horror movies , mention of a serial killer ( in a movie though ) a/n: hii ! hope you like this <3

Garcia clung to Derek’s bicep with a dramatic sigh, her glittery nails digging into his arm. 

“Even I could have escaped him,” she huffed, shaking her head. “That was supposed to be the scariest serial killer of the decade? More like the snore-iest.” 

JJ chuckled, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she pushed open the heavy theater door, leading the group into the bustling lobby. “I agree. The plot twist was so obvious, I figured it out before the first victim.” 

Emily smirked, arms crossed. “At this point, we should just write our own thriller. At least then the killer would be somewhat competent.” 

Garcia opened her mouth to add another complaint—likely something about the lack of realistic hacking scenes—but the words died on her lips as her eyes locked onto something—or rather, someone—across the lobby. Her grip on Derek’s arm tightened to the point of discomfort. 

“Ow—Garcia, what—” Derek followed her gaze, then froze. 

JJ and Emily, noticing the sudden silence, turned back toward them. “What’s wrong?” JJ asked, brow furrowing. 

Garcia didn’t answer. She just stared, slack-jawed, at the far-left corridor where Spencer Reid—their Spencer Reid, the same man who had politely declined their movie night with a shy smile—was walking out of a completely different theater. 

And he wasn’t alone. 

A woman stood beside him, her arm looped comfortably through his, her free hand gesturing animatedly as she spoke. She was smiling, her eyes bright with laughter, and Spencer—Spencer—was looking at her like she was the most fascinating thing in the world. His lips curled into that soft, rare smile he reserved for moments when he was genuinely happy, not just humoring someone. 

The sight before them was something none of them had ever expected to witness—Spencer Reid, grinning like an absolute fool as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. His ears turned pink, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into it, his smile widening as you laughed at something he murmured in response. 

His grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way they hadn’t seen in ages. And you, this mystery woman who had somehow cracked the code to Dr. Reid’s heart, pulled back with a playful smirk, saying something that made him laugh—an actual, unrestrained laugh. 

Garcia’s grip on Derek’s arm was now borderline painful. “Oh. My. God.” she whispered.

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “Damn, Pretty Boy’s got game.” 

JJ bit her lip, torn between amusement and fondness. Spencer looked happy. Not just content, not just politely engaged, but genuinely happy. And that wasn’t something any of them took lightly. 

Emily tilted her head. “Who is she?” 

Garcia gasped. “Wait—wait—is this why he turned us down? For a date?!” 

“Should—should we say something?” Garcia added, voice hushed, as if afraid of being caught. 

JJ shook her head slowly, a small smile playing on her lips. “I think we’ll leave that for tomorrow.” 

Derek nodded in agreement, though his smirk promised mischief. “Oh, we’re definitely bringing this up tomorrow.” 

Across the lobby, Spencer’s head tilted slightly, as if sensing something. You followed his gaze, but by then, the team had already ducked behind a conveniently placed poster.

Garcia peeked around the poster again just in time to see Spencer adjust his satchel strap, his fingers brushing against yours as the two of you headed for the exit. 

Derek shook his head, chuckling. “Man’s got a whole romance going on and didn’t tell us? That’s cold.” 

“Or,” JJ said thoughtfully, “maybe he just wanted to keep something for himself for once.” 

The group fell silent at that. Spencer, who gave so much of himself to the team, to the job—he deserved this. Deserved someone who made him smile like that. 

 Garcia sighed dreamily. “I need to know everything about her.” 

Derek clapped his hands together. “Alright, team. Operation: Tease Reid starts first thing in the morning.” 

And with that, they finally headed toward the exit—their disappointing movie long forgotten, replaced by the far more entertaining drama of Spencer Reid’s love life. 

The next morning, Spencer strolled into the bullpen, humming softly under his breath as he set his coffee down on his desk. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he hadn’t bothered to smooth it down properly, and there was a faint, lingering smile on his lips—like he was replaying something pleasant in his mind. 

"Morning," he greeted, flashing a small, genuine smile at the team before settling into his chair. 

Garcia was already perched on the edge of Derek’s desk, arms crossed, her eyes wide with poorly concealed anticipation. JJ and Emily stood nearby, leaning against the railing with matching smirks. Even Rossi, who had only heard bits and pieces of the previous night’s discovery, looked up from his paperwork with amused interest. 

Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his smirk already in place. "Well, well, well. Look who’s all sunshine and rainbows this morning." 

Spencer blinked, glancing up from the file he’d just opened. "What?" 

"Oh, nothing," Garcia singsonged, twirling a strand of her brightly colored hair around her finger. "Just seems like someone had a very interesting night." 

Spencer’s fingers stilled on the papers in front of him. A faint flush crept up his neck. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about." 

Emily feigned innocence, sipping her coffee. "Hmm. So you didn’t go to the movies last night?" 

JJ, unable to keep up the act, grinned. "And you definitely didn’t have company?" 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, his grip tightening on his pen. "You—you saw that?" 

Garcia gasped, slapping a hand over her heart. "Oh, we saw it, all right. The cheek kiss? The smiling? The arm-holding?" 

Rossi, who had been watching the entire exchange with growing amusement, finally spoke up. "Kid, just admit it. You’re dating someone." 

Derek’s grin turned wolfish. "Come on, man Spill. Who’s the mystery woman?" 

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it, looking torn between exasperation and embarrassment. "It’s—it’s not a big deal. We just… went to a movie." 

"A romance movie," Emily pointed out, raising an eyebrow. 

"You hate romance movies," JJ added. 

Spencer sighed, rubbing his temple. "Okay, fine. We’ve been… dating for a few months." 

Garcia squealed, clapping her hands together. "Months?! And you didn’t tell us?!" 

"I wanted to keep it private," Spencer mumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice—just a quiet fondness that made even Derek’s teasing smirk soften slightly. 

JJ smiled. "Well, for what it’s worth, you looked really happy." 

Spencer ducked his head, but not before they caught the way his lips twitched upward. "I… am." 

Garcia pretended to swoon against Derek. "Our little genius is in love." 

Spencer groaned. "Please don’t—" 

Derek laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Too late, kid. You’re officially doomed."