inreid

[inreid]

starting a collection of my favourite AO3 author’s notes

honourable mentions

[inreid]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[inreid]

── THREE INCIDENTS ❤︎

❤︎ pairing: spencer x gf!reader

❤︎ summary: three different incidents that revealed to spencer’s team that he has a girlfriend.

❤︎ warnings / tags: fluff!

❤︎ author's note: i got a new tattoo on my wrist yesterday so it’s been a bit more difficult to write but i had this in my drafts!! hope you like it sweetiepies <3

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST ❤︎

incident number one - the mystery of the baked goods.

"where did they come from?" emily asked with furrowed brows, her head cocked to the side. "i have no idea..." morgan mumbled in response. "did you ask garcia if she brought them?"

"brought what?" garcia walked into the kitchen area, a wide smile on her face until she saw what was on the table, "oh."

"baby, did you bring those?" morgan asked, making the blonde shake her head, "no idea where they came from." "why's everyone gathered around-" jj's sentence was interrupted once she spotted the same thing garcia had. "do you think they're poisoned?" garcia whispered.

"what's going on, guys?" spencer came into the kitchen area with a smile on his lips, but unlike everyone else, he ignored what they were looking at, making a beeline towards the coffee maker, pouring some into his cup. "cupcakes." garcia responded.

spencer turned to face them with a slightly amused expression on his face, looking between the box of cupcakes to his team, "what about them?" he asked, lifting the coffee cup to his lips, "they just appeared there." emily said, making spencer let out a breath of a laugh, "no they didn't. i brought them."

"you? what'd you bring cupcakes for, kid?" morgan asked, "did i forget someone's birthday?" "no." spencer shrugged, "i brought them just because. if you guys don't want them i can—" "nope, we'll take them." morgan interrupted, grabbing a cupcake, the rest following suit.

that evening, spencer got to his apartment, recognizing the sound of debussy's rêverie playing on the record player and the sound of sizzling coming from the kitchen. he took off his satchel and placing it in its usual spot. when he made his way into the kitchen, he saw you standing at the stove, a wooden spatula in your hand. spencer leaned his head on the doorway, a small smile as he watched you.

when you finally noticed spencer, a wide smile overtook your face, "hey there, stranger. how was work?" "tiring." he smiled, taking slow steps towards you. spencer wrapped his arms around your middle and pressing himself close to you, nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck. "how was your day?"

"it was good." spencer mumbled, pressing a kiss against your neck that made you shiver. "they liked the cupcakes you made." "they did?" you smiled, "they did." "maybe i'll start baking more often."

and so... the BAU break room started having homemade baked goods every week. and every time, spencer said that he was the one who brought them.

incident number two - the mystery of the TARDIS mug.

spencer was seated at his desk, going over paperwork yet occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall as if willing it to move. spencer picked up his cup, taking a long sip of coffee, only to hear a loud gasp come from next to him.

when he lowered his cup, he saw garcia staring at it with wide eyes, "oh. my. god." she exclaimed, "where did you get that?"

spencer looked at the cup in his hand, a slight fond smile on his lips as he was brought back to the moment you gave him the TARDIS-shaped mug, the man beaming at you before lurching forward and pressing his lips on yours.

"oh, it was a gift." spencer smiled softly, "i don't know where it's from, but i'll ask her and i'll let you know."

penelope's smile quirked up at his response, "her?"

spencer cleared his throat, turning back to the paperwork and pretending to focus on it again, "it was from a friend." he replied quietly, but garcia still walked away with a grin on her lips.

incident number three - the mystery of the go-bag.

spencer had an eidetic memory, which made it nearly impossible for him to forget anything.

but that morning, his alarm clock had malfunctioned, and he was running late, and somehow... he had forgotten to take his go bag with him after having taken it to home to wash it.

hotch had said that they'd be leaving in thirty minutes, but it'd take spencer about forty-three minutes just to get to his apartment, and another to get back, and he couldn't possibly ask the team to stand back... he heard the ding! of the elevator, but the man ignored it. maybe he could call you and ask you to-

his train of thought was interrupted by someone clearing their throat, and when he looked up, spencer's eyes widened in surprise to see you standing in front of him, holding up his go-bag with your eyebrows raised and a slightly teasing smile. "you forgot something."

spencer rose to his feet, making his way over to you, completely unaware of the looks the two of you were receiving, "thank you, i just realized i didn't have it with me." your boyfriend said with an appreciative smile, "you also left your phone home." you chuckled softly, cocking your head to the side and holding out his phone, the man taking it and slipping it into his satchel, "thank you for bringing me these. i'll call you later, alright?"

"alright." you pressed a kiss too spencer's cheek, "love you."

"love you too." spencer replied, waving at you as you took a couple steps backwards, before turning around and walking to the elevator. he watched as you pressed the button, turning to look at him one more time and waving at him before getting onto the elevator.

"you have some explaining to do, pretty boy." morgan grinned, pressing his hand on spencer's shoulder, making the man's cheeks start to turn red.

[inreid]

Psychoanalysis and Other Forms of Foreplay -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Spencer slumped in his chair, shoulders curled forward, fingers twitching against the edge of his desk. His screen had gone black. He didn’t notice. His fingers toyed with a paperclip, twisting it into unfamiliar shapes. By the time he realized he had bent it into a crude spiral, Penelope Garcia was already leaning on the edge of his desk, silently watching.

Across the bullpen, Garcia appeared in a flurry of lemon-yellow and rage.

“Okay,” she said, not even bothering with a hello. “What the hell is going on with you?”

He furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you play innocent with me, Dr. Disaster. You’ve been cranky, broody, barely forming full sentences for like… months.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I thought it was just you being you. But I saw you turn down Olivia from accounting today.”

Spencer looked at her like she’d spoken Martian. “She has a boyfriend.”

“She also has working eyes and a pulse and was very into your whole tortured genius thing,” Garcia snapped. “But you looked like she handed you a hand grenade instead of a phone number.”

He sighed. “It’s not that I’m not interested in dating.”

She raised a perfectly arched brow. “So what is it?” He hesitated.

“Spencer.”

He stared at his hands. “I can’t… finish.”

Garcia blinked. “Like… your sentences? Or—”

“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Sexually. I can’t come.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Not since—” He cut himself off.

“Oh my god. Since her?” He winced. “Oh my god. Spencer, no.”

He exhales. “It’s just her.” Garcia stared, unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry. “So your… tool of quantifiable pleasure is emotionally monogamous?”

“I’m not doing this for fun, Penelope!”

“You’re not doing this at all, apparently!”

He glared at her. She softened. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But, Spence—listen to yourself. You’re literally telling me the only person who can get you off is Hotch’s daughter. The girl whose heart you broke. The girl you left because her father said to. You realize how messed up that sounds, right?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t leave because he said to. I left because she asked me not to fight him. She didn’t want to make it worse. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand to hurt her more by pushing.”

“Yeah,” Garcia said, folding her arms. “And now you want to go crawling back to her. For what, closure? Round two? Post-nut clarity?”

Spencer runs a hand through his already chaotic hair. “That is not how I’d describe it. But yes.”

Penelope stares. “So you’ve tried?”

He nods, miserable. “Hookups. Dates. Paid for dinner. Tried not paying for dinner. Switched hands. Switched porn. Nothing.”

She squints. “And you think this is a… medical issue?”

“No. It’s psychological. I know exactly what it is. It’s her. My mind won’t let go of her, and my body’s catching on.”

She gave him a long, hard look. “Do not use her like some kind of sexual Drano, I mean it,” she continues. “You don’t get to show up at her door hard and hollow and expect her to patch the leak. That girl loved you. And last I checked, heartbreak wasn’t an aphrodisiac.”

Your Apartment, 11:02 PM

You opened the door without checking the peephole. Rookie move. But you’d been expecting a food delivery.

Instead, it was Spencer.

And he looked like hell. You crack the door, arms crossed, hip leaning into the frame. “You lost?”

He looks like hell. Not in the tragic, gaunt, ex-addict way—no, this is emotional hell. Shirt wrinkled. Hair a little too curly. Mouth parted like he’s not sure how to start.

“I… needed to talk.”

You sigh and open the door fully. “You’ve got two minutes.”

He walked in like he’d forgotten what your apartment looked like. Eyes flicking to the couch you used to fuck on, the blanket he’d wrapped you in when you cried watching Dead Poets Society, the half-read book on the coffee table with his annotated handwriting in the margins.

“Did you come to sightsee or spit out whatever dumbass reason brought you here?”

“You look good,” he offers, like it might soften the blow of whatever he’s about to say.

You blinked arching an eyebrow. “You look like shit. And I know that’s not why you’re here.”

“I tried,” he added quickly, like it was a confession. “And it just… doesn’t work. I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

“Finish.”

Your mouth went dry. “Spencer.” You stare. “I’m sorry?”

“I haven’t been able to orgasm. Since… you.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again. Because what the fuck is this?

“You’re seriously here to tell me that no one else can make you come? And what, you thought I would fix that for you?” You laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “For fuck’s sake, Spencer.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, stepping forward. “I just—I’ve been trying to move on. And I can’t. It’s like my body knows what my brain keeps denying.”

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to feel bad for you?” Your tone was acid. “Because it sounds like you came here to make your problem my problem.”

Spencer looked wrecked. “I don’t want to use you.”

“Then don’t.”

“I just—” He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s you. It’s always been you. And it’s like my body knows it before I do.”

Your breath caught. Because that’s the thing—he always knew what to say when it was already too late.

You turned away from the door, arms tight across your chest. He didn’t follow you right away. Maybe he was waiting for the invite that wasn’t coming. Or maybe he knew better than to push.

“So what now?” you asked, voice carefully flat. “You tell me that your dick misses me, and I’m supposed to be flattered?”

Spencer flinched. “That’s not—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘what this is about.’”

He shut his mouth.

You crossed the room and leaned against the kitchen counter, curling your fingers around the edge like it might hold you in place. “Do you know how sick it is that you showed up here because no one else can get you off? That’s a you problem, Spencer. Not mine.”

“I know that,” he said quietly.

“Do you?”

He looked down. “I don’t expect you to fix it.”

“Then why are you here?”

His eyes met yours. “Because I can’t pretend it doesn’t mean something.”

You stared at him. “You left me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“But you did. You let him make the call for both of us.”

He stepped closer, slowly. “You asked me not to fight him.”

“I thought giving you space was respecting your boundaries,” he said finally. “I thought leaving was the least selfish thing I could do.”

You swallowed. “You were wrong.”

A beat. Then another. “Do you want me to leave?”

You looked away. The worst part was—you didn’t. Not yet. “…No.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding it since he got in the car. “Then can I just… sit down?”

You nodded once, sharply. He crossed to the couch and eased into it like the memory of you was still warm in the cushions. You watched him from the kitchen, heart hammering.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” you said, even though he hadn’t asked.

He nodded. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You scoffed. “You already did.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped, caught himself. “You’re right. I did. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

You were quiet a long time.

“I’ve tried to stop missing you,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “It’s exhausting.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.” He laced his fingers together in his lap. “But I thought you should know.”

You moved closer, slowly. Stood across from him, arms crossed. “So what is this, then? You show up, tell me your body won’t cooperate with anyone else, and what—expect me to just… hold that for you? Be honored?”

He looked up. “No. I’m asking if you still miss me too.”

You blinked.

“I’m asking,” he said carefully, “if I’m the only one who feels like there’s a version of us we never got to finish.”

You didn’t mean to cry.

It just… happened.

Hot tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them, before you could tell your body no. You turned away fast, back to the kitchen sink, chest rising too fast.

Spencer stood—but didn’t cross the room. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

You nodded, barely. “I know.” You blinked slowly. “So what now?”

“I don’t know.”

Another pause. And then you said it. The question that had been burning your tongue since he walked in.

“Is this about sex? Or is this about me?”

His jaw tensed. “It’s both. But I swear to you, if I could want anyone else��if I could feel this way with anyone else—I would.”

“Jesus,” you whispered.

“Not because I don’t love you,” he said quickly. “Because it would be easier if I didn’t.”

You stared at him. “You’re pathetic.”

“I know.”

“I should tell you to leave.”

“You should.”

“But I’m not.”

He moved first—close enough to feel your breath catch. His voice was barely audible. “If I kiss you, will you hit me?”

“Probably.”

He didn’t move. But you did. You grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down into you like it was instinct, like some part of your body still remembered.

You backed into the couch without breaking the kiss, tugging him with you until your legs hit the edge and you dropped into the cushions. He followed instantly, his knees bracketing your thighs, weight caging you in. That kiss didn’t stop—not even when your fingers started undoing the buttons on his shirt with more aggression than skill.

“I hate you,” you muttered between kisses, your breath catching as he dragged his mouth down your neck.

“I deserve that,” he mumbled back, nipping at your collarbone. “Say it again.”

“I hate you.”

“You still want me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Please.”

You shoved his shirt off his shoulders with trembling hands. He made a sound in the back of his throat when you scraped your nails down his chest. It was rougher than you used to be.

“Tell me this means something,” he whispered, voice cracked.

You dragged his belt free and tossed it to the floor. “It means I need you to shut the fuck up.”

He dropped to his knees. Palmed your thighs. Rested his forehead against your hip like he was praying.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured.

You pushed him back. “Lie down.”

Spencer obeyed like it was instinct—like your voice bypassed logic. He sank back into the cushions, legs spread, eyes dark and waiting. Watching you like he didn’t know if this was real or punishment.

You climbed into his lap slowly, deliberately—straddling him, knees pressed to either side of his hips, your thighs bracketing the tension he was barely holding back.

Your hands framed his jaw. You kissed him again—slower this time. He moaned into your mouth when you rocked your hips forward, grinding against the hard line of him. There was nothing polite about it—just friction and desperation, your thin panties soaked through already and his cock straining beneath his boxers like it couldn’t wait to be touched.

You reached between your bodies and tugged them down just enough, freeing him. He was thick, flushed, already leaking—and he cursed under his breath when you wrapped your fingers around him.

“Still can’t come for anyone else?” you asked, stroking him slow and steady.

His head fell back against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut. “No one but you.”

“Good.”

You lifted just enough to tug your panties aside and lined him up with your entrance. His hands gripped your hips like he was trying not to beg. You sank down, your slick slipping against his throbbing cock.

Spencer shuddered. A deep, guttural sound tore from his chest like it was the first breath he’d taken in months. His eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You—you feel—”

“Better than anyone else?” you finished, lips curling into something mean.

He nodded like he was drowning. “So much better.”

You set the rhythm—slow, grinding circles that forced him to feel every inch of you.

He was falling apart underneath you. Hands trembling where they clutched your thighs. Breathing erratic.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, desperate and glazed.

“You came here thinking this would fix something.” Your nails dug into his shoulders. “But it won’t. It’ll make it worse.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice raw. “I want it anyway.”

You rocked harder now, angling your hips just right, the drag of him inside you hitting every spot that made your legs shake. You clenched around him and he whimpered.

“Jesus—baby—please—”

“You close?” you asked sweetly, tightening your grip on his jaw.

He nodded frantically. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” you said, breath hot against his cheek. “You came all this way, Spencer. Don’t you dare fucking stop now.”

He let out a strangled groan—head tipping back, mouth parted, eyes glazed like he was already coming apart from just the threat of it.

“I’m gonna—I can’t—fuck—”

His hips jerked beneath you, chasing every desperate ounce of friction, hands flying to your ass like he needed to ground himself. You were soaked, clenching hard around him, rhythm never breaking.

Spencer spilled into you with a shudder so intense it almost knocked you both backward. His hips jerked helplessly, mouth slack, eyes glassy as he came harder than he had in over a year, burying his face in your shoulder like he couldn’t handle the sound of it, let alone the feeling.

You came with a gasp, your entire body clenching around him, nails dragging down his back, hips still rolling through the aftershocks.

You were both breathless and trembling, locked together like neither of you could quite bear to be apart.

Spencer held you. Tight. His breath was warm against your neck.

You felt the words forming before he even said them.

“I love you,” he whispered, ruined. “I never stopped.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet. But you didn’t let go, either. And he knew. He’d just made the biggest mistake of his life all over again. But this time—you weren’t going to let him walk away without a fight.

a/n: limerence is going to kill me

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[inreid]

chris caught me off guard bcs the moment I saw the video I bursted out LAUGHING WHAT IS HE DOING

[inreid]

made by me ! u guys should add me on snap

[inreid]

250 posts!

[inreid]

FLUORESCENT MERCY ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part i

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: spencer reid was never cut out for prison. under the buzz of the fluorescent overheads in the prison infirmary, spencer meets a nurse who sees beyond his inmate number.

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff

w/c: 7.7k (yikes sorry)

tags/warnings: s12 prison arc, mentions of drugs and murder, afab reader goes by she/her pronouns, flirting, banter, probably horribly inaccurate info on medical treatment and prison healthcare, mention of Alzheimer’s/schizophrenia, sadboy spencer, minor sexual tension, fluff, mentions of blood and other injury, spencer gets hurt a few times but he’s okay, reader lowkey kind of cyberstalks spencer but it’s fine she’s sweet

a/n: hello!! first time posting a fic on here eeeep. mostly writing this for myself more than anyone else tbh, but i hope anyone who stumbles upon this mouthful enjoys it. get to know me here. a few disclaimers: I am not a nurse!!! I have never worked in the correctional system or even been inside a prison before!!! there will probably be plenty of inaccuracies as to how that all works, and if that will bother you, this probably isn’t the fic for you and that’s okay. this is just for funsies :-) staying mostly true to the prison arc canon but with some tweaks for the sake of the story. story is told by reader from first person, very very minimal use of y/n (only when it’s absolutely necessary). again, i am very very brand new to posting fics on tumblr (+ writing for criminal minds in general) so I appreciate any and all interactions with this fic and any advice/feedback in my asks is always welcome! if you enjoy, please reblog! there’s really no other way for me to get this thing out there as a brand new blog, so that would mean the world to me 🤍

this is part of a series, but can be read as a stand-alone one shot!

series masterlist

Some days the air inside the infirmary felt heavier than others — thick with stale disinfectant and something harder to qualify. Grief, maybe. Danger, sometimes. Or resignation. Or just the ache of a hundred slow-moving lives, pressed up against metal and concrete.

I’d gotten used to it, mostly. That dull, pulsing ache. But occasionally I still caught myself pausing between tasks and wondering how I’d ended up here. Not in a bad way. Just… reflective. Being a nurse in a prison infirmary wasn’t the kind of job most little girls dreamed about, and it definitely wasn’t the kind of job that made first dates lean in with interest.

But I chose this. On purpose.

I’d seen what broken systems could do. I’d watched people be forgotten because it was easier that way. Being here meant I could be the person who didn’t look away. The person who treated people like people, even when the rest of the world pretended they were less than human.

I never used to picture myself here. Not in a place like this, anyway. But life doesn’t always move in straight lines, and I’ve learned not to fight the curves.

I became a nurse because I wanted to help. Not in some abstract, motivational quote-type of way, but in a way that matters. Out of school, I specialized in trauma for a while. Emergency room work in the city, night shift, a revolving door of chaos. At first, I loved the fast-paced and high-intensity nature of that environment, but I burned out quickly. When the opportunity came up to transfer into the correctional system, most of my colleagues looked at me like I was nuts for even considering it. But I didn’t flinch. People in here deserved care, too. Especially in here. No matter what they’d done to end up in prison.

There’s a different kind of urgency in prison nursing. You see a lot of pain that runs deeper than physical injury — shame, grief, resignation, embarrassment, numbness. Some inmates came in loud, either angry at the world or simply desperate to charm their way into extra pain medication or a reason to sit out of laundry duty. Others were quiet and looked right past you — or through you. Quiet because of shame or misery or as if the simple act of hearing their own voice could beckon danger to their feet. I didn’t blame them. The main goal for most was survival, plain and simple. And sometimes, simply surviving a place like this was hard enough.

—

He came in during the tail end of my shift one Wednesday — tall, hunched a little like he didn’t want to take up any more space than absolutely necessary, with curls still damp from the showers and a bloodied gauze pad pressed sloppily to the side of his left hand. A cut. Not bad, but deep enough to need attention. He sat perched on the edge of the cot like it might vanish under him if he moved too suddenly, his shoulders rounded and his head dipped down.

“Spencer Reid?” I asked to confirm his name, checking the file. He responded with the tiniest nod of acknowledgement, as if he forgot his muscles still worked. I lifted my eyes up from the paperwork to try to meet his, but they remained firmly trained down at his lap.

He was a new inmate, having just arrived at Millburn three days prior. Eerily quiet. Noticeably out of place. Something about his appearance didn’t seem to suit him, either. The patchy stubble peppering his jaw and the unruliness of his hair just looked off, and it was clear that he normally presented himself in a way that was much more cleaned up than this. It took me about 45 seconds to determine that the version of him before me wasn’t an accurate depiction of the man inside the jumpsuit.

My cursory read of his file was littered with red flags. Arrested in Mexico? Immediate FBI involvement? Last-minute switch from protective custody to gen pop upon arrival? Something seemed… strange, even for federal prison, where strangeness and corruption were the norm. I shook my head slightly, as if trying to literally clear my mind. Investigating or even knowing anything about his background at all wasn’t my job: I was here to provide medical care, so I turned off the instinctually curious part of my brain and got to work. “So. You cut your hand?”

He nodded once, barely lifting his eyes. “Library. Book spine split,” he replied. “There was a metal strip inside the binding. I wasn’t paying attention.”

His voice was soft but even, the kind of tone you could almost mistake for calm if you weren’t paying attention. He didn’t flinch when I took his hand, but I felt the muscles in his forearm and wrist pull taut like a wire. Clearly this man was uncomfortable with physical touch. I almost felt bad, but I couldn’t do my job without touching him, so I kept my hold.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said, trying to find that tone that falls somewhere between neutral and kind. “The prison library is supposed to be a safe place amongst all the chaos.”

The corner of his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly. Maybe a smile, maybe just a tic.

I cleaned the cut and wrapped it. His tension seemed to fade a bit as I worked, but it was replaced with something sadder — surprise at the genuine care I was showing him.

“Should heal up fine,” I told him. “Just try to keep it clean. If you notice any signs of infection like redness or fever, tell the guards you need to come back. Otherwise, I hope I don’t have to see you back here again. No more cuts, okay?”

He gave a polite nod, still not quite looking at me. “Thank you,” he murmured. He flicked his eyes up to me for a fleeting moment — brown, maybe? Hazel? Somewhere kind of golden in between? Before I could decipher the answer, he dropped his gaze back down to his lap.

And then he was gone, escorted out just as quickly as he’d come in.

It wasn’t anything remarkable. It was the type of patient interaction I’d normally forget before a shift was even over. But something about the way he’d sat so quietly, like he was trying not to leave even a speck of evidence of his existence, stayed with me.

Some inmates at Millburn talked too much. Some didn’t want to talk at all. Spencer Reid was the kind who seemed like he used to talk a lot, but had forgotten how.

—

My apartment was dark and quiet when I got home from work — just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the air vents as they settled into the night. I shrugged out of my scrubs, tossed them into the laundry basket, wrapped my robe around my body, and tied my hair up, my mind in a post-work fog. Some shifts clung to me longer than others. Today hadn’t been particularly bad, but I still felt the weight of it hanging somewhere behind my sternum. The longer I worked at Millburn, the heavier that weight seemed to get.

I microwaved a cup of leftover soup and curled up on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me, a blanket over my lap, and the TV playing something I wasn’t watching. My body was home, safe, comfortable. But my mind? My mind was somewhere else entirely.

The quiet, sad patient from the other day. Spencer Reid.

I hadn’t seen him again since I’d cleaned out that cut on his hand a few days ago, but for some unknown reason, he lingered in my head longer than most patients ever did. I’d told myself it was just professional curiosity understandably fueled by glaring abnormalities — that strange patchwork of mystery surrounding his intake file, the dissonance between the man and the setting. But if I was being honest with myself, I knew it was more than that.

It was the way he held himself like he was waiting to be punished for existing. The way his eyes, when they finally lifted, looked out from a place far deeper than the moment called for. The way he thanked me like my ounce of kindness caught him off guard.

One thing seemed clear: he didn’t belong there. I didn’t know what he’d done to end up in a federal penitentiary, but everything about him — the tone he used, the posture, the way he moved like someone used to quieter places — made it feel off. Not in the arrogant way that some white-collar criminals carried themselves, no — there was no smugness, no entitlement. Just… misalignment. Like he’d been suddenly dropped into a life that wasn’t his own.

I reached for my phone before I could talk myself out of it.

The search bar blinked at me, empty and expectant. I hesitated. It was a line I hadn’t crossed yet since I took the job at Millburn, but curiosity had always been a close cousin to empathy, and mine were tightly wound. So I typed his name into the search engine.

I was met with dozens of articles. Some recent — bold headlines about his arrest, drug and murder charges, extradition from Mexico, and a leaked photograph of him looking disoriented and bruised, eyes wide with something between confusion and betrayal. I learned he was awaiting trial, denied bail and remanded to federal custody.

I continued to scroll. Older articles populated the page — articles that painted a very different picture of the man in the photo. An FBI profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit out of Quantico. Over a decade of service. Genius-level IQ. Multiple PhDs. A polymath, one article said. Another quoted a journalist who referred to him as “a human encyclopedia with a badge.” I found footage of him from an old press conference, standing stiffly beside a blonde woman in a blazer, answering questions with a verbosity of language and a voice that sounded steadier, more self-assured than the quiet one I’d heard in the infirmary three days ago. I breezed through a few more articles, then I stopped scrolling.

I didn’t know what any of it meant, but I did know that the story in the recent headlines didn’t seem to line up with the man I’d met, the man who he appeared to have been prior to his arrest. That nagging feeling in my gut, the one I’d felt since his eyes first met mine, was still there.

I closed out of my phone and sat in the quiet a while longer, my vision blurred and out of focus, wondering what it must feel like to go from that kind of life — traveling around the country, solving impossible crimes, saving countless lives — to a place where everything is taken from you. To become the type of man that people only see as the charges on a rap sheet.

Whatever he’d done (or hadn’t done), he was still a person. But it was obvious to me that he no longer really felt like one.

I shut off the TV and let the darkness settle around me. I took a long, warm shower in an attempt to clear my head, but his name and his face still hovered around the hazy edges of my thoughts. I’d met a lot of inmates who wore guilt like a second skin. Spencer Reid didn’t. Whatever his story was, I had a feeling it hadn’t been fully told. And part of me — the quiet, stubborn part — wasn’t quite ready to let that go.

—

The second time I saw him, it was raining. Not the kind of rain that makes people pause at windows, but the kind that soaks the world in gray and turns everything sluggish.

Inside the infirmary, the ceiling buzzed faintly with humidity and fluorescent fatigue, and the consistent pitter-patter of rain against the barred windows made it easy to forget there was any world outside these walls at all. I was restocking gauze when I noticed his name on the intake log, two and a half weeks from his first visit.

Reid, Spencer. Mild cough. Lightheadedness. Possible fever.

My fingers paused over the clipboard, barely grazing the pen. I wasn’t sure what I expected — or why it mattered at all. He was just another patient. Just another inmate. Still, I felt something shift when I walked up to his cot. He was noticeably pale, a little drawn, like the weight of something invisible had pressed down on his bones. The weight of this place, of his situation.

“Hello again,” I said softly. “Guess we’re making this a habit. Thought I told you I didn’t want to see you back here?”

He looked up at that — actually looked up. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes stayed on mine for a beat longer than they had last time.

“I didn’t plan on it,” he said, voice quiet.

“I believe you.”

I moved through the usual steps: gloves on, vitals checked, a listen to his lungs. He wasn’t running a high fever, just something low-grade. His breath hitched slightly on the inhale, but there was no wheeze, no crackle. Probably viral. Should clear itself up in a week at most.

Still, he looked… frayed. Like someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. His hands were clean, but his nails were shorter than last time, bitten down. His face appeared sunken and his under eyes had a distinctly purple hue to them.

“Have you been sleeping?” I asked gently.

He tilted his head. “As much as possible. So, no.”

I didn’t push. Sometimes the answer wasn’t what mattered — it was how it was given.

We were quiet for a while as I documented the basics. I could feel his eyes drifting across the room, landing briefly on the supply shelves, the bulletin board, the sink. Avoiding mine, but not out of defiance. Out of caution, maybe. Or simple awkwardness. He coughed, and I handed him a paper cup filled with water.

“I read once,” he said suddenly, “that coughs often get worse when you’re trying not to think about them.”

I offered a small smile. “Sometimes trying not to think about something just leads you to focus on it even more. And thinking about a cough can trigger the reflex, even without physical cause. So I would say try not to think about it, but, you know…vicious cycle.”

His mouth twitched — a shadow of amusement, there and then gone. The air between us felt a little less still.

“You’re not what I would’ve expected from someone who works here,” he said after a moment.

I arched a brow, clipping my pen back onto my clipboard. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged. “Less… human.”

I offered him a small, empathetic smile. “Well,” I said after a beat, “lucky for you, I don’t know how to be anything else.”

I handed him some Tylenol and told him to keep hydrated. As I wrote out the discharge slip, I instructed him to come back if the fever feels like it isn’t breaking, and to try and get as much sleep as is possible in a place like this.

“Thanks,” he said before he left. Just like the time before, the word landed like he really meant it.

He walked up to the guard waiting for him, stepped out into the corridor, and was gone. I found myself wondering, again, who he really was — beneath the headlines, beneath the polyester prison uniform, beneath whatever pain had hollowed him out into a shell of who he used to be.

—

The infirmary was chaos.

Not the full-blown ER chaos of my past — just the slow, stomping, institutional kind. Raised voices, the occasional drop of blood, too many bandages unrolled across the counters. There had been some sort of fight in the cafeteria, supposedly over a stolen piece of cornbread. Or maybe a slur. Or a look. No one ever really knew for sure how these things started. By the time the inmates were dragged in — limping, cursing, sweating, sometimes screaming — it didn’t matter anyways.

I was elbow-deep in a butterfly bandage on one man’s eyebrow when I noticed him: Spencer, sitting quietly near the far wall.

He didn’t look as badly hurt as the others. His posture was too upright to suggest anything broken. He was holding a wad of gauze to his arm.

I clocked him on the low-priority end of the triage sheet: Laceration, superficial. Minor bleeding. Stable.

Sandra, the other nurse on duty, eventually crossed the room to him once we’d worked through the others. I could hear her asking him to remove the gauze.

“Clean cut,” she said. “Might need a few stitches.”

“I’ve had worse,” he replied, voice flat.

I was just finishing with discharge paperwork for a dislocated shoulder when I heard Sandra say, “We’ll get you patched up quick. Hang tight.” I glanced over, and he was already watching me. He quickly flicked his gaze to the floor.

“I’ve got that one Sandra,” I said over my shoulder, peeling off my gloves and tugging on a fresh pair. “Can you finish up this discharge for me?”

She raised a brow but didn’t question it, just nodded and switched places with me.

“Lucky me,” he murmured. It wasn’t quippy or sarcastic. It actually sounded genuine.

“You say that like you’re not sitting on a lumpy cot with your arm bleeding.”

He tilted his head, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Well. Silver linings, I guess.”

I sat on the rolling stool beside him and started cleaning the wound. It wasn’t deep, but it ran a jagged path just beneath the curve of his bicep — a random flying lunch tray, I guessed. Wrong place, wrong time.

“You weren’t involved in the fight,” I said, phrasing it as more of a statement than a question.

“No,” he confirmed quietly. “Just passing by. I ducked too slow.”

I smiled without looking up. “Ah, classic mistake. You’ve got to learn to duck before the tray gets airborne.”

That actually got a laugh out of him — a soft, surprised sound, as if he hadn’t expected it from himself. He blinked down at me, momentarily disarmed. “You make jokes now?”

“Only in life-or-minor-laceration situations.”

The edges of his mouth twitched again. The usual shadow in his eyes was still there, but it seemed to thin out when he looked at me. A veil, instead of a wall.

“You’ve done this before,” he said as I threaded the suture needle.

“Stitches?” I asked. “Well, yeah. Hundreds of times.”

“No. I meant…this. Calming people down.”

I paused for just a second, then resumed. “Part of the job too, I guess.”

He didn’t reply, but his breathing had slowed. I worked quickly, neatly. The room was almost empty now. Just one CO near the door, arms crossed, barely paying attention. When I finished, I handed Spencer some gauze and medical tape. “You’ll want to keep this dry, at least for twenty-four hours. Try not to lift anything heavy. Or start any cafeteria fights.”

He shot me a shy, lopsided smile. “No promises.”

The guard called his name then — sharp, abrupt. Spencer stood, moving more slowly than necessary, tucking the gauze into the pocket of his jumpsuit. He looked down at me one last time, and for a second, neither of us said anything.

“Thanks, y/n.”

It was the first time he’d said my name. He must’ve read it on my badge, clipped to the pocket of my scrubs.

“You’re welcome, Spencer. Try not to need to come back if you can help it.”

He followed the guard out without looking back, but something lingered in the air after he left — the smell of antiseptic mixed with something warmer underneath, just a faint trace of something hard to name.

—

It had been a long morning — nothing dramatic, just a steady stream of minor injuries and chronic complaints. Small cuts that somehow still bled too much, headaches no amount of ibuprofen could touch, an older inmate who claimed chest pain every Tuesday at the same time he knew my shift started like clockwork. I was halfway through restocking the suture tray when a CO came in with another patient. I looked up and fought back a smile at who it was.

The new cut Spencer was sporting wasn’t too bad — a scrape along his forearm, probably from another cafeteria scuffle or a hallway shove — but it was deep enough to bring him back.

Fourth visit to the infirmary in the two months since he first arrived at Millburn. Enough visits that I didn’t need to check the intake clipboard to remember his name, or his face, or his voice.

Spencer sat in the same cot as last time, waiting quietly, hands folded like he was at a lecture instead of a prison clinic. When I walked over, he looked up and nodded in greeting. No smile this time, but not cold either.

“You again,” I said, slipping on gloves.

“Apparently I’m accident-prone.” His tone was deadpan, but there was a flicker of warmth behind it. He offered his arm without being asked.

The scrape was shallow, red around the edges but clean. I could’ve just sent him off with a bandage and a warning, but I didn’t. I pulled over the tray and got to work slowly, methodically cleaning the wound slower than I usually would.

After a moment, I said, “So, Spencer. If you’re going to be a repeat visitor, we might as well get to know one another.”

He looked up at me blankly, blinking.

“Where’d you grow up?” I asked.

He looked back down at his arm while I ran an alcohol pad across it. “Las Vegas.” He winced a little — whether at the words he was saying or the sting of the disinfectant, I wasn’t sure.

I nodded like I didn’t already know. Like I hadn’t read three different articles and an old symposium transcript with his name on it one night after my shift, sitting at my kitchen table in the dark.

“Have you always lived there?”

“No. My mom’s still there, but I moved away when I went to college and left permanently for work. I live here in DC now.”

“What kind of work?” I asked.

He hesitated, just for a second. There weren’t any other inmates in the infirmary, but he dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “I, uh, I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit. Or I was, at least.”

I kept my expression neutral. “That sounds intense.”

“It is.” A pause. “Interesting, though. Never boring. Lots of travel.”

I wiped the scrape clean, letting the silence stretch for a beat before I spoke again. “Do you miss it?”

Another pause, this one a little heavier. “Yeah,” he replied quietly.

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Just taped down the bandage and asked, “What’d you study before the FBI?”

“Mathematics. And chemistry. And engineering.” He paused, then added, “Also psychology. Sociology. And philosophy, more recently.”

I looked up at him, eyes wide. “All of those?”

He gave a tiny shrug, like it wasn’t worth mentioning. “I finished my first PhD when I was seventeen.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Show-off,” I said with a breathy laugh.

That got a smile. A real one this time. He looked almost sheepish. “You?”

“What about me?” I asked, pausing my work on his arm to meet his eyes. Hazel in this light. Golden brown in others, definitely.

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Philadelphia,” I said. “Still have the accent when I’m tired or drunk, I’ve been told.”

He nodded like he could hear it already, even though I wasn’t sure I’d ever let it slip around him. “Did you always want to be a nurse?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted. “I never knew what I wanted to be when I was growing up. I actually started college as a literature major before I switched to nursing. I worked in the ER for a while before I ended up here. This job just kind of…fit.”

He didn’t ask what I meant by that. Most people didn’t. He just nodded again, like he understood anyway. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Somehow it felt like a bigger question than it was. “Sometimes,” I said with a quiet sigh. “Some days are harder than others.”

He looked at me for a long moment, and it oddly felt like he knew exactly how I was feeling, like he could see the way the job was wearing me down. Now it was my turn to feel intimidated by his gaze. I turned awkwardly to look at the clock then busied myself tidying up the tray, pretending that the eye contact didn’t linger.

“There you go,” I said, gently patting the gauze I’d taped to his arm. “Try to avoid any more cafeteria collisions, please.”

“I’ll do my best,” he murmured with a shy smirk. He stood when the CO came to collect him, but before he turned to go, he paused.

“Thanks. For this,” he said as he tilted his chin to his arm, “and for… treating me like a person. Just…thanks.”

It wasn’t just polite. It sounded like he meant it. Like it mattered to him, that I called him by name and asked about his life. “You’re welcome, Spencer.”

This time, he did smile at me before he left.

And this time, I watched him walk away a second longer than I meant to.

—

I’d barely clocked in when the alert came through: inmate altercation, multiple injuries, possible head trauma, ETA three minutes.

Not exactly an unusual start to a shift. Fights were as common as bad coffee at Millburn, and most days followed the same dull rhythm — triage, patch-up, repeat. But one name on the intake list made my pulse hiccup: Reid, Spencer. Stab wound to the thigh. Suspected concussion.

I barely looked up at first — just long enough to confirm it was him, sitting upright on the cot, jumpsuit leg soaked with blood and torn a little above the knee. He didn’t look scared, but he didn’t look fine, either. Sandra moved toward him with a clipboard, but I touched her arm before she could speak. “I’ve got this one.”

“Of course you want the cute one,” she grumbled under her breath, but then she just nodded and headed over to tend to another waiting inmate.

I crossed the room slowly, cataloging him: alert, steady breathing, pale but not shocky. His gaze wasn’t confused, just… disconnected. Like he’d already run the numbers in his head and decided exactly how bad it was and whether it had been worth it.

He turned his head when I got close. There was blood on his temple — superficial. The leg was worse. Deep, clean. Too clean for it to be the result of a chaotic brawl, which meant it wasn’t chaos. It was personal. And the angle of it appeared to be possibly self-inflicted. I wondered if he’d done it to himself in an attempt to get moved into solitary.

“Hey,” I said. “Rough day?”

Spencer gave me a humorless half-smile. “Story of my life lately.”

I pulled a stool beside his leg, gently peeling back the torn fabric to assess the wound. “You’ll need stitches. At least ten. You take a hit to the head, too?”

He hesitated. “Not really.”

I met his eyes. I hesitated too, then dropped my voice. “But you could say you did.”

He blinked. Just a flicker. I pressed on, quietly. “If you did, I’d have to put you on observation. Infirmary bed. Eight hours minimum. Away from the block.”

A beat of silence. Then a soft, “Yeah. I definitely got hit in the head.”

I nodded once, then clicked my pen and wrote it down. Possible concussion. It wasn’t a complete lie — not exactly. But it wasn’t about the protocol either.

As the infirmary quieted and the other inmates cycled through, I stitched his leg in silence. Sandra kept to the intake desk. I led Spencer to the far corner, away from the fluorescent overhead lights, and dimmed them slightly. I pulled a tray table between us and sat down across from him like we had all the time in the world.

“Brain games,” I said, gesturing to the shelf behind me. “Helps me assess cognitive function.”

“You’re making that up,” he said, almost smiling.

“Of course I am.” I smirked, setting up the chessboard. “You play?”

“I used to. Not as much anymore,” he said quietly.

We played in silence first, but slowly, words started to fill the spaces between our moves. He told me about his eidetic memory and the languages he could speak. I told him about my time working in the ER, about the burnout, about why I took this job. He mentioned someone named Gideon — an old friend, mentor maybe — who taught him to play. I lost three games in a row, and on the final checkmate, I groaned. “Let’s take a break.”

He nodded, then opened his mouth like he might say something else, but he didn’t. I waited. Sandra disappeared into the break room.

After a few seconds, I spoke. “Can I ask how you ended up here?” My voice stayed soft, careful. Not clinical — I wasn’t asking as his nurse.

His whole expression shifted, and he looked guarded. I regretted asking instantly. “Sorry. You don’t have to—”

“No, no. It’s okay. I want to tell you. I just don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” I suggested with a shrug.

He looked away, pausing. He took a long breath, and for a moment before he spoke, I thought maybe he never would. “My mom,” he finally said. “She’s schizophrenic. And… about a year ago, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

The words knocked something loose in me. I felt it, sharp and instinctive. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

He blinked like he hadn’t expected sympathy. “Thanks. I didn’t really handle the diagnosis well. Started looking into treatments — trials, compounds, oils, anything that might help. I found a woman in Mexico making something that worked. Nothing illegal, but the specific compound isn’t FDA-approved. So I started traveling down there every few months, in secret.”

I watched his leg bounce slightly under the table. Not from pain, but from nerves.

“The last trip… someone drugged me. Planted narcotics in a car and somehow I ended up behind the wheel in the desert. The woman I’d been getting the medication from, Rosa — she was murdered. They blamed me. I was arrested. Framed. I know that probably sounds like what every guy in here says, but…it’s true. My team and I think it was a serial killer we arrested a few years back — he escaped custody last year.”

His voice got quieter as the story stretched out. Thinner, like it was costing him more and more to keep talking. “My team got me extradited back to the U.S. They helped find me a good lawyer. But I was remanded to custody without bail. So… here I am.”

I let it settle, allowing myself to feel the full weight of it. I’d read bits and pieces online, after that first cut I’d stitched months ago. But hearing it like this? It was different. Sadder, somehow. “I believe you,” I said softly.

He blinked. “Why?”

I tilted my head, considering. “Because…well, I’ve seen guilty. This isn’t it. Plus, if your team’s still backing you, that means something.”

He looked down, fiddling with a chess piece. “I think most people want to believe I’m guilty. That I snapped or something. It’s easier than believing the alternative.”

“Easier doesn’t mean truer,” I said simply.

He looked back up and smiled. It was small, but real. “Can we play something else now?”

We pulled out Scrabble, and the conversation drifted with it — books, places, bad camping trips. He laughed at my story about a raccoon stealing my breakfast, and the sound surprised both of us.

“I haven’t laughed in a while,” he said.

I poked the back of his Scrabble tile rack. “You’re welcome.”

Sometime during our third game, he asked: “Why aren’t you married?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t wear a ring. I just assumed.”

I shrugged. “You first.”

He laughed quietly. Told me about his failed attempts at dating. The woman he lost at the hands of her stalker. The job that got in the way.

I gave him my version. How the hours I worked scared people off. How guys never seemed to call back after finding out I worked in a men’s prison. How I’d rather be alone than explain myself yet again to someone who wouldn’t get it.

“Honestly,” I said, “most men want someone who makes their life easier. Not darker.”

“That wouldn’t stop me,” he said quietly.

I stilled, the statement catching me off guard. I waited a moment to process what he’d said, to make sure I’d heard it correctly. “What?”

His cheeks flushed. “I mean, it…it wouldn’t stop me from wanting to know someone. If they worked here. If they were like you.”

“Like me?”

Spencer nodded. “Smart. Honest. Beautiful.” His voice cracked shyly on that last one. “Brave. A little scary.” He chuckled, then took a breath. “If they were you,” he finally clarified softly, his eyes awkwardly flicking down to the board before meeting mine again.

We didn’t move. Didn’t touch. But something shifted — a soft tilt in the air between us.

He swallowed hard. “That was inappropriate. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Technically, yeah, it was inappropriate. But I’m not uncomfortable.” A moment passed. My knee brushed his under the table — light, accidental. “It was an unexpected comment, but it wasn’t unwelcome,” I finally added.

He paused for a few beats, absorbing what I’d said, the way I’d reacted, the brush of my knee. “Hypothetically,” he said, “if I got out of here… would you want to try meeting again? On the outside.”

I let the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding leave me slowly. “Hypothetically… yeah. I’d like that. If you’re talking about a date, that is.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected that answer. “O-okay. Cool,” he stammered. A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Cool.”

I grinned. “So, Spencer. On this hypothetical date, what would we do?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he looked up, very seriously, and asked, “Are we flirting?” It looked as if his brain was mid-calculating risk and probability, like he couldn’t dare answer my question until I answered this one.

I stared back at him. “Do you want to be?”

He coughed, surprised I’d thrown the question back at him. “I…don’t not want to be. I just didn’t think you’d want to flirt with me.”

“I don’t usually flirt with inmates,” I said slowly. “I mean… I don’t ever.” I held his gaze. “You’re a special case.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, watching me like he was trying to decode a particularly complicated puzzle. “Special how?”

I met his gaze, letting the moment stretch between us. “You’re…different. You don’t walk in here full of swagger or venom. You don’t talk down to anyone. You’re very attractive. You’re nice to me even when you don’t have any reason to want to be. You don’t…you don’t belong here.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, then glanced toward Sandra before returning his eyes to mine. “Some days I’m not sure where I belong anymore.” There was a quiet honesty in his voice that hollowed something out inside me. That sharp, aching awareness of how deeply alone someone could feel, even in a room full of people. Especially then.

I reached across the little table and nudged the corner of the Scrabble board closest to him with my fingertips. “Well, for the next few hours, you belong here. With me. Under ‘observation.’” I gave him a tiny, conspiratorial smile.

He smiled back, the edges of his lips tugging up in that crooked way I was beginning to associate with him. “You’re a very thorough observer.”

“It’s in the job description,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, I like to be sure.”

Spencer leaned forward a little, elbows the table, fingers laced together. “What are you sure of?”

I thought for a moment before responding. “I’m sure you didn’t do what they say you did. I’m sure you’re extremely intelligent. I’m sure you care about people more than you let on. And I’m sure that I haven’t looked forward to a shift like this in a very long time.”

Spencer looked down, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, or didn’t know what to do with it. “You’re going to get in trouble for being nice to me.”

“I’m not being nice,” I said. “I’m being… honest. Besides, no one’s listening.”

We sat in silence for a moment, letting that word — honest — hang in the air. It meant something different here at Millburn. It was rare. Sometimes costly. But with Spencer, it didn’t feel dangerous.

Sandra’s voice cut through the stillness, calling out a question to me from the front desk. I stood, my hands brushing the front of my scrubs.

“I’ll be right back,” I told him, heading over to help.

When I returned a few minutes later, Spencer was still seated in the same spot, but his posture had shifted slightly — more relaxed, more open. He’d turned one of the Scrabble tiles over in his fingers, tracing it absently, as if lost in thought.

“You didn’t swap the tiles to cheat while I was gone, did you?” I teased as I sat back down.

He grinned, shaking his head. “I’m too much of a perfectionist. Cheating would ruin the whole point.”

“Good to know,” I murmured, reclaiming my spot across from him. “So. You never answered my question.”

He tilted his head.

“Hypothetical first date. What would we do?”

A small flicker of hesitation crossed his face — maybe uncertainty, maybe just the weight of imagining something he wasn’t sure he should allow himself to hope for. But then, he spoke.

“I’d take you to the planetarium,” he said. “They do these night shows on Thursdays. There’s music — actual curated playlists — and they project constellations onto the dome. You can lean back and look at the stars without all the city lights getting in the way.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how perfect that sounded.

“That’s…actually kind of dreamy,” I said.

He gave a small, bashful shrug. “It’s quiet. We wouldn’t have to talk unless you wanted to. And afterward, there’s a diner around the corner that makes really good pie. We could split a piece or two.”

“Pie and stars,” I said. “I could go for that.”

“I’ll remember,” he said quietly. “For after. If there is one.”

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted again — still soft, still tentative, but edged now with something more electric. Hope. A thread of connection thick enough to feel, even in a place that was never meant for anything tender.

The game slowed, and we didn’t look at the board as much. Our conversation stretched out between moves. I told him how I like old Hollywood movies and hiking when I could get out of the city. Spencer mentioned classical music, science fiction, the smell of bookstores. We sketched out a series of hypothetical first dates like kids killing time — a Sunday at the museum, a night at a trivia bar, a coffee place with mismatched mugs and not enough chairs.

“Do you always win at Scrabble?” I asked, knowing the hours had dwindled away.

“Almost always,” he said, then added with a smile, “Unless I get distracted.”

I raised a brow but said nothing. I thought for a moment, then carefully placed a series of ten tiles along the edge of the board in front of him — each one selected for the small score number etched into the corner. It spelled out gibberish, but it’s not the letters that mattered. When he looked up, I met his eyes.

“That’s a phone number,” I said softly, “not a word.”

He looked down at the tiles, then back up at me again, a soft smile curling at his lips.

“I figured you could try to remember it for when you get out.”

“I will,” he said, his knee brushing mine under the table again — this time, I knew it hadn’t been accidental.

Suddenly, the loud buzzer of the door cut through the atmosphere we’d been so perfectly curating. A CO walked in, indicating the end of Spencer's observation period. I stood up and walked to him. “I need a minute to finish the assessment, then he’s all yours.” The officer nodded then leaned against Sandra’s desk to make flirty small talk.

I padded back to Spencer and noticed the shift in his demeanor — he was scared. Sad, too, for this to end, but the fear in his eyes at the prospect of going back to his cell was evident.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure the guard was distracted, then placed a hand on his knee under the table. “I think I can help,” I said quietly. I stood and grabbed the assessment sheet, filling in my “findings.”

“Patient remains alert and oriented. Mild fatigue consistent with post-concussive recovery. Observation window uneventful. While current concussion symptoms appear mild and improving, patient is at increased vulnerability for subsequent severe head trauma.”

I paused, then lowered my pen, pressing the tip to the page just a little harder.

“Recommend reevaluation for protective custody placement based on frequency of injury and heightened vulnerability. History of recent trauma and exposure suggests increased risk of harm in general population. Further monitoring advised.”

I stared at the paper for a beat, listening to the low hum of the overhead lights. My eyes flicked up to Spencer, who looked at me with some confusion on his face, then back down to the sheet. The language was clinical, common, nothing dramatic. But I knew what it could do for him.

It wouldn’t get him out. But maybe it would give him a little more space. A little more safety. A little more time.

I signed my name at the bottom and flipped the file closed. I motioned for Spencer to get up. “Stay safe,” I said quietly, giving him a look only he could decipher before I waved to the CO to come over.

“Here’s my assessment for the warden,” I said as I handed the file to the CO. “Make sure he gets it tonight, please.” The officer nodded — I had good rapport with the COs here — and he led Spencer out. Spencer looked over his shoulder at me for just a moment, and I saw something deeper in his expression, something he hadn’t shown since I’d met him.

Hope.

—

A week after his concussion observation period, he came in holding his head like it hurt.

It was the first thing I noticed — the way his fingers pressed into his temple, his expression pulled tight in manufactured pain. I’d seen patients genuinely suffering from migraines, seen them blink and tense and wince and faint. This wasn’t that. This was a performance, and not a very good one. He should stick to his day job, I thought to myself. Not cut out to be an actor.

I stifled a giggle and walked up to his cot, looking up from my paperwork and smiling at him softly. “Hey. Back so soon?”

Spencer lowered himself onto the cot with a dramatic sigh, hand still braced against his forehead. “Migraine,” he said, wincing dramatically. “Started last night. Light sensitivity, nausea… the works.”

“Mmhmm,” I hummed, standing and reaching for the small penlight in my coat pocket. “You want to tell me why your pupils look perfectly normal and your blood pressure’s textbook perfect?”

He smiled, just barely. “I missed your voice.”

That stopped me cold. Just for a second, but long enough that I had to pretend to be very interested in the pulse oximeter in my hand.

“That’s…not usually a billable symptom,” I murmured.

He chuckled softly. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh like that. It was warm.

I stepped closer, wrapping the pulse oximeter around his finger even though I already knew what it would say. The tips of his fingers were cold, but his skin was soft. I held it a second longer than necessary, just watching the numbers rise on the tiny screen.

“Looks like you’ll live,” I said.

He tilted his head, looking at me more closely now, and the moment stretched between us — full of unspoken things that couldn’t be said in a place like this. His eyes scanned my face like he was memorizing it.

“I wanted to say thank you,” he said quietly. “For the report you wrote. The recommendation. I’m not stupid. I know that was you.”

I didn’t answer. I just looked down and reached for the thermometer instead. His hand was still resting on his thigh, twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“It was medically sound,” I said, voice low. “Repeated head trauma and high-stress environments can—”

He interrupted me with my name. Just my name, nothing else.

I swallowed.

I pretended to take his temperature, the plastic probe tucked beneath his tongue as if any of this still resembled medicine. My fingers grazed his jaw. When I pulled it back, I reached for his wrist to take his heart rate again, manually this time. My fingertips slid over his skin too gently, too deliberately.

The CO by the door shifted his weight with a faint grunt, and I blinked, heart jolting back into rhythm. I pulled my hand back and stepped away, jotting something on the clipboard that didn’t matter. “I’m prescribing you sleep. Go take a nap, FBI boy.”

He smirked at the nickname and stood slowly, like he didn’t want to. “Wasn’t really about the migraine,” he admitted, voice low but steady. “I just… I wanted to see you.”

The truth of it landed heavy between us, no performance, no pretending. Just honesty — stark and bare and strangely brave.

I felt the words settle into my chest like a secret I was glad to keep. I nodded, barely. “I know.”

He gave me a small, crooked smile — softer than the last, tinged with that same look in his eyes I saw last week - hope.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part ii.

[inreid]

"if reid dies i quit" - penelope garcia

[inreid]

bitches will be like “this is my comfort show” and its a show where the characters have never felt a day of comfort in their lives (its me im bitches)

[inreid]

when its 2am and im reading heart aching angst with smut about spencer reid

[inreid]

Dating early seasons Spencer Reid⊹ ࣪ ˖

Early Seasons Spencer Reid X bau reader

More headcanons!! Also should I do more JJ or Emily next???

Spencer Reid who doesn't dare to hug or kiss you in front of the rest of the team, but will smile at you all day and let you hold his hand in the jet or at the round table.

Spencer Reid who makes sure it's known that he sits with you every time on the jet without saying anything, but with Morgan's teasing the rest catch on quick enough to leave you space.

Spencer Reid who grows to hate going to bars after cases because more conventionally attractive guys hit on you. He just mopes around the bar. It doesn't take a profiler to know he's upset. When you finally get it out of him, you assure him that you love him and him only.

Spencer Reid who reads to you every night and let's you rest your head on his shoulder to sleep, but it ends with him sleeping on your shoulder.

Spencer Reid who whispers little facts he knows in your ear when you're scared or upset after a case.

Spencer Reid who always feels horrible if you get hurt on a case. He ends up crying more than you do, apologizing over and over again. Of course you tell him, "It's not your fault. You didn't know. You couldn't have stopped it. I'm okay, you're okay."

Spencer Reid who loves everything you do and studies you daily, even if the team teases him he doesn't care because he loves you.

[inreid]

ꨄ Third time’s the charm — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: hurt/comfort, angst (with happy ending) word count: 1,7k

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings: none.

summary: Spencer’s always been good at showing up for the world. This time, he’s learning how to show up for you, and a third chance that you give him might be just enough.

author’s note: currently posting daily because I genuinely have nothing better to do. first time writing over 1,5k words, hehe. I am new to writing in tumblr format and in English, which isn't my first language, so please be kind. I will appreciate any input on how to improve my writing or other tips, but only in a respectful manner ! :)

You always knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Dating Spencer, that is.

You’d been friends long enough—met at a science conference three years ago, had long conversations about memory and metaphor over plastic coffee cups, and laughed over the mutual awkwardness of hotel mixers. The kind of friendship that came easy, like slipping into an old hoodie: warm, loose, no expectations. And maybe that’s why it lasted so long before either of you admitted there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Friends didn’t owe each other explanations. Friends didn’t have to arrange candlelit dinners or schedule around jet lag and crime scenes.

But love—love was more complicated. Love came with the hope of having someone there, and the quiet ache when they weren’t.

You knew what you were signing up for. You knew Spencer Reid was brilliant and kind and unlike anyone else you’d ever met. You also knew that the BAU didn’t exactly take holidays, not for anniversaries, not for birthdays, not even for Christmas. Still, you thought maybe—with enough time and care—you’d learn to live in the space between his absences.

You hadn’t seen him in three weeks. So when Spencer called to say he was back in D.C. and wanted to finally go on a proper date—just the two of you, no profile reports, no phone calls, no interruptions—you’d said yes without hesitating. You dressed up. Chose a restaurant with dim lighting and a soft jazz quartet in the corner. You smiled into your wine glass when he said you looked beautiful and teased him gently for overanalyzing the appetizer menu.

And then his phone rang. Not just a text. A call.

You saw it in his eyes before he even looked at the screen—the shift from soft to sharp. From yours to theirs.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, already pulling his wallet out, fumbling through apologies as he stood. “They need me to give an emergency lecture—someone dropped out, and it’s really time-sensitive—”

You nodded, of course. What else could you do? You kissed his cheek, wished him luck, and watched him walk out the door.

You didn’t cry, but you didn’t finish your meal either.

The second time, a week later, was supposed to be the redo. He made the reservation himself this time, texted you little updates throughout the day about how excited he was. It was raining when you met him, your umbrella half-broken and your coat damp from the metro. Still, he looked at you like you were a work of art. And for an hour, it really felt like you were getting your shot. You were halfway through telling him about a new project at work when his phone buzzed on the table.

You saw it again. That same shift. A case. Emergency flight.

He looked wrecked about it, eyes flicking over your face like he already knew he was letting you down. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I swear I didn’t know—if I don’t go—”

You stopped him before he spiraled. Smiled tightly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

But this time, you didn’t wait until the server returned. You gathered your bag, kissed him on the cheek like you were still okay, and left before the hollow feeling in your chest could settle in too deep.

Over the next week, you let the space grow.

You didn’t call as often. Left his texts on read longer than usual. When he tried to video call, you said you were busy. You didn’t bring up another date. You weren’t angry—just tired. Tired of trying to schedule time with someone whose life could be pulled away from you with one phone call. Tired of trying not to make him feel bad for something he couldn’t control. So you made it easier for both of you by stepping back.

Spencer noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the shift in your voice over text—shorter replies, longer delays. The way you didn’t ask when he was coming back this time. The way your usual “goodnight” didn’t come with a heart emoji, or anything at all. It wasn’t dramatic, not even really pointed. But it was enough. It was enough to make him sit alone in his hotel room three nights into the case, phone resting in his palm, thumb hovering over your contact while he stared at the blinking cursor in the message box, unsure what to type. He’d rewritten the same sentence five different ways before giving up and pressing “call.”

He never liked making phone calls—never liked the way his voice could sound too eager or too nervous when it wasn’t in person. But silence? That was worse.

It rang twice before you picked up.

“Hey,” You sounded small. Tired in a way that didn’t come from sleep.

“Hi, love,” he breathed, sinking back against the headboard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said. Your voice was quiet — quieter than usual. And cracked just barely at the end, like it had been recently worn thin. From crying, probably. He could tell. Spencer could always tell.

Still, he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “I saw something today. In the bookstore near the precinct.”

You didn’t respond right away, but he waited. Eventually, your voice came, softer now. “What did you see?”

“They had a copy of The Little Prince. Original French edition.” His voice warmed a little. “It was worn, kind of falling apart. It reminded me of the copy on your shelf.”

That made you smile, just barely. He heard it. Or maybe imagined it. Either way, he kept going.

“I thought about buying it for you. But I wasn’t sure if it’d survive the flight.”

You didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It’s the thought that counts.”

And there it was again — that sadness, thick between the syllables. He could feel it, even through the phone. The weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The heaviness in your throat that didn’t need a name. But he didn’t push. That wasn’t what you needed right now. You didn’t want to talk about why you hadn’t reached out, or how this second failed date in a row had taken the wind out of your hope.

So he told you about a bakery next to the station that made bread shaped like hedgehogs. About the cab driver who insisted on giving him a playlist of 80s jazz fusion. About how the team was tired, but safe, and how JJ had threatened to confiscate his sixth cup of coffee.

He talked gently, letting his voice fill the silence so you didn’t have to.

You didn’t say much. Just murmured in agreement here and there. But Spencer knew you were listening. And you knew that he was choosing every word with care — not to avoid the topic, but to love you without asking anything in return.

Eventually, you said, “I missed your voice.”

Spencer smiled into the receiver. “I missed yours too. A lot.”

Another pause. One of those full ones.

“I think I just need a little time,” you said finally. “Not away. Just… quiet.”

“I get it,” he said. And he did. He always did.

You both fell silent again. Not the heavy kind — this one was soft. Laced with understanding.

Before you hung up, he said, “That book in the window… I’ll see if I can get it shipped. I think it’d be nice on your shelf.”

And you whispered, “Thank you,” like it meant more than he’d ever know.

He didn’t need you to say more. He already knew.

When you turned the key in the lock and tiredly kicked the door of your apartment open, you didn’t expect him to come back early. You didn’t expect to walk into your apartment and find the lights dimmed low, the smell of your favorite takeout wafting from the coffee table, and Spencer sitting on your couch surrounded by a small army of snacks, two soft blankets, and three carefully stacked DVD options: The Princess Bride, Arrival, and Dead Poets Society.

When he heard your keys jingle, he rushed from the couch to wrap his arms around you tightly — warm, steady, and there.

“Surprise,” he whispered into your ear, his voice soft enough to make your knees tremble a little. He held you for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish.

You blinked, caught between a breathless laugh and a lump in your throat. “What… is all this?”

Spencer pulled back only enough to look at you, hands still resting gently on your arms. “I figured if restaurants are cursed, maybe the third time’s the charm.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I wanted to make it up to you. I know I haven’t been here… really been here, and I hate that. I hate letting you down.”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Your chest ached with too many emotions trying to surface at once. He reached behind the couch and retrieved a small paper bag. Inside were two of your favorite chocolate bars and a tiny potted plant — slightly crooked, clearly picked out with care. A label stuck out from the soil, handwritten and slanted “Date Night Survivor #3.”

Your throat clenched.

“I know it’s not exactly candlelight and violins,” he added, voice lower now. “But it’s what I’ve got. And I did it because… you deserve someone who shows up. And I want to be that person. Even if I have to keep trying until I get it right.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks before you could stop them — quiet, unannounced, like your body had decided it was safe now to finally let go. Spencer noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked briefly to the glint of moisture on your skin, but he didn’t say a word. He just reached for your hand and pulled you in again, gently, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come sit,” he whispered, like you were something precious, breakable, and not already breaking. “Food’s still warm.”

And just like that, the ache inside you softened. It didn’t vanish, but it eased. Because he was here. Because he tried. Because this — all of this — meant something.

It felt like breathing again. Like maybe love wasn’t about perfect plans or unbroken promises—but about choosing each other, over and over again, even when the world gets in the way.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[inreid]

[inreid]

I Would Do Anything To Hear It. To Hear You.

Post Prision!Spencer Reid x GN Reader

synopsis: Your loving husband comes home a little changed after a wrongful imprisonment. He's still your Spencer but you'll have to find a new way to communicate with him. 2.8k word count.

Tags: Pre-established relationship, slight angst with comfort, Sunshine character finding they're spark again

Warnings: Talk of mental health/state and PTSD, Small discriptions of anxity attacks and night terrors, a few mentions of Spencers time in prision but no event is really talked about, one mention of the leg injure he gave himself in prision, slightly cold Spencer, bad editing (as usual), attempting to be poetic (I had fun okay)

Spencer Reid who’s fallen quiet after coming home from prison.

No longer is your home warm with his smile and loud with his knowledge. Telling you about his day, about a book he just finished, a class he signed up to teach, a joke he told to Jj. It’s quiet. Quiet and frozen with his new habit of staring at the same spot on the wall for hours on end. Quiet as the only light that seems to come from him are the emotions trapped just under the surface of his skin. Only catching glimpses when his eyes dare to meet your own. Quiet with how his footsteps seem to be at the same volume as a mouse. His movements kept fluid and precise as if to faze through the sound barrier to avoid making noise.

Spencer Reid is quiet. A sentence you’d never think would come out of your mouth. Hell, you didn’t even know the words could be in the same sentence together.

Despite the newfound quiet, Spencer Reid is still Spencer Reid. It shows in how he still brings home takeout from whatever restaurant he can find open when he gets back from a case. How even if he flinches at first he still rushes to meet your touch. That despite him having a job that can pull him away for days at a time, the trash cans never seem to become full. How even if he’s only gotten 4 hours of sleep, he still gets up with enough time to unload the dishwasher before he goes to work. No matter how many times you’ve told him not to worry about it. That when you're standing at the front door, patting yourself down and looking in your bag trying to find what you’ve managed to forget. He appears with a gentle kiss and a helping hand. Silently handing you whatever you’ve forgotten.

Spencer Reid may no longer be loud with his words but his actions are just as meaningful as they were before. Every once of love that left with him came home tenfold. His voice once as common as the sound of a ticking clock, now only heard in the creeks of the floor boards. Deep and gravely from under usage, yet still irrevocably holding a softness that was uniquely his.

His friends are worried, wishing that he would just open up to them so they could help more. His mother blames herself, believing that he’d fallen quiet due to a scolding she must have given him but couldn’t remember. Her letter’s right after he visits her in person always holding some form of apology. Praising him and all that he’s done in hopes of seeing her smiley boy once more.

They all turn to you. As if you hold some secret answer or can read his mind. As if you're also not begging him to tell you what's going on. Watching him become rushed with emotions he could no longer control and lashing out. Finding him sat up in bed or even just completely missing, having gone to sit in the living room after a night terror. Like you weren’t just as lost or desperate when it came to the new Spencer Reid.

It’s coming home from work one day that changes how you handle the situation.

Sat on the subway as you turn to see a mother scolding her child in ASL. The boy reluctantly watched his mother’s flickering hands. The only reason you know they’re arguing is the firm and slightly irritated look on the mother’s face, and the huff the boy lets out before sighing his own fiery message back to her.

Communicating in a silent language in a place that was usually highlighted by its noise.

Huh.

Well, they do say if you can’t beat em, join em.

So you start finding ways to communicate your love and support for him. Starting with an ‘out with the old, in with the new’ strategy. You want him to have a comfortable and easy life, so you start replacing his worn-down items. A new lunchbox after having sewn the same strap on his old one at least once a year for the past 3 years. Spencer having said, he didn’t want to replace it because it kept his food at the perfect temperature. So you hunt down the brand and manage to find the exact same one, that surprisingly the company is still making.

You don’t make a whole show of it either. Simply waiting for him to go into the shower before taking and swapping out the two lunchboxes. Silently putting the old one into the closet in case he responded negatively.

Spencer doesn’t realize until he’s eating lunch at work the next day. Pulling out the leftovers he’d packed the night before, only to find that the barbecue sauce stain he’s never managed to get out of the inner lining is gone. For a few seconds, he panics. Thinking he’d somehow managed to grab somebody else’s lunch and just not realized. But these were definitely the containers he’d packed the night before, and when checking the washing instructions tag his name was still written neatly over the instructions. Though upon closer inspection, that’s not his handwriting.

Your chopping veggies for a salad, craving something a little lighter for dinner when you hear the door clicking open and then snapping shut. His shoes make a soft padding sound as he toes them off. Barely processing his footsteps before he stood right next to you. Crowding your personal space slightly as his hand comes out resting on yours that's holding the knife so that you let go of it. The knife now laid flat on the cutting board as you turn and look up at him.

His face is serious but not necessarily angry, “Did you change out my lunchbox?”

“Oh um… yeah.” You shrug slightly, moving your hand out from under his so you can throw the cut cucumbers into the bowl. “Yours was getting pretty old and my stitching on the handle doesn’t seem to be holding very well anymore. It’s the same brand and model, just newer”

His expression is hard, brows pulled together slightly as he thinks it over.

“In hindsight, I probably should have told you before swapping it out. I just thought it’d be a nice surprise” You look at him once again, expression soft with a small smile. “I still have your old one if you’d prefer it back”

His gaze snaps to yours. Locked on for a few seconds as he thinks before flickering away. He leans in planting a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Thank you Angle” And just as quickly as he came, he silently puttered away.

The next jester was to start having time as a couple again. You still see him often, obviously because you live together but ‘date night’ hasn’t been a thing for nearly a year. So the next time Spencer gets a few days of rest after a case, you put an event in your shared calendar called ‘couple time’. Spencer blinked a few times when he saw the calendar notification but decided not to question it. Simply ensuring he was dressed and ready when the time came.

Couple time was now a time for the two of you to just be in the same space as each other. A deliberate effort to share time and space with one another. It was always an easy and fun activity. Going to a new art exhibit and silently standing next to each other as you looked over the art. Bring him to a bookstore both of you liked where all you said to him was, “I’m going to look for a book I think you’ll like and you’ll do the same for me” and both of you set off to do just that. A butterfly garden that had adult-only hours in the evening, where you two would just sit and watch the colorful insects flutter about. The only words spoken were when you would point at one you thought was especially pretty and he would respond with the name of that specific butterfly.

The butterfly garden would lead to a new strategy to connect with him.

Starting a murder mystery podcast that you now play when you fold laundry together. Giving Spencer a chance to shake his head and complain about a narrative inconsistency or that “forensic science doesn’t work that way”. Both of you knew who the killer was by episode 8 but still followed through with all 22 episodes.

Eating dinner on the couch together you begin to pick out a really bad sci-fi show to watch. Spencer, getting halfway through the first episode before muttering out a small, “This is awful” followed by you pausing the show and asking “How so”. So now whenever you're watching the show if anything ever happens that you don’t understand or at least act like you don’t understand, you pause the show and turn to him. He follows with a detailed explanation, said in a way you’d understand.

While it’s not the mindless babbling he used to do, it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing Spencer behind the emotional walls he’d put around himself. The stress and anxiety fall away from his expression as his passion for knowledge and the sciences reignites, even if it’s just for a few seconds.

The change in communication seems to be having its desired effect as well. Penelope and Jj don’t text you half as often as they used to with worries about him. The last time you went with Spencer to visit his mom, she said he was looking better. That her baby was finally getting some rest.

While he may not be getting more sleep, its quality has improved since you’ve started operation ‘comfort after nightmares’. Normally if you try to approach him after he’s woken up from a nightmare he just waves you off, sending you back to bed. So upset that even trying to touch him he’d cower slightly. It hurt seeing him so distressed.  

So after your revelation on the train, the next time you wake to him slipping out of the room after jolting awake. You follow. He’s sat on the couch, clutching his sleep shirt over his heart. Trying desperately to calm his breathing while also being quiet.

You wander around the apartment briefly. Pulling on more presentable sleepwear and grabbing shoes and socks for the both of you. Putting his shoes next to him with a pair of socks on top, before taking a seat to put on your own shoes. Spencer looks confused, almost hurt at first as he thought you were silently throwing him out, but seeing you put your own shoes on dismisses the fear.

Still confused but too scatter-minded to try and question what's going on, he pulls on his shoes as well. Both of you standing, garbing a pair of keys to get back into the apartment later and slip out into the cool night air. Spencer follows a pace behind as you lead him on a small walk. Going round the block once and when he’s still a little shaky, you head towards the park.

Spencer can still feel the restlessness in his body. His mind is jumbled from the fear as memory after memory is shoved to the front of his mind's eye clouding his judgment and perception. But the sudden walk you’ve pulled him on is slowly helping. Offering an outlet for the anxiety running up and down his spine. Sitting down on a bench you’ve chosen as his breathing is steadying out, the adrenaline slowing puttering off now.

Looking up he can make out a few constellations despite the light pollution fogging the sky slightly. Though as twilight begins to tease the sky the stars are slowly getting harder to make out. The small part of the horizon he can see leaving waves of a plum purple as the faintest rays of the sun begin to tease the sky. It must be around 4 am.

“You don’t need to be scared alone Spencer” Your voice finally breaks the quiet hum of crickets ticking in the night. His gaze met yours briefly before flickering back to his lap. “I’ll gladly be scared with you” Giving him a small nod with a knowing smile.

A moment of reassurance that he’d denied you until now. That he wasn’t willing to accept for himself until now. Slowly his hand comes out, lacing into yours as another piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is Spencer Reid finds its home with you once again.

It a few months into your new language that the foundations that kept his walls of fear up, finally begin to crumble.

The team and their spouses are all partying at Rossie’s for Emily’s birthday, but a recent recurring night terror is leaving Spencer’s already limited social batteries lower than usual. Sat out on the porch rubbing a hand over his face as the rest of the team bicker and laugh with each other. Everyone takes turns to tell their favorite story involving the birthday girl. The surround sound system littered through Rossie’s home playing smooth music that was easy to talk over but would fill the void in any conversation gaps.

The noise around him adding to his already congested mind. Everything was so damn loud.

Abandoning your drink on a small table in the doorway, your shoes make a soft tapping against the wood of the deck. Looking down at him as you approach the steps he’s sat on.

“You all partied out Spence?”

He only gives you a small grunt in return. Not being able to wound his pride enough to admit that he couldn’t be as sociable as he used to be. The scar on his leg aches with a faint pulse as memories create a disconnect from the present.

With a small smile, you make your way down into the grass of the backyard. Turning and holding your hands out to him.

Slowly with a bit of hesitation, he slips his hand into yours. Following your lead as you gently guide him down to the lawn with you. Getting a few paces away from the steps but still close enough to hear the music. Guiding one of his hands to your waist and letting that hand slide up to his shoulder. Your still connected hands now extended out to the side slightly.

Only having to take one step to the side, before he picks up on what's going on. A smile breaking through the slight pout his grumpiness had left on his face. Taking the lead as he guides the two of you through the steps of a foxtrot. Stepping to and fro with each other as you go in a small oval. Breaking apart briefly to spin you before falling back into step with each other. His own chuckle slips out as you giggle.

His boyish smile is now glued onto his features as your eyes lock together. Moving silently and with purpose as your dance slows with the music. His hand on your waist guiding you closer as the two of you fall into a soft sway. Faces inches apart as his gaze flickers over your face. Despite his identic memory he never seemed to get the image of you in his head perfect. The real deal was always better.

“I-” His voice died, actually hearing himself seemed to shake him from the small daze he’d been in. That slightly love-sick look being replaced by an awkward fear.

“Please don’t do that” You whisper looking up at him. Grateful that with your current position, he couldn’t look away easily. “I hate when you hide from me… Spencer Reid, I live every day of my life trying to find ways to hear your voice again, and again, and again." You let out a small sad laugh, "Nothing compares to it. I can't replicate it, I can't substitute it. It's my favorite sound..." The confession leads to a light burning behind your eyes.

“Please don’t keep it from me. I would do anything to hear it. To hear you.”

The emotional dam seemed to crack and break away, as tears well up in his eyes as well. Closing the distance between you as his forehead comes to rest against yours. His breathing grew shaky but he still kept the soft sway of your body's going. The tears bubble over quickly as he blinks his eyes open to look down at you.

“I love you” His slightly frogged voice whispers out.

“I know” you smile tilting your head up so that you’re nose rubs against his, “I love you more”

“Not possible”

“I guess you’ll just have to prove me wrong”

"With pleasure... I'm well versed in this topic"

.

.

.

I've been sitting on this for a while! I wrote it when I first got back into writing about 2 months ago so it definitely still feels a little rusty, but I had so much fun writing it!

I know in fandom there's a pattern in taking really emotionally damaged characters (though most of the time they are men or at least masc presenting) and shifting their characterization into hyper-dominant and cold but with a sensitive side after whatever trauma they go through. Which is definitely a way a person can change (especially after trauma) but I feel like the knob is sometimes turned up to 11 with Spencer. So this fic was really inspired by the idea of still letting his character become colder, but in what I hope to be a little bit closer to canon.

(p.s. There's nothing wrong with whatever version of Spencer you write. It's fanfiction we're all doing this to create our own fun. I read a lot of Spencer Reid and Simon "Ghost" Reily fics so I've seen a whole range of how characters like this can be written. I just get whiplash between fics sometimes and this was trying to cure that lol)

The banner was made by me! The pictures are from pintrest. The divider is from here!

Thank you for reading <3

[inreid]

underrated criminal minds duo

[inreid]

me after spending 6 hours reading criminal minds fanfiction instead of sleeping: