peachbibi

[peachbibi]

the one in which you got sick and Spencer took care of you

genre: pure unadultareted fluff

warnings: nope

a/n: i was very sick for a couple of days and that was one of my fever dreams

Was it the crop top you wore in the middle of January when you went to an art gallery with Spencer? Was it the rain that caught you by surprise and left you all soaked and shivering? Or was it the window you left open after the shower before going to bed? 

Frankly enough, you will never know. You do know that you’ve been feverish all night coughing your lungs out. Unfortunately, Spencer has been gone on the case for the last four days and you have no idea when he is coming back.

You rummage through the cupboards helplessly looking for medicine. A fruitless attempt since Spencer has a system you are not aware of. He always took care of you and it never crossed your mind to figure out where was the help coming from. It is your second year of living together and you are taking your time to figure it all out.

You give up. You are sweaty and dizzy and can’t stand on your feet for too long. As you crawl back into your bed, every muscle in your weak body starts shivering. You pull the thick duvet over your head and force yourself to fall asleep. Sleeping helps right? You are not a doctor and your limbs and eyes are too tired to google home remedies – sleep must do for now. The pillow smells like Spencer and you imagine him being in the bed with you.

A sound coming from the living room wakes you up. You slowly flutter your eyes open and do your best to sit up. The room is dark and only the street lights help your vision. Your head is heavy and it takes you a minute to realise that Spencer is here.

Spencer is here. He is standing in the doorway and you are sick and sweaty and wearing nothing but his old Caltech t-shirt and your underwear. His big brown eyes are searching your face before he drops his duffel bag to the floor and crouches next to your bed.

“Hey, are you okay?”

His big hand is like a compress on your burning forehead. You moan something in response. You hate how gorgeous he looks after a long way home.

“You should have called me. Or-or texted me. Anything! God, you are burning.” His big hand gently pushes you to lie back down.

“You should stay in bed. I take it you didn’t take any medicine”

You mumble something incoherent back. Spencers huffs and quickly disappears from your line of vision. You miss him. Tears burn your eyes because you already miss him so much. You close your eyes for a second and when you open them again he is back. There is something cool and soft pressed to your forehead. Spencer is holding a bowl of something that smells like chicken soup.

“Dearest, you need to eat something before taking any pills.”

He helps you to sit up straight and moves your hair out of your face. You sip on the chicken soup that taste like heaven.

“I made you some ginger tea with lemon and honey. And don’t scrunch your nose at me like that. I know you hate ginger but it will help to reduce inflammation and ease swelling in the respiratory tract.”

You set the empty soup bowl aside and started sipping on the tea Spencer made for you. His eyes are taking in your fragile state. You want to hug him and kiss him and take him to bed with you as if he is your teddy bear but – whether it is your weak body or you successfully fought the urge to do so – you don’t. You can’t risk getting your boy-genius sick as well.

“Take these pills and get some rest”

He offeres you two yellow tablets and you wash them down with a glass of warm water. Spencer tucks you in and kisses your forehead.

“Dont..” your voice thin and croaky.

“You will get sick” you cough as you try to explain yourself.

Spencer smiles softly and kisses you again.

“I have been in this room for more than three hours and I definitely inhaled millions of your germs. Kissing your forehead will hardly change anything now”

You cough again as you apologise.

“Please don’t. I just want you to get better. Get some rest”

With that Spencer leaves the room. Through the night you have woken up by your boyfriend who was trying to measure your temperature and make you take some medicine. Fortunately, his efforts paid off because you wake up feeling much better. Obviously, you are still sick and coughing but you can move your body without feeling like a puppet on strings.

“I’m glad you are better” Spencer smiles when you find him sitting on the edge of your bed. His hair is ruffled and he looks so homey and warm in his cotton pyjamas and glasses on.

“You should have some breakfast. I can make porridge”

He stands up but you pull him by the hand. Spencer almost falls on top of you which makes him giggle a little bit.

“I want to shower first”

He lookes at you for a second before he gives a nod with a sheepish smile

“Great, I will help you shower. A hot shower can generally provide comfort by relaxing your muscles and the steam can help soothe irritated airways and moisturize your throat and nasal passages-”

“Spencer, I am sweaty and I smell. I am so disgusting right now. I don’t think it’s a good idea”

You interrupt him all embarrassed.

“Sweetheart, you are not disgusting. There is no universe in which I find you disgusting. Plus, I don’t want to risk you passing out or slipping in the shower while you are still very sick”

He pulls you up from the bed. The sun paints his locks golden when he places his hands on your waist. Spencer smiles at you widely and nuzzles into your neck. You squeak as you try to recoil.

“You are disgusting” you joked

“Maybe I am. So, what? Shower or breakfast?”

“I will let you shower with me if you make pancakes instead”

You give him your puppy eyes and Spencer laughs

“Deal”

He kisses the tip of your nose and leads you to the bathroom by your waist.

[peachbibi]

Masterlist

I mostly write fluff (♡) or angst (☆)

Blurbs:

dating spencer reid #1 ♡

dating spencer reid #2 ♡

dating spencer reid #3 ♡

dating spencer reid #4 ♡

dating spencer reid #5 ♡

dating spencer reid #6 ♡

dating spencer reid #7 ♡

One shot:

the one in which spencer didn’t tell you about meeting his ex ☆

the one in which you got sick and Spencer took care of you ♡

[peachbibi]

sooooo sweet i might actually pass out

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

[peachbibi]

i’m just writing sickeningly sweet fluff and sometimes angst <3

Use this post to recommend me some Spencer fics/series/authors to read. You can use it a self promo too

[peachbibi]

I’ve been obsessed with Spencer Reid lately, sooo here are some head cannons abt my favorite boy genius <3

calls you old school pet names: love, darling, sweetheart, rarely calls you baby but when he does he’s either teasing you or begging you to kiss him more. his puppy eyes are lethal I swear to god (the things I would do to that man omfg.)

isn’t big on pda but loves handholding/locking pinkies: though he had to ease into it once he started being around you more as you two started dating he began to crave your touch more in anyway he could get it. Without being teased by Morgan or Emily ofc.

sends you a new poem about his love for you everyday: whether it’s whispering it softly to you as you wake up or texting it to you when he knows you’re awake.

has a thing for hair pulling: you discover this when you and Spence had your first makeout session, It started our sweet and got more intense over the passing seconds, his big soft hands coming to grip your waist as he pulled you closer to him. You let a out a soft moan before finding your hand in his messy hair, tugging ever so slightly unknowing of the almost whimper that your boyfriend would let out. “I’m sorry love, I-it just-“ silencing his worries with a kiss you reassured him. “Spence that was hot, so don’t apologize mkay?”

Remembers everything about you: it’s almost annoying how he knows when your upset, when your happy, when your horny, it’s almost almost annoying. However when his head gets in between your plush thighs your previous annoyance slowly fades away.

Reads to you before bed: even if it’s a book he’s read 15 times by now, even if he knows the content without even looking, at it he loves the peaceful feeling of your head resting against his chest. occasionally presses kisses to the top of it as he read to you about some old poet or artist. You could never remember the contents just the sweet sound of Spencer’s voice that would always pull you to sleep within 8 minutes.

Everytime you two are clearing a house/dealing with rather unstable unsub he’s always infront of you: he knows good and well you can protect yourself but he just feels safer knowing that if there is something awry you won’t be anywhere near the threat.

is the type to spend half an hour on cultivating the perfect bouquet for you: as we all know spencer doesn’t just see things on a surface level, it comes with his job to pry and look beneath it. So when getting his sweet sunshine flowers he focuses on the meaning of each one, then recalls the ones you would rant to him about on your second date. He then throws in some candies and a sweet card too just because <33

[peachbibi]

im opening my requests for any fluff or slight angst spencer moments!!

[peachbibi]

dating spencer reid #7

genre: fluff

warning: none

spencer is lying on the couch with you next to him. it’s been a hectic week for the both of you and you spent your saturday mostly doing little chores around the house and cuddling. as you press a gentle kiss on his neck, he calls your name.

“yeah?” you look up at him.

“did you know that between 40 and 60% of the european population died during the black death? but back then people referred to it as ‘the great mortality’ or ‘the great plague’.”

“is that what you are thinking about when i kiss your neck?” you smile at his unexpected rambling.

“oh, no. i just-“

you chuckle and press another kiss to his cheek now.

“it’s okay”

“i just really want to watch that documentary we talked about. and you promised me we would watch it. and then we never did, so i thought if i just start giving you small facts you might want to watch it with me but it’s okay if you don’t. i can watch it on my own”

his big brown eyes are scanning your face. you feel incredibly guilty for some reason. of course, you want to watch this documentary with him and every other documentary. you will watch anything with spencer not because it’s necessarily interesting but because he doesn’t have to do it on his own anymore. you are the only person in his life to indulge his craving for knowledge and the need to share it with the rest. you know how lonely he has been before he met you and you decided to make it your life mission to never let him feel that way again.

“i will watch it with you if you let me have your grey caltech hoodie”

he grins at you and nods.

“you can have any hoodie. actually, you can have my whole wardrobe if you want”

you look at him lovingly. he leans over and quickly kisses your cheek. not as a thank you, more as an acknowledgement of his excitement.

“can we watch it right now?” he asks, as he eagerly sits up straight, pulling you into a sitting position with him.

“of course, sunshine”

bursting with joy, spencer pushes play on the remote and wraps his arms around your waist. you lean on his chest. you can tell he’s in his learning mode with his eyes glued to the screen.

“you know, the plague doctor costume, often shown when discussing the black death, was invented in 1619, and wasn’t even around during the fourteenth century outbreak.”

you hum surprised. a big part of you thinks that he probably knows everything on the subject but it’s always fun to watch him get so pumped up. especially, when he’s trying to teach you something.

“i do know that the pandemic was called the black death because of the black spots that showed up on the skin.”

he looks down at you with an amazed expression on his face.

“what? i know stuff too”

“i love you so much”

spencer starts pressing kisses on your lips and cheeks and you giggle. you wonder if it was always a dream of his to have a girlfriend that would watch documentaries on deadly diseases with him and share some facts.

[peachbibi]

so sweeeet

genius 2.0- s.r x fem!reader

Summary: Spencer can't believe his son takes after him so much, maybe a little too much.

warnings: none :), slight implications of what Spencer went through in school

“Mom!”

You stilled your shoes off, barely able to close the door before your son, Sebastian, tackled you into a hug. “Mom!”

“Hey, bud,” you greeted, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He pulled back, his chin resting on your front as he wrapped his arms around you. “Did you know that some species of sharks can live up to 100 years?" Sebastian said, his eyes bright with curiosity.

You smiled and ruffled his hair. “I did not know that.”

He detached himself from you. “Their metabolism is really slow, so it attributes to their age.”

Spencer looked around the corner and smiled. "Hey, sweetheart. How was the parent-teacher conference?"

You placed your bag on the counter and walked over to give Spencer a quick kiss on the cheek. "It was great! Mrs. Anderson had a lot to say about Sebastian." You dropped your voice as Sebastian excused himself to wash his hands. “You and I have a lot to discuss,” you grinned.

Spencer perked up an eyebrow. He served three plates, handing two of them to you. You placed one in front of Sebastian. Throughout dinner, the father son duo liked to talk. Sebastian often had a list of topics to discuss, things that he wanted to hear his parents’ opinions on. So, the two of you answered his questions every single night while he ate with one hand and scribbled down the answers with the other.

At the end of the meal, Sebastian placed his empty plate in the sink. He washed his hands and stood behind his chair for a moment. “I’m going to go to my room.”

“Okay, bud,” Spencer smiled. “Go ahead.”

You giggled as he left, brown curls bouncing up the stairs. “He’s so much like you,” you sighed, pushing some lettuce back and forth on the plate. “I’m so lucky to have two.”

Spencer smiled softly, leaning back in his chair. "What did Mrs. Anderson say?"

"She thinks Sebastian can take an exam to skip the fifth grade. He's already reading far ahead for his age group," you explained, watching Spencer's face carefully.

Spencer began clearing the table, barely responding. "That's...impressive," he said, his voice subdued. He pointed to your plate. "Are you done?"

You nodded, watching as he left everythingin the sink while he took out the garbage. You sighed and got up to finish the dishes, the clinking of plates filling the silence. After drying your hands, you went upstairs and found Spencer in Sebastian's room, thumbing through a book while Seb arranged his toys.

"Hey," you said softly, stepping inside. "Everything okay?"

Spencer looked up, his eyes thoughtful. "Yeah, I was just thinking." He rolled out of the bed, going over to his son. "Can we talk about something?"

Sebastian turned around, leaning against his toy chest while sitting on the floor. You stood by the closet door. "Sebastian-"

"I didn't mean to break it!" He blurted, cheeks pink.

You furrowed your brows. "Break what?"

"Nothing," he lied. Surely, it wouldn't be long to find the broken item. "What are we talking about?"

You told him about the meeting, praising him for being so far ahead of his classmates. "And we were wondering how you'd feel about going straight to the sixth grade."

"Sebastian, how would you feel about skipping the fifth grade?" Spencer asked, his voice calm but his eyes watching his son intently.

Sebastian's eyes widened with excitement. "Really? I can skip a grade? That sounds amazing! I want to do it, Dad!"

Spencer nodded. "We'll set up the meeeting for you to take that test."

After saying goodnight to Sebastian and making sure he was settled, you went to your room to find Spencer sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. His shoulders were tense, and you could see he was fighting back tears.

"Spence?" you said softly, walking over and sitting beside him. "What's wrong?"

Spencer took a deep breath, his voice shaky. "I'm afraid, Y/N. I spent years being tormented. I don't want Sebastian to go through that." He sniffed. "I don't want him to grow up."

You reached out and gently lifted his chin so he could look at you. His eyes were red and glassy, filled with a pain that reached deep into his past. "Spencer, I know it was hard for you, but Sebastian has us. He has a support system that you didn't have. We'll make sure he's okay."

Spencer nodded, tears spilling over despite his efforts to hold them back. "I just want him to be happy and not have to deal with what I did. The loneliness, the bullying... It was relentless."

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. "He's going to be okay, Spence."

Spencer clung to you, his body trembling. "I remember being so excited, just like Sebastian, and then...everything changed. Kids can be so cruel, Y/N. I don’t want him to lose his spark."

You stroked his back soothingly, your heart aching for him. "We'll talk to him about what to expect, and we'll be there for him if he needs us. We can also talk to the school, make sure they’re prepared to support him too."

Spencer pulled back slightly, looking into your eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You don't have to do it without me. We're in this together, always."

Spencer nodded, a small smile breaking through his tears. "Together, always."

He leaned into your embrace, and you held him tightly, feeling the weight of his fears slowly lifting. "Sebastian is lucky to have you as a dad," you murmured. "He’s going to thrive, and we’ll make sure he’s happy and safe."

Spencer sighed, the tension easing from his body. "I just want to protect him from everything."

"I know," you said softly. "And we will. One step at a time, we’ll guide him through this. He's strong, like his dad."

Spencer chuckled softly, wiping his eyes. "He's stronger because he has you too." Spencer's breathing steadied, and he rested his head against yours. "You know, I used to think I had to do everything alone. But with you, I don't feel that way anymore. You've shown me what it means to be a team, to share the burdens and the joys."

As you both sat there, holding each other in the quiet of your room, you knew that no matter what challenges came your way, you would face them together.

[peachbibi]

the one in which spencer didn’t tell you about meeting his ex

genre: angst, fluff

warnings: silly spencer, silly reader but happy ending because i’m too soft for this

a/n: i just saw that video with mgg and his ex and got sad. honestly thought i just want him to be happy with whomever

“I don’t think that’s fair”

You stand in front of your boyfriend, trying your best to understand why he acts the way he does. Although, it’s been almost twenty minutes since you started this conversation. Annoyance mixed with pain and confusion are spreading through your chest like ivy.

“What do you mean it’s not fair?”

Spencer looks bewildered. As if you aren’t speaking the same language he does. As if he doesn’t understand how his actions make you feel.

“I mean what I said, Spencer. You are not being fair” you grit through your teeth.

Deep breaths. You try to look at the clouds through the kitchen window; soft and white they are drifting in the sky. Look anywhere but his face because you are sure you will start crying pretty soon.

“I just went for a coffee with friends”

You leave an exasperated sigh, almost choking on it. The way he said it so nonchalantly and simply it breaks your heart. Your eyes search his face for any sign of delusion.

“She is not just a friend Spencer. You dated for three years. You wanted to propose!”

“I didn’t plan to see her that day. She just joined us for a coffee. I don’t understand why you are getting so angry about it.”

Because he didn’t tell you. Because he came home after work acting as if nothing happened. Because you love him so much sometimes it scares you. The fact that he loved his ex enough to propose makes something small and ugly churn at the pit of your stomach.

“Im not angry. Im upset because I found out about this from Penelope and-”

“Your face is flushed, nostrils flared and you are clenching your fists. You are clearly angry”

“Don’t profile me!”

“Technically, it’s not profiling since you are not a criminal and you didn’t commit any-“

He’s rambling with his brows stitched together. His hands are moving as if he’s explaining something so simple only you can’t understand. You can hear ringing in your ears. It’s getting harder to breathe.

“No, stop it. I can’t talk to you anymore”

You dismiss him and bolt towards your bedroom. His bedroom. You shut the door and let your body collapse on the floor. With your knees pressed tight to your chest and your back pressed to the wooden floor you finally let yourself cry. For some reason, it was always difficult for you to cry in front of Spencer when you were arguing. You would feel defeated. Now, hot tears are streaming down your cheeks as you think about the conversation you had earlier in your relationship. How he was in love with his ex girlfriend and how he even bought the ring. How she broke his heart by the phone. How he was scared to fall in love again because of how damaging the whole experience was for him. How he struggled to open up. You wipe your wet face when you hear a hesitant knock.

“Hey…Can we talk?”

Spencer’s voice is soft and full of warmth and you just hate the way he affects you. The way he makes your heart jump out of your chest, beat rhythmically with his own, squeeze so tightly it hurts.

“Depends” you sniff.

“I apologise”

You stand up and open the door. Even though you try your best to look cold and distant, you look wounded and lost.

“Oh, angel..”

You can see his hand twitch at the sight of your red eyes.

“You should have told me”

“I know. I panicked. I honestly didn’t know she would want to sit with us and then Derek-“

“But you understand why I’m upset?”

His eyes are big brown circles. Like a deer in the field he is watching you.

“I think?”

“Spence, you were so in love you wanted to get married. The fact that you tried to hide that you met up with her is so…painful”

Vision is getting blurry and you start blinking rapidly. Spencer just stares at you. Silence is so loud you can’t bear it.

“You think I have feelings for her”

He finally speaks. You don’t say anything because you’re not sure. Do you? Your gaze falls to the ground. Spencer makes a step towards you. His big palms reach behind your back. Your face is pressed to his chest and you feel helpless.

“I’m so sorry, angel. There’s no one else but you. You know that. I need you to know that. I love you so much. Please, tell me you know that. The only reason I didn’t tell you is because I didn’t want to upset you and I understand now that I was wrong and stupid and you deserved to know”

Spencer kisses the top of your head and rubs your back.

“Nothing happened. I swear. Derek and Penelope were there and they can confirm that. She just joined us for a coffee and left. Please, forgive me for not telling you straight away”

He pulls away to take a look at you. You know he is telling the truth. You know that there’s a part of you that feels a little insecure but that’s not his fault. Spencer never did anything to make you doubt him. He was always so caring and loving and attentive that it’s easy for you to believe that he just wanted to protect your feelings.

“You are the only one I want”

He kisses your forehead and you melt. More tears are pouring down your face but mostly because of how overwhelmed you feel. How much love and even relief you feel after his words. Spencer brushes the tears away with his thumbs.

“Please, don’t cry. I don’t know what else to do. If you want me-“

“No, I believe you. I just…I love you so much it’s scary sometimes”

Spencer smiles and plants a sweet kiss on your lips.

“I know exactly how you feel”

You pull him into another kiss. A more sensual one. The desperation and need to feel him right now is so intense you just want to drown in him. Good thing that he indulges you.

[peachbibi]

dating spencer reid #6

you comfort spencer after he had a nightmare

genre: fluff

warnings: none

you wake up from a sudden movement next to you. it takes you a moment before you open your eyes to the darkness of the room. the spot on the bed next to you is empty. there’s a sound of water running, coming from the kitchen. you shuffle there while rubbing your eyes.

spencer is standing by the sink with a glass of water. deep dark circles settled under his eyes. it happens to him sometimes. nightmares. side affect of his job.

“you okay?” you try to read his face with your sleepy eyes. he gives you a small smile and nods.

“i’m fine. you should go back to sleep. i’ll join you soon”

instead, you come closer to him and wrap your arms around his waist. you let your head press to his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

“can’t sleep without you” you mumble. you raise your head and look up at him. at his tired eyes.

“another nightmare?”

“another nightmare” spencer rests his chin on the top of your head. you do your best not to drift away in his arms.

“tell me” you try.

spencer gently pulls away to look at you. he rubs his face and presses his forehead to yours.

“please” you try again.

“in my dream there’s a baby in the middle of a circle and there’s someone on the other side and I can’t get to her before I…”

his breath hitches and you put your hands on his face. you kiss the tip of his nose. and then his forehead. spencer pulls you into a tight hug so he can bury his face in your neck. he breathes in your smell and it seems to calm him down a bit.

“it’s okay, sunshine. it’s just a dream” you murmur as you brush his hair. you stay like this for a moment. under the yellow light standing on the tiled kitchen floor, he hugs you like his life depends on it.

“thank you”

spencer kisses your cheek and takes your hand in his. when you are back in your bed, cuddling under the covers, you let spencer ramble on about his favourite type of dinosaurs. you listen to him intently as you lie on his chest. spencer yawns and finally falls asleep. you are happy because tomorrow is his day off and you can have a lazy morning.

i just want this man to be happy :c i need to comfort him

[peachbibi]

dating spencer reid #5

technically, it is his turn to choose what you are going to watch tonight. despite the fact that you love how versatile spencer is, sometimes you just don’t feel like watching a documentary about the black death outbreak. you sit up on the couch and look at spencer who is holding a remote control.

“what if i answer a science related question? can we watch a horror movie instead?” you give him puppy eyes.

“any science related question?”

spencer looks at you wide eyed. it is a wild proposal because you know nothing about sciences. your knowledge of physics and chemistry is a long forgotten piece of information. anyway, you nod.

“okay… who’s the father of modern biology?” he moves closer to you and grins.

“mendeleev?” you ask.

spencer chuckles and shakes his head.

“nope. try again, baby”

“but like aren’t you impressed I know who mendeleev is?” you are trying to score some points. you only know his name because of his periodic table.

“i am incredibly impressed, but that’s not the point. want a hint?”

you nod again. you can see that twinkle in your boyfriend’s eyes. he is clearly enjoying it.

“think of something every species went through”

spencer’s hand is on your knee and it’s distracting. his smile is also distracting. the fact that he is wearing his pyjamas and you can see his collarbones is very distracting.

“evolution?” you hesitate.

“right, and who discovered it? the father of the modern biology, baby”

he squeezes your knee and kisses your cheek as a reward. his other hand is tracing patterns on your arm. all you can hear is the beating of your own heart.

“robert hooke” you just shoot the first name that comes to mind.

“close, he’s the father of cytology, not biology.”

spencer chuckles before leaning in and planting a kiss on your jaw. with each answer his voice drops a bit and turns smooth like honey.

“i-i give up” you are trying to breathe steadily. trying not to think about how you just want to kiss him.

“charles darwin” he whispers to your ear.

spencer’s face is so close to yours. you stare at his perfect lips. spencer’s eyes are dark and enticing and you can’t hold yourself any longer. you press your lips to his and he reciprocates the kiss pulling closer to him. it’s safe to say you didn’t watch a documentary about black death that evening

i have no general knowledge of any science

[peachbibi]

dating spencer reid #4

you get overwhelmed and spencer calms you down

you come home from work earlier than you normally do. all because you were feeling so overwhelmed or even overstimulated. everything was just too much and too fast for you. although, being back at spencer’s apartment was making you feel a bit better. you took off your shoes with your hands slightly shaking. for some reason you wanted to cry so much.

suddenly you heard the bathroom door open. spencer came out dressed in his home clothes and a robe, his hair damp. he must’ve came back from a case earlier than expected. he immediately noticed your watery eyes.

“what’s wrong, angel?”

you just shook your head in response because you were sure you would start crying if you tried to speak. spencer pulled you into a gentle hug. your head pressed to his chest. your breathed in his smell so comforting. spencer was gently rubbing your back.

“did someone upset you?” he tried again.

“no, i’m just feeling overwhelmed,” you whispered.

he kissed the top of your head.

“it’s okay. it’s fine it happens when the brain and nervous system are exposed to more information than they can process at one time. Neurons in the brain work by creating electrical signals that transmit information from one neuron to-”.

tears involuntarily started rolling down your cheeks.

“im sorry. im not making it better. i will shut up,” he panicked a little and hugged you tighter.

you shook your head. his rambling was such a familiar thing for you that it wasn’t harmful. the sound of his voice was soothing.

“can we cuddle on the couch?” you sniffed.

“of course, sweetheart”.

you both shuffled to the big brown couch. Spencer pulled you on his lap wrapping his arms around your body. he kissed your temple and wiped away your tears. you sat like that for as long as it took for you to calm down. just listening to his steady breathing.

[peachbibi]

dating spencer reid #3

his kisses are usually soft and gentle with his big hands on your face. spencer smells like fresh laundry and books and home. he is so attentive with the way he touches you. with they way his lips move over yours. when he feels your tongue on his lower lip he kisses you harder. more desperate. his tongue pushing into your mouth and brushing against yours. he lets a low moan against your lips, the sound vibrating through his own mouth. spencer pulls you on his lap and kisses you again and again and it’s getting messy. his hands are everywhere now pinning you down by your waist. spencer loves when you brush your fingers through his hair and gently tug. he practically whimpers.

and im practically dead

[peachbibi]

i would make it my life’s mission to make him feel loved and appreciated

i want him so bad. and not even in a sexual way. i just want him to lay his head on my chest while i play with his hair. i want him to ramble on about the most random things like "did you know kangaroos have three vaginas?" and i'd soak up every single word this man says. i'm so down bad for this little nerd. please please please, i want to be able to love him. LORD IF YOU ARE LISTENING ANSWER MY PRAYERS 🛐

[peachbibi]

dating spencer reid #2

you wake up because of the sudden sound of the front door being opened and closed. you struggle to open your eyes and see that the sun is up but it’s a grey morning. the clock on the bedside table shows 5:35. spencer enters the room and by his tired eyes and disheveled look you can tell it’s been a long flight back. it’s a common thing for him to travel around the country and come back home to you in his bed. ‘i’m sorry i woke you up’ he shuffles closer to you. you shake your head dismissively. you’re happy he did. you gently pull him down to your face level by his long tie and press your lips to his. you can feel him smiling. his big hands cover your face as he proceeds to kiss you softly. ‘i missed you’ he whispers in your lips. ‘i missed you too’ you answer and steal another kiss. ‘i need to shower’ he pulls away and you groan disappointed. he chuckles as he disappears to the bathroom. a couple of hours later you wake up with spencer’s chest pressed to your back. your legs tangled under the sheets. he changed into his pyjama pants and a caltech t-shirt. his arms hugging you by your waist and the room is filled with sounds of your slow breathing.

[peachbibi]

dating spencer reid #1

you love his rambling. of course, you do. he’s the sweetest guy ever and you could listen to his non-stop talk every day but sometimes you are just too tired. it’s raining outside and you have a headache. he is sitting on your couch in his silly vest and mismatched socks and you can’t bring yourself to tell him to stop talking. because how can you? so, instead you grab his face and start planting small kisses all over it. starting with a kiss on the tip of his nose which leaves him wide eyed and finally silent. as you kiss his cheeks and his forehead, you can tell he is flustered but he is smiling. eventually, he pulls you into a hug and you bury your face in his neck. that is the best way anyone tried to shut me up he thinks.

i decided to start writing down these little “dating spencer reid” prompts just because i think about him so much. i usually imagine early seasons spencer but i think it can be applied to any season honestly.

[peachbibi]

No, cause if it happened with me I would be so convinced I died and went to heaven because dancing with him to A B B A!!!!

GUYS OMG

He’s so fun I love him sm

Ashamed to admit this made me cry