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petrichoravis · 8 days ago

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Eternal Return. | s.r.

summery: you and Spencer have very different definitions of love.

word count: 2,6k

what to expect: spencer reid x reader, toxic relationship, gn!reader but written with fem!r in mind, mention of wanting to be hit, angst, reader is drunk for one millisecond, addiction but not of any substance but more as a metaphor, anger, fighting, suggestive towards the end but no smut, situationship needs its own warning, English is not my first language.

songs that inspired this fic: strangers - ethel cain, vortex - lizzy mcalpine, loving you will be the death of me - tom odell , limerence - lucy dacus

a/n: if you’ve seen this before, no you haven’t

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intro

When you look up the definition of the word eternal, many definitions will be presented to you.

One of them will be, that the word can be used to emphasize expressions of admiration, gratitude.

Another result will tell you that eternal can mean that something seems to last or persist forever, especially on account of being tedious or annoying.

Two things that seemed so opposing, that have the same name, but mean different things.

chorus

The neon lights made the glitter on your collarbone shine as you moved effortlessly around the dance floor. You felt truly alive for the first time in months.

A guy was eying you from across the club with hungry eyes, a girl was drooling, frozen in place as she watched your movements. God, it felt good to be hungered for, to be lusted after.

Spencer watched you, too, from where he leaned against the wall furthest from the dance floor. His eyes were always respectful, always so soft. He would never look at you like that. And as much as you knew this was hurting him, you just wanted it rougher, harder.

Both of you have been through your game enough to know how this would end, but it didn’t stop you from hoping that this time would be different every time.

Right now his eyes were sad, with his brows furrowed as he watched you dance with another guy.

You let the stranger’s hand wander lower this time, in hopes of pushing Spencer to the finality of his restraint. You wanted him to come over and rip the guy off of you. You wanted to be a possession.

But because Spencer was lovely, kind hearted Spencer, he watched from the sidelines as you moved your hips and let the guy kiss your neck.

It wasn’t that he didn’t hate what you were doing, he wanted to tell you to stop, to make you leave. It just simply didn’t feel like his place. He wasn’t confrontational—funny, given his job—especially not with you.

You got bored of the guy soon after and excused yourself to get another drink. It was Spencer’s opportunity to get you home.

Bumping into the people around him as he made his way towards you didn’t phase him at all, too focused on getting to you before you placed your order.

“I think you’ve had enough, love.” He whispered softly as he reached you. His hand caught on the small of your back.

“Doctor.” You slurred a little as you turned towards him. A seductive smirk adorned your lips. “I didn’t know you were here too.”

You came here together, but it felt like an unnecessary thing to mention in this moment.

“Yeah. Come on, let’s get you home.” He apologised to the bartender for the inconvenience of having to make a drink that won’t be needed and payed for it regardless.

A whine left your mouth as he wrapped an arm around your torso and pulled you out of the club. “You’re such a spoilsport.”

“You will thank me tomorrow.”

“I doubt it. That guy was really hot.”

The pause you make let Spencer know that you were waiting for a reaction, but he refused to give it to you.

Prison changed Spencer, not in the good ways, either. He learned to be violent, to be harsh, to take a punch and hand out one that hurts twice as bad. But he refused to take it out on you.

He led you to his car, opening the door and buckling you in when you were seated. When he rounded the car and got inside, you had already unbuckled the seatbelt again.

“Don’t do that, it’s dangerous.” He scowled.

“No, it’s not. It’s more fun like that.” You grinned at him.

“Fun?” He asked, his voice raising a little. It was getting harder to restrain himself. “You think it’s fun to become a Projectile? To be thrown from the car or shaken up within it, potentially dying?”

The harshness of his voice only made your eyes gleam. It was exactly what you wanted, a reaction from the usually so composed Spencer Reid.

“No,” you said with the tone that one would say dummy, “the risk of it is fun.”

Spencer’s hands clenched around the stirring wheel, closing his eyes and taking a seen breath to calm down he manages to reply without a trace of anger in his voice. “Well, we’re not driving home until you’re safe.”

You blew a breath out of your nose, but moved to reach for the seatbelt. “Fine. But like I said, spoilsport. You could really loosen up a little, Doctor.”

Choosing not to engage further, Spencer started the car. The drive was quiet and you occasionally threatened to open the window and let your head hang out to fight this boredom.

You sobered up a little on the drive, the water he always kept in his car and fresh air clearing your head.

When you arrived at your place, Spencer parked the car and got out without a comment. You thought you had almost done it, pushed him far enough, until he opened your side of the car and helped you out.

“God, you’re unbearably kind, you know that?”

“There is no such thing as too much kindness.”

You knew he ment it, too, and that just made you want to push him more, to make him break through his carefully crafted facade of gentlemanliness.

Sadly, you didn’t think it was a facade, he was truly just good.

He further proved it when he knelt down in front of you to untie your shoes as you entered your apartment. It was clear that he was mad, his silence spoke volumes where his usual ramblings should be, but he still took his time to ensure your comfort.

“Hit me, Spencer,” you said almost calmly. You almost sounded like you were begging for it. “Come on, I know you want to.”

“I would never hit you, you know that.” He said, taking off your shoe. His voice shook a little with the energy he had to invest into holding back his emotions.

He refused to put even a finger on you in those situations. He will always refuse. But it was enough, for a while you were sated by the quiet flame of anger in his eyes, by his clenching fists and need to leave the room. But not for long. Not today.

“But why? It would help you get the anger out. I’m sure you have statistics on that.” You pushed on.

“I’m not angry at you.” The muscle at his jaw ticked as he took your other shoe off, placing them onto the shoe rack.

You scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

He stood, then, closing his eyes to take a deep breath. He didn’t say anything else when he opened his eyes to look at you.

Spencer didn’t hate you, it would be easier if he did. He loved you so much that he would give you everything of himself, even if it would kill him. But he would not harm you.

The worst part was that he knew it might cost him you.

You looked up at him with siren-like eyes that almost made him get back onto his knees and give you everything you wanted.

No, that wasn’t right. He wouldn’t be giving you what you wanted, would he? He would give you what he wanted you to want. Tender love, worship.

But it wasn’t what you wanted and it wasn’t fair to both of you.

Still, Spencer’s love for you was strong enough to take it and he would gladly, for being in your life was all he wanted, to be able to love you the way you deserved to be.

He watched you watch him and saw himself in the reflection of your eyes. Like the repeating mirror effect. A good metaphor for your relationship, he thought.

“It’s late, we’re both tired.” He said quietly, the exhaustion of the night catching up with him. “Just come to bed and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

You just rolled your eyes, your feed stayed anchored in the same place. “Come on. You must be mad at me.”

Spencer’s jaw clenched and he looked at you. Really looked at you. Looked at you like he hated you, despised you. Like he would rather be anywhere else but here with you.

A sigh left his mouth as he closed his eyes to calm himself down again, but you wouldn’t give him a chance.

You just smirked, you had him where you wanted him. “He was all over me Spencer and I let him, I would’ve let him kiss me if you didn’t interfere. I would’ve let him do more, honestly. His hands felt so good—”

“Stop!” A bang as Spencer hit the wall with his flat hand. “Stop.” This time he said it as if he was in pain instead of seething with anger. His face didn’t look like he was full of hate anymore, the ugly emotion he never wanted to feel in relation with you was replaced by remorse.

“Yes,” he started, his voice cracking a little. He couldn’t look at you. “I am angry. Of course I hated his hands on you. I wanted to…” a shuddering breath, as if he couldn’t believe his thoughts. “But just because we’re…it doesn’t give me the right to pull him off of you, if him all over you is what you wanted.”

There is a short moment of silence where both of you debated what to say, thought about where this conversation would end. If this was the end, the push too far.

Stepping closer to him, you said, “What if I wanted you rip him off of me?” You were back to being sweet, now that you had gotten what you wanted from him. Sultry and smooth as you looked up at him through your lashes.

“Then you have a very wrong picture of me.” He mumbled, looking at you, then. All he saw in your eyes was the satisfaction of pushing him to express his anger. And as much as it made him feel wrong, a sick part of himself enjoyed playing push with you. (No pull, he would never pull.)

“Maybe,” you purred. Of course you saw that part of him, too, even in the dim lighting of the hallway in which he thought he was hiding so well. “Maybe I know you better than you know yourself.”

Another step closer to him and his hands went to your waist automatically. It reminded you why you stayed despite your differences. Even the worst people—the ones who claimed to be indifferent to phrase and worship—wanted to feel like gods from time to time.

Spencer said nothing, his gaze never leaving you. His eyes searched your face for any sign of remorse, but he wouldn’t find any, he’s been here often enough to know that he shouldn’t hope. But nothing was stronger than a hurt persons longing.

He just saw satisfaction and lust. You had been given what you wanted and now you were greedy for more. You had gotten a taste of blood.

Spencer was too aware of the fact that you weren’t a good person and every time he would bring you up in a conversation with Penelope or any other team member, they would reinforce that statement.

But how could he listen to them? It’s not like he fell in love with your goodness. It’s not like he was goodness impersonated either, so how could he fault you for it?

“Let’s go to bed.” You murmured seductively, you lifted up one of your hands to brush along his stomach over his shirt and, with satisfaction, felt his muscles clenched under your touch.

He let you lead him to your bed, then, let you push him down onto it.

His gaze never left you from where he sat, watching you as a strap of your tank top slipped off your shoulder. You made a show out of climbing onto his lap, all seductive and confident. Your knees on either side of his hips as you finally sat down.

You grinned down at him, kissing his cheek, his jaw. Spencer gave a soft breath and closed his eyes.

This was like an addiction, every time he swore he wouldn’t do this again, he already knew that he would give into it at the slightest temptation. He simply didn’t have the willpower to deny something that felt so good.

One of your hands cradled the back of his head, letting your fingers weave through his soft curls. Until you his pulled his hair to tip his head back. Spencer’s mouth opened in another soft gasp, this one closer to a moan.

You leaned down to capture his lips between yours and his head went silent. He had no time to be ashamed of what he did in the hallway, no time to be angry when your tongue licked his lips like it was right now.

Big hands on your hips, holding onto you like you might slip away. You groaned into each other’s mouth as you rocked together, clothes wearing thinner until they were in piles on the floor, heavy breaths forming clouds in the air.

He wanted to resist you, tell you that this was a bad idea. Connecting sexual acts with anger could reinforce a cycle of conflict and intimacy is what he would say if he could remember how to speak. But he couldn’t and what did it matter now, anyway? That cycle had long been closed and whether or not he gave into you one more time doesn’t make a difference now.

I won’t give in the next time it comes to this, he promised himself.

Spencer’s body sighed your name as he let himself fall back onto your bed, the shape of him on the mattress welcomed him back as you climbed on top of him.

Who wouldn’t choose the devil they knew over the heaven they didn’t when the devil looked this beautiful?

outro

Both of you would take this moment as a victory. Spencer got to worship and love you tonight. Tell you, you were the most beautiful person he has come across in his short life on this planet.

And you would take it as a victory to have watched him break, hit the wall and look at you as if he wanted it to be you instead.

The next week, like every week, you would repeat this play. Both of you would always end up back with the other again and Spencer would always promise himself that this time would be the last.

But there will not be a last time, not in quite some time.

You would always find him in the right moment (or the wrong moment, if you will, it were his weakest moments that you seemed to be able to smell like a hound). In a bar or a club, maybe even in his apartment this time, the location didn’t matter.

Because you wanted the hurt, the raw skin, the taste of blood in your mouth. You wanted the part of love that kills. But you wanted it from Spencer.

And he wanted the nurturing kind of love. The one where there is trust, fleeting touches of fingertips against soft skin, kisses that feel like spring, a bed for two. But he wanted it with you.

The Eternal Return of two people who wanted to love the other, but had two very different definitions of the term. It’s not their fault that there is one word that encompasses so many different meanings.

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petrichoravis · 8 days ago

Text

So in love. | s.r.

★ read PART ONE here

summery: you and Spencer finally talk it out, over oranges and bandages.

word count: 3k

what to expect: ex!spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, mention of a bullet wound and wound water, fluff, angst?, hurt/comfort, reader has hair, this also accidentally turned into a little bit of a spencer character study? don’t know how that happened, spencelle implication because I love them!! slow moments and not much happening besides them trying to navigate their relationship. English is not my first language.

a/n: you asked, so I shall deliver!! ex!reader and spencer kissing and talking it out (totally did not consider making this super angsty and letting them stay broken up🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️)

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Something tickled Spencer’s nose. In the haze of being half asleep, he swatted it away.

A groan startled him awake completely.

When he opened his eyes and was met with your sleepy face, he realized that it had been your hair that woke him. The feeling of your head under his nose, a feeling he wasn’t used to anymore.

For a moment, he was in the blissful state of disremembrance. His body remembered the moment and filed it away as something familiar and safe.

Until it all came crashing down on him, like the rain knocking against the window—your window, your apartment. Your bed that he was in. The smell of you engulfed him and softened the punch of the memories coming back.

You and Spencer were broken up, had been for a while. You had coped with it through anger.

Then, slowly, everything that had happened yesterday came back. A bullet had grazed your arm. The thought made him sit up abruptly. The frown on your face told him that you had misread his worry as regret.

“How is your arm?” He asked gently.

Sitting up too, you replied, “Yeah, it’s okay. I don’t feel it anymore—in a good way.”

Your voice was still raspy from sleep. Spencer didn’t realise how much he had missed the sound of it. There was something about having you in the morning—before your brain was awake enough to put on a performance—that made him fall in love with you deeper every time he was blessed to experience it.

He reached out carefully, giving you space to pull back. “Can I look at it?”

When you didn’t pull back but gave him a hesitant nod, his fingertips grazed your arm carefully, unwrapping the bandage. His eyes flickered up to your face every few seconds to check that you were comfortable.

The fabric finally slipped from your arm to reveal the wound. “Does air feel good on it? Or is it uncomfortable?”

“It’s good.” You mumbled.

“Lov—” He stopped himself before the slip-up was fully formed. “Can you please be honest with me?”

The words made you flinch even though they were said softly, without any malice. Spencer thought he had an idea why.

(“Do you even still love me?”

Silence. Nothing but the ringing in your ears.

“Spencer, can you please be honest with me?”)

“I am. It does feel okay.” You sighed. A few hours ago, you would’ve snapped at him for questioning you, but the fight had left you, and anger finally gave way to hurt and exhaustion. “I’m being honest.”

(“No, you’re not, Spencer. I can tell.”

“I just don’t know if this is the right thing for us right now.”)

Spencer watched you for a moment longer, trying to figure you out, then he stood up from the bed without another word. His footsteps faded until you were alone in the bed, next to the shape of him in your bed that you thought you had rid yourself of.

Spencer flipped the switch of your bathroom light. The medicine case was still under the sink, so he took it from its place carefully. In the kitchen, he filled a bowl with water and searched for a cloth.

When he came back into your bedroom, you were still where he had left you, staring into space. “I don’t know why I asked you that when I knew I wouldn’t want to hear the answer.”

He set the bowl on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. “It was a valid question. You had the right to know.”

“You never let me know, though.” You directed your eyes to his face.

“I—Can we talk about this later? I want to make sure your wound is clean and healing well first.”

“Fine,” You agreed reluctantly.

Of course he’d dodge the question for a second time, why would he not?

“But don’t think I’ll let you off the hook this time.” Your eyes shone with the promise. Or threat, Spencer couldn’t tell.

“Wouldn’t dare,” he said without protest, and started to unpack the first aid kit.

“Wait, not on the bed.” You stopped him with a hand over his. Spencer’s eyes stuck to the sight like glue, and he swallowed before humming noncommittally. You weren’t sure if he registered what you said, so you added, “I don’t want any exudate on my sheets.”

Spencer tried not to smile at your choice of words. He had been the one to teach you the medical term for wound water.

“Okay.” He nodded, his eyes finding yours.

He led the way to the bathroom with familiarity.

You hopped onto the counter of your bathroom—not without Spencer scowling you for putting too much weight on your arm, to which you replied with a roll of your eyes and a sarcastic, “It’s just a bullet graze, not a broken bone.”

Spencer shook his head, but you could see his lips twitch with the effort of holding back a smile.

He dipped the cloth into the water and patted it softly along the skin outside of your wound, removing first the blood that had stained your skin.

You watched his face and hand alternately. You were so distracted by the creases of his face, the brown of his eyes as their whole attention was on you, that you didn’t notice he had applied rubbing alcohol to the piece of fabric and begun to clean the wound.

“Fuck, couldn’t you be a little rougher? It doesn’t hurt enough already. A warning would’ve been nice.” You gritted out through clenched teeth.

It wasn’t so much the pain that made you snap at him, but the embarrassment of having caught yourself admiring your ex-boyfriend. Who you very much made a point of fighting with for the better part of this year.

“Snapping at me won’t make this hurt any less.” Spencer frowned at you.

He would tell you that he was being the gentlest he could be in this situation, but that sensitizing a wound hurt because the pressure and moment could irritate the injury, and that the antiseptics interact with pain receptors, which caused the burning sensation.

Instead, he lessened the pressure as much as he could.

You blew a breath out of your nose in exasperation, but refrained from speaking further.

“I’m almost done,” he assured you with a soft murmur, subsequently wrapping the bandage around your arm. “Too tight?”

With a shake of your head you denied his concerned question. “It’s okay.”

You tried to swallow down the bile of snarky comments that festered in your mouth, Spencer could tell. By the way your jaw muscles twitched and your fingers were wringing themselves into knots.

But he knew it was only a defensive wall that you had built to keep him from hurting you again.

He wanted nothing more than to take your hand into his, kiss you, and tell you that he would endure even those if it meant spending time with you. But he knew it would be a dysfunctional thing to say and a foundation for a second try that was destined to crumble.

Spencer busied himself with packing the supplies away while you stayed frozen in your seat on the countertop.

After putting everything away and soaking the bloodied cloth into cold water, he suggested going into the kitchen to eat, and you agreed too quickly, happy to have something else to do than watch him know your apartment by heart.

“What do you have?” He asked, entering the room.

“Cornflakes, but they might be stale. Forgot to close them properly before we got called in.” You fished the package from the cabinet and a cornflake from it before crushing it with your teeth. “Yep, definitely stale.”

A laugh escaped him at the scrunch of your nose. It felt almost normal, but a kind of false sense of normalcy. Like having to ask someone an important question after having an unresolved argument.

Both of you were dancing around the real conversation you should be having.

“I also have oranges?”

“And they’re not putrid?” He asked sceptically with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t think they are.”

Spencer reached for one at the same time that you did. For the smallest moment, you let your hands stay touching, yours around the fruit, Spencer’s fingertips brushing against your knuckles.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his hand away as if you had given him a delayed shock. “They look okay.”

His words were an invitation for you to let the moment pass without any awkwardness, but you chose to ignore them. It was like the touch had given you the courage to face the conversation.

Spencer’s touch tended to have that effect on you.

“Can we cut this short? Please, just answer the question. Be honest, did or did you not still love me when we broke up?” You blurted out as you turned to face him with a shyness that was so unlike you when you were with him. Perhaps shyness was the wrong word. Alethophobia seemed more fitting. The fear of the truth.

For a guy with a high IQ and a very big vocabulary, Spencer was stumped on how to answer. Of course he loved you, but when had love ever been enough? It didn’t save his mother from her schizophrenia getting worse and worse day by day. It didn’t stop his father from leaving, didn’t prevent Gideon from leaving Spencer that letter. Elle, it didn’t make her stay either, did it?

Love wasn’t enough, but he wished it to be when it came to you. And for the first time, whoever was in charge of his happiness listened to his desperate pleas.

Until something else seemed not to be enough.

He wasn’t Derek Morgan—muscles and charm, he wasn’t Aaron Hotchner—intimidating and protective. He was Spencer Reid—intelligent and…he couldn’t think of a second word that was synonymous to him. All of his life, that was what he was, an aberrational kind of smart. But that didn’t pull the ladies, did it?

But something about Spencer Reid—his stupid rambles, his nonexistent charisma, his social unawareness, awkward, lanky Spencer—made you fall in love with him, he tried to tell himself.

Was that enough to make you stay? Asked another, crueler voice in his head.

It was a never-ending story of wanting that made his love dishonest. It made him chase what he thought would be enough until he overlooked what really was. And in the end, it made him not enough.

The cases had gotten more, and with them grew the tension in your relationship. You had gotten more reckless in hopes of making Spencer care, and he stopped showing you care as a result of his worry.

It was a spiral that led to the fight that day.

He thought breaking up would be the best decision, with the cases putting stress on your relationship. He had never been this wrong.

“Of course I still loved you,” He said because it was true, and the rest seemed ineffable. So instead, he took the orange from your hands and began peeling it whilst telling himself it was purely for the comfort of having something to do with his hands. (You hated the sticky feeling of orange juice on your hands.)

There were so many questions you wanted to ask. All of them, you knew the answer to.

You had broken up because the stress had gotten unmanageable, together or apart, but the only way to loosen the knot was to cut the rope. You didn’t stay friends because you simply weren’t friends. You were here right now because you still loved each other.

“Why didn’t you answer the question on the day?” You asked because it was the only question you had no answer to. Your eyes were fixed on his hands peeling the orange.

“It didn’t really matter in the moment, did it?” He said onerously.

“I guess not.”

Silence, only filled by the clattering of plates as you gave one to Spencer, and a quiet mumble of thanks from him.

He hands you the plate filled with the orange peeled into slices.

You clear your throat and put the plate on the table in front of you. “Share it with me?”

He knew that you knew what you were doing. You had talked to him about symbolisms, one quiet night when neither of you could sleep. About what it meant to share an orange.

It was a peace offering, an ‘apology accepted’, subtle enough to go ignored in case he had forgotten or didn’t want the acceptance.

But he never did. Never would, not about you or all the things you said to him. They were ingrained somewhere deep in his neocortex.

And he would always want your forgiveness.

“Yeah,” he replied, sitting down first. You followed his lead, sitting opposite him.

For a moment, you just ate, just existed in the moment of quiet understanding, but Spencer had to be sure that you actually knew.

“I love you now, if that’s the real question.” He said carefully. He wasn’t one to read social queues perfectly, and he wasn’t sure if that’s what you were leading up to. But he wanted it to be this, wanted to get it off his chest, anyway.

You looked up at him from the lice you had been surgically dissecting. “I know.” You said with a kind of reticence. “I know.” You said a second time, more to yourself than to him.

Spencer nodded. He was glad that you knew; it was all he hoped for.

It was hard to find a way to move on from this. Neither of you seemed to like the option of staying just friends, but the doorstep of the conversation that could lead to a second try seemed too big to overcome.

You only spoke when you were washing the plate, handing it to Spencer for him to dry it. An activity that was as simple as wanting to be helpful, but shared between two people with a history, it became a heavy anachronism.

“I do, too.” You sighed, turning to face him so your right hip was pressed to the counter. “But we both know that it wasn’t the reason we broke up. Unrequited love. If anything, it was the opposite.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed, his throat burning from the sour juice of the orange or the agreement, he didn’t know. “But we’re wiser now, we could—stand a chance. What you said to Theodore—you said that his mother couldn’t be mad forever, that she just wants him in her life, and I thought…maybe you were…”

Spencer took his time drying the plate, longer than it needed tending to, but his fingers needed something to busy themselves with.

“I was.” You confirmed quietly. “It’s hard, Spence.” You watched him perk up as you spoke the nickname. “I want to be with you, but it—I can’t do this again.”

With a gesture between the two of you, you confirmed that you meant the tension, the fights, the heartbreak.

“I don’t want that either. Can’t that be enough? That we want to try again?” He set the plate into its original place and turned to you.

“I hope so. I want it to be enough.”

“Then can we try?” Spencer took a bold step towards you, his left hand found the counter’s edge. Both of you now facing each other.

“Spence, nothing about our circumstances changed. We’re still FBI agents who definitely do not have normal working hours.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, no, definitely not.” His smile wore off quickly. “So, what? We just keep our distance? Like we did before?”

You hesitated. It was definitely not what you wanted either. God, why was it so difficult to just say no to him? Why couldn’t you be strong enough to carry the best for both of you through?

The hesitance in your eyes was enough for Spencer. It made him bolder to know you wanted this as much as he did.

“I’m not trying to pressure you into this,” he said softly. “I just want you to know how I feel. I think me not letting you know what I was thinking was half the reason why we didn’t work out.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think that I was a fool for ever thinking that we wouldn’t end up here again. I was scared that the imminent would happen before I could stop it. That I wouldn’t be able to do something that proved I deserve this kind of love before you realized that, really, you deserve someone better.” He said without missing a beat.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he beat you to it.

“Right now I’m thinking that you’re beautiful and that I don’t care about any of the things that I just said because I just want to kiss you.”

Your mouth stayed agape, with the protests you were about to speak stuck in your throat. All you could manage was a nod and a quiet, desperate-sounding, “please.”

Spencer’s lips were on yours in seconds. With the speed he closed the gap and cradled your face with, you’d think his kiss would be desperate, rough and fast, but it wasn’t. He kissed you with gentleness and integrity.

The taste of orange fresh on your lips, shared between you two like the fruit. Spencer had missed the feeling of your skin under his hands and your hair tickling his fingertips as they buried themselves in it.

He sighed into your mouth and angled his head to the side a little more to kiss you deeper.

The day was spent with hushed whispers and uncontrolled laughter, all while ignoring phone calls because you were too caught up in each other.

As you lay in bed, Spencer tracing shapes on your collarbone, he whispered with a grin. “You know…a little bird told me you were quite dramatic about the breakup.”

You shot up. “Penelope Garcia—”

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petrichoravis · 8 days ago

Text

So professional. | s.r.

★ read PART TWO here.

summery: when the team finally has a break through in a case that seemed endless and you and Spencer are assigned to search an abandoned laboratory together, old feeling come to the surface.

word count: 7,3k (it got away from me, sorryyy)

what to expect: ex!spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, kinda like lovers to "enemies" to ??, a lot!! of banter, morgan calls r 'doll', 'princess' and 'sugar', criminal minds typical violence; torture, shooting, gunshot wound, parental/domestic abuse (abusive father/husband), hyporeflexia (the absence of reflexes), medical inaccuracies? I’m sure, English is not my first language.

a/n: aaaa this is so far out of my comfort zone!! I hope you’ll enjoy this while I’ll go into hiding🙈🙈

────── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

This case was endless until it wasn't. Until everything happened so quickly, all at once.

All of the victims had been burned to the point that the ME couldn't figure out the cause of death, until Eleven year old Amilie Porter was found on the side of the road by a passerby.

She had been cold and traumatised and wouldn't speak to anyone, so they brought her to the hospital, who alerted the police that then called you. The BAU.

Now, Spencer and JJ were crouching next to her hospital bed to seem less intimidating. Everything was going great, she wasn't speaking, but engaged in the conversation by nodding or shaking her head to their questions.

Until Amilie accidentally grabbed the mug of hot tea JJ handed her by the burning hot part, but instead of flinching she just held it there, as if it wasn't burning her fingers.

"Woah, hey hey hey!" Spencer took the cup from her before any more damage could be done. "Careful, that's still hot."

But his squeaked comment only made Amilie retreated into herself.

"Sorry, I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Did—" he frowned, he wasn't been sure how to ask her what he wanted to ask, given that she was eleven and still in shock.

"Did you not feel how hot that was?" He asked gently.

Amilie only nodded.

"Yes, you didn't feel how hot it was?"

She shook her head.

"So…you felt it, but didn't pull back?" He was trying his best not to come across as too impatient, keeping his voice low and soft.

He went on as she agreed to the question, "Let me ask you this, Amilie. Did—did the bad man do this?"

When Amilie nodded her head in answer to his question, Spencer glanced up at JJ, nodding as well. He could tell Amilie was exhausted and needed rest, his questions were probably not helping much.

He didn't blame her for being unresponsive, what happened to her must have been enough to traumatise a person with a fully developed brain. He could only calculate what damage it had done and will do to her life.

JJ's voice brought him back into the glaringly white hospital room. "Thank you, Amilie, you helped us very much. We're going to call the nice nurse back in, okay?"

She took Amilie's turning away from them as a yes and they made their way to the reception desk. After they were sure that the nurse was on her way, they walked back to the car.

"What did you see?" She asked him as they walked out of the hospital, onto the parking lot. Sirens were coming from every direction, so they had to speak a little louder.

"Wait—can you drive? I'll call the team." Spencer said, already pulling out his phone and dialling the first contact.

Which, unfortunately, was you.

"Reid? What did she say?" Your voice was usually distant, as if you were scared that letting any emotion into you voice would break the dam.

He pressed a hand over his ear to hear you better.

You see, when you and Spencer got together, you had to promise Hotch that you would stay professional when you would break up. A great prophecy for the rest of your relationship, right? Having to talk about your hypothetical breakup on the first official day of your relationship.

Both of you really tried to stay professional, but working with an ex was hard enough, working with an ex you haven't really talked it out with was harder.

"I think he might be torturing the victims until they loose their reflexes." He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder as he unlocked the car door, holding it open for JJ, handing her the keys and getting into the passenger seat after she was securely in the car.

"Hyporeflexia? Do you—wait let me put you on speaker." There was shuffling on the other side of the phone. "You have Hotch and I. Do you know how he does it?"

"No. I have theories, but nothing concrete. There are a few ways to accomplish the absence of reflexes, drugs like K779 or Leuprorelin, for example. But I doubt he is using a drug, it would have shown up on the toxicology report and the chances of these drugs causing Hyporeflexia are too slim."

"What's your guess?" Hotch piped up.

"Well I think he might be damaging their nervous system. You see, motor neutrons send messages between the spinal cord and brain. Collectively they send messages to the rest of your body to control muscle movements. It's possible that the UnSub is damaging the sensory nerves, spinal cord or motor nerves to cause hyporeflexia." He rambled off the facts and you could practically see the wild gesturing of his hands.

"How is the girl?" You asked.

"She's quiet, but in good hands," he reassured you. "She'll be okay in no time."

"Are you on your way back?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms.

"Yes. We're driving to you now."

"Drive safely." You said, purely for performance purposes.

"I'm not driving." He replied dryly.

"That's why it was meant for JJ."

"She always drives safely." You tried not to roll your eyes as Spencer just hung up.

Being professional when the person you used to plan your future with was now your worst enemy was hard. And while you might spite him a lot, you were sad about it more than you were angry.

But anger always came easier to you than admitting to yourself and him that the break up really hurt you, that you want nothing more than to be friends if you couldn't have him as a partner. You wanted to hold him in your arms again, to fall asleep to his heartbeat every night.

You couldn't tell anyone that, of course, your pride would be in shambles.

So you took a deep breath and turned back to Hotch.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

When Spencer and JJ got back to Quantico the team reassembled for the briefing. Everyone shared their thoughts and theories and Spencer explained what had happened at the hospital.

"Um…I know that there is a poison called curare, it's won from various plants and causes paralysis by binding to the acetylcholine receptor of the junction where two nerve cells dock together and therefore prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal muscles. Could it be something like that?" You asked into the room.

Spencer was quiet for a moment and you're unsure whether he was impressed by your knowledge or just thinking really hard about the possibilities. "Well, we obviously can't tell because the bodies are burnt. But it's unlikely that he is using curare, given that Amilie wasn't paralysed, but developed Hyporeflexia."

Never mind, he was just thinking of a polite way to say, you're so far from the point, stupid.

"Right. So what do you think?" You almost added oh almighty! but were able to stop yourself. Because you're professional.

"As I already said," he gave you a look, "he is probably damaging the nervous system."

"Right, sorry. I meant, how is he doing that?" You had been able to sound so unfazed until this moment.

"I don't know," he frowned at you, as if his answer was obvious (you would like to state that it was not), "or I would have shared it already."

The team was nice enough not to comment on your little dispute, but it's clear that it was getting on their nerves. Especially Hotch, who was looking more stoic than usual, Morgan was finding it more amusing than anything.

"I'll get Garcia to search for similar occurrences in the area." You said quickly, already hurrying out of the room and away from the pending lecture.

Spencer watched you scurry off with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He didn't know why he bitt like a wounded dog every time the two of you spoke. He would like to think that it was because he just genuinely didn't like you anymore, but he knew that wasn't true. Hating you would be easier than this.

On the other side of the office, you ripped open door of Penelope Garcia's office and slammed it closed behind you, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh.

Penelope startled upright, turning her swivel chair to look at you with wide eyes. "Well, hello. Are you alright?"

"No," you whined dramatically. "All of this is so incredibly fucking fucked."

"Oh, love," she patted the place next to her. "He, who shall not be named again?"

You nodded, slumping into the chair. "He's just so—I just feel so…ugh. All we do is spite each other. When will this get easier?"

She looks at you with so much pity, you can't stand it. "I'm not going to tell you that it will pass with time, because, well…" She gave you a look that said nothing less than because you're quite dramatic, over the rim of her glasses.

While you huffed in response, you couldn't quite find a good argument that spoke against her unspoken statement, so your mouth stayed closed. But you didn't refrain from sending her a glare.

"What?" She asked innocently, if anything about Penelope Garcia can ever be called innocent.

You gave her a look. "Constructive criticism? Didn't we just talk about that?"

"I didn't even say anything! It's not my fault that you interpreted something into my very lovely face."

You decided that this was totally fruitless, your fault for thinking that you had a friend in her. "Can you look into past histories of people with hyporeflexia? Anything you can find. People who have been diagnosed with it in the past…let's say fifteen years, suspicious reports of it, someone being especially interested in it, maybe a lot of it happening in one area. You know the drill."

"Yep, totally, ma chère. One sec." She turned her chair towards the computer screen and began working her magic.

After what feels like three seconds—thank God for Penelope's speed on the keyboard and swift fingers—she piped up, "Hyporeflexia is quite a rare official diagnosis, so I cross referenced it with torture or unnatural causes and I found," a few more mouse clicks. "…a Theodore Wilson, who has been in and out of the hospital for severe burns and bruises a lot when he was young."

Frowning, you lean over Penelope's shoulder to look at the screen. "And that's relevant because…?"

"That, my gorgeous girl," she booped your nose with her fluffy pen and you scrunched your nose. "Is because they look suspiciously similar to our victims and…" She paused for dramatic effect. "Theodore's father was a biochemist best known for his research on Hyporeflexia."

You frown deepened. "Is his father still alive?"

A few clicks later, Penelope replied, "Nope." She popped the p. "He died last month, but Theo's mother still lives in Virginia."

"If we consider Theodore a suspect, his father's passing could have been the stressor. Thank you, Pen. Could you—"

"The address is sent to your phone." She smiled up at you as you got up and walked towards the door. "But don't think our talk about you-know-who is over!" She sing-songs just before you could leave.

You rolled your eyes. The nicknames were getting excessive.

"I can't hear you!" You called back just before closing the door behind you.

You froze when you turned and saw the team gathered in the bullpen area. "Um," you glanced at Spencer for just a millisecond to see how much he has heard, but his face seemed impassive. Looking back at your unit chief, you continued, "Penelope found a lead."

Hotch nodded for you to continue and you made your way closer to the group. Recognition flickered across Spencer's face at the name Don Wilson, but he said nothing as you continued to explain what Penelope found.

"Penelope send the address of his mother to me already." You said as you finished.

"Do you think he might be the first victim or the UnSub?" Hotch asked.

"Possibly both. That's what I'd like to find out by talking to the mother." You replied, taking the last steps towards the team.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you accompany her."

Great, just what you needed. Relentless teasing from Derek Morgan, fun!

The devil grinned. "Let's do this, doll."

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

You ignored Morgan the whole drive.

No, seriously, you didn't say a word to him besides giving him the directions. Of course that only stroked the fire.

When you finally did arrive at the house of Theodore's mother, you felt like you had just taught a class of first graders.

Morgan was in the middle of something like, "—come on, we're all waiting to hear what happened between you and pretty boy—" when you got out of the car and slammed the door shut. You couldn't stand to listen to even one more second of it.

But of course he just continued after exiting the car, too. "That bad, huh?"

If you didn't know any better, you might have thought there was some pity in that comment. "It's fine. And also really none of your business."

"You and Reid are kind of making it everyones business, princess."

Rolling your eyes at his statement, you sped up your steps along the gravel path. The faster you got to the door, the faster Morgan had to get into work mode and could finally stop behaving like an assho—

The door opened unexpectedly.

"Oh," an elderly woman—she must have been in her late sixties—startled back at the sight of the both of you. She had shoulder length red-brown hair that was frizzy and clearly not washed for at least two weeks. Her hands were fiddling with a button of her worn down brown cardigan.

Undoubtedly the woman you saw on the picture on Penelope's computer.

You quickly pulled out your badge, animating Morgan to do so as well. "Mrs. Wilson? We're with the FBI. My apologies if we startled you."

"The FBI?" She frowned, clutching her cardigan tightly around herself like an armour. "Why would the FBI come to my house?"

"Ma'am, we have reason to believe that your son might be involved in the case we are investigating right now." You said carefully, not knowing how much she could handle before having a heart attack.

"What? No, that—that's ridiculous! He—he…" she seemed to have forgotten what she was saying, now studying the ground for dirt.

Morgan and you glanced at each other. This was going to be difficult.

"Ma'am?" Morgan tried again. "Could we come in?"

She frowned up at him. "Yes, yes, of course. How rude of me." She made a sound that could have been a laugh as much as it could have been a sob.

"Make yourselves at home, dears. Oh, my apologies it's a little messy." She hurried across the room, gathering scraps of fabric and dirty dishes.

"Uh," you weren't sure how to say this politely, but you were in a rush and sour mood.

Luckily, Morgan saved you from having to come up with something polite. "Mrs. Wilson, we'd like to ask you some questions about your son, Theodore, if that is alright with you?"

"Oh, Theo," he fingertips touched her lips and her eyes welled up a little. It was a nostalgia only a mother could feel. "We—we don't talk a lot anymore, now that he is at university."

You frowned. There had been no evidence of Theodore being at university. "What is he studying?"

The woman seemed frozen in her thoughts. "Physics. No, that's not right…Chemistry, yes. He is studying chemistry at Princeton. He told me that."

You gave Morgan a signal to fact check that with Penelope and he left the room, leaving you to talk to Mrs. Wilson alone.

"Did he always like chemistry?"

"Yes, yes. When he was young, he always used to…no, I think that was biology." She laughed almost hysterically. "Can't keep up with that boy. So many talents."

Bingo. Biochemistry. His father's influence, no doubt. And it fit the theory of Theodore taking on his father's murderous tendencies. Just a little more and you had him.

"Was there any particular niche he was particularly interested in?"

"Yes, but…but I don't remember. You see, Don, my husband—Theo's father, he would know. He—he was the one who always went to the laboratory with Theo."

Laboratory? You froze at the mention of a possible secondary location. Double bingo, a place to hide the victims and possibly burn them. A place where his father could have taught him his ways, pass the torture down like some families might pass down jewellery.

"This lab," you asked cautiously, not wanting to come across too pushy or desperate (which you very much were). "You don't happen to know where it is?"

"Oh, it's abandoned now, run down, I'm certain. They stopped going there after Don got sick…" she couldn't finish the sentence, her eyes fogging up with grief.

You doubted that he just stopped going, but she didn't need to know that. "Is it possible that you find out where it is located?"

She nodded, mumbling something about a postcard before disappearing into another room.

Morgan came back from the hallway.

"There is no record of him at Princeton. No pay checks, nothing." He whispered to you.

That was to be expected. You just nodded.

All of this left you with a horrible, nauseating feeling in the pit of your stomach. This woman had lost everything—her husband, her son, her sanity—but the hope she clung to was that her son was in university, building a life of his own, making a name for himself.

Now you were working on destroying that hope. It might ruin her entirely. Irrevocably.

She came back a second later, a postcard in her hands. "That's the address, I think." She held it out to you.

But as you went to grab it, fingers closing around it, she didn't let go, keeping a tight grip on it. Like a lifeline. Like a part of her knew, that if she let you have it, there was no going back to the normal she once knew.

"Mrs. Wilson…?" You tested carefully.

She startled. "Oh! I'm sorry." She let the paper go. "Here you go. I hope it helps with your…"

Her face creased up, thinking hard of a reason why two FBI agents could be in her house, asking for her perfect son who was studying chemistry in Princeton.

Morgan, ever the escape artist, waved politely, "You have been very helpful, Ma'am. We best be going then, have a nice day."

"Yes, yes, of course. You must be busy kids." But just as you stepped through the door, feet just hitting the gravel, she called after you. "Agents?"

Both of you turned. "Yes?" You asked politely.

"My son, when you visit him at Princeton, could—could you tell him I was sorry?"

"Of course, Ma'am." You let your voice trail off, hoping she would clarify what she was apologising for.

Mrs. Wilson leaned against the door with one hand, as if stabilising herself. "We had a fight, you see. The night before he left for Princeton. I never got to apologise to him."

You were tempted to ask what the fight was about, but you held back. It might be important for the case, but not enough to dig up the rotten bones. "Of course. We will tell him, Mrs."

"Thank you—thank you. Tell him I love him, too, would you be so kind?"

You nodded. "Of course."

Morgan and you walked away, then. Leaving the woman behind.

You didn't recall reaching the car, didn't recall Morgan unlocking it and even holding open the door for you to climb in. Too deep in the past, too caught up in the future.

The conversation with the mother affected you more than you'd like to admit. A fight could ruin so many relationships, it could make you go crazy, make you say things that caused you to drift further and further apart. Until you didn't know each other at all anymore, but you still clung to the past yous that you once were.

You only came to yourself when you felt the seat under you, when the engine started to hum.

"We had a fight." You mumbled as Morgan reversed out of the parking space.

"What?" He looked over at you shortly, confused. He couldn't recall having fought with you.

"Spencer and I. We fought. That's why we broke up."

Morgan felt a little like laughing. "You broke up because of a fight? Must have been one hell of a fight, then. The both of you were always so inseparable."

When you didn't laugh or react, Morgan glanced over at you again. You looked sad, in thought. With a big pout-slash-frown on your face, fingers fiddling with the sleeves if your button up.

"Hello? Earth to earthling?" He waved a hand in front of your face.

"Sorry." You glanced up at him. "I don't know why I brought it up, I don't like talking about it."

Bless him, Morgan's face softened a little. He wasn't heartless enough to keep teasing you when you clearly had a hard time. Well, okay, he had his moments.

"You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's okay. We—We fought a lot, leading up to the break up. Silly things like the dishes, different opinions on different things.…The real issue was this job, though." You swallowed around the urge to bolt.

"The job?"

You nodded. "We brought it home with us, made it the centre piece of our relationship."

Morgan winced. It was the mistake every agent was afraid to make when entering a relationship.

"Yeah," you breathed out. "I know. But you know us, we work, that's just who we are."

"Workaholics." Morgan coughed to lighten the mood.

In any other situation you would have dug your elbow into his side, scowled at him. But not in this one.

"It got too much in the end. The fear, the paranoia. We just…snapped. We talked it out, funnily enough that conversation was quite calm. Though we were naive enough to think we could stay friends." You sniffed.

It surprised him, to find out you were struggling so much in the past months leading up to your break up. "You always seemed so happy at work. Everyone agreed when I said you two were meant for each other."

"Yeah, well, things that are meant for each other aren't always the right thing."

"Do you really believe that? Or are you scared that it won't work out if you tried again and you opened yourself up for nothing?" He lifted one hand from the wheel to put air quotes around the word nothing.

You glared at his side profile. "Okay, Mr. Therapist."

"What?" He looked at you again, before focusing back on the road. "I'm just saying. Reid is so far gone for you, opening up to him would never be for nothing. If you want it to work you have to work for it."

"Since when are you an expert on relationships, Derek 'has a new girl every week' Morgan." You rolled your eyes. But you couldn't deny that his words stirred something inside you.

"Okay, you're just being mean now, sugar. I'm incredibly wise." He pretended to push glasses up his nose.

That got a laugh out of you. A real, stomach ache inducing laugh. Maybe you were hysterical now, too.

Morgan smiled at that. He was glad to hear that sound again, after months filled with frown lines and sharp tones.

After you calmed down, you got back into work mode, calling the team and telling them what you had discovered. You told Penelope to check the address and she confirmed that it was an abandoned laboratory.

Now everything happened quickly. Hotch ordered you to drive to the lab and wait for the team, to be on alert for anyone entering or leaving the building, but not to—under any circumstances—enter or separate from each other.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

Not even twenty minutes later, you and Morgan arrived at the laboratory and prepared by putting on your vests and checking your guns.

The other black SUVs lined up in front of the main entrance shortly after.

You caught Spencer's eyes as he got out of the car. He scanned you from head to toe for injuries. When he found none, the concern on his face melted away quickly enough for you to consider you had imagined it.

"No one has entered or left the front door in the time we were here." You said when the team reassembled.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you and Prentiss go in from behind and search the lower level. JJ, Rossi and I search the second floor."

"But that means—" Spencer started to protest but Hotch has already pointed at you.

"You and Reid, go to the upper level."

Because you were so focused on the case (totally not because you want to show Hotch you could be more professional than Spencer), you just nodded.

"Good. Let us not waste time we don't have." Hotch frowns and everyone goes their separate ways.

Spencer glanced at you and you glanced at him. This was the first time you had been alone together since the break up and you were both unsure what to do with each other.

"Is your vest secure?" Spencer asked after a short awkward pause. He took a step closer and you try your best not to flinch back. Professional, you remind yourself like a mantra.

"Yes." You retort steadily enough, but he was already reaching out to tug on the straps.

You frowned at the display of worry, but decided on letting him have his moment. Purely to save energy, of course.

"Fine, let's go up." He said as he was satisfied with your vest. Together you made your way up the stairwell onto the upper level.

As you sneaked through the eerily quiet lab, the only sound heard was the clacking of your heeled boots on the resin floor.

Spencer glared at you. "Couldn't have worn a worse shoe for this, could you?" He whispered.

"I could've hardly worn my crocks." You snapped back. "Focus."

Both of your guns were trained around the corners as you carefully assed the situation. So far there was nothing that seemed too out of the ordinary for an abandoned laboratory. Broken glass, dusty workstations, pipes…Nothing to accompany you and Spencer but silence.

Until a shot rang out. And you wince.

The bullet just barely grazed your upper arm but it was enough to make a crimson blotch bloom on your white button up.

Spencer pulled you behind a corner before you could get hurt even worse and presses his hand over your wound.

He wrapped a hand around your wrist to hold your arm still and assessed your arm. "Does it hurt badly?"

"It's fine. Focus on the UnSub." You scowled, pushing against his shoulders with your free hand. Spencer didn't budge. "Reid, I'm so serious—"

"No, I'm serious," he said your name sternly. "Answer my ques—"

Another shot rang out before he could finish repeating himself, but it thankfully didn't hit anyone.

You gave him a look that says see? I fucking told you so. and pushed him away to glance around the corner to fire some shots at the guy.

"The suspect is in the upper level." You said into the microphone. "He's wearing a black bomber. Brown hair. I can't tell much. He's armed and shooting." You listed off.

"Copy that." Answered JJ's voice back to you.

"Get," Spencer grumbled, "behind the wall."

"You almost sound worried." You grinned and taunted him by doing the direct opposite of his command, leaning further around the corner.

"That's because I am. It doesn't look great on my report if I just let you die." He bitt out, pulling you back by your wrist that he still hasn't let go of.

Unfortunately, he ended up slamming your back against the wall in the process.

You made a noise that could only be described as a grunt. "Oh, and manhandling does?"

Both of you were now pressed against the wall, with Spencer's arms caging you in so you couldn't make a run for it and do something even more reckless.

"I'll just put it down as keeping you from sabotaging the mission." He was panting, and for a moment the thought of just how attractive he was crossed your mind. Until you shook it off.

Just as you opened your mouth to taunt him some more, you ear piece crackles and Hotch's voice was heard saying yours and Spencer's names, "—what is your position?"

"We're still—fuck!" Another shot rang out before you could finish the sentence, hitting a pipe on the opposing wall and causing you to flinch. Steam hissed from the hole. Spencer shushed you and you were tempted to snap at him, but you lowered your voice instead. Staying quiet was in your best interest, to make the shooter believe you were hit and the danger passed.

"Still on the third floor. He's got us cornered." You continued quietly.

And because Spencer just couldn't leave it at that, he added into the mic, "She's hurt, we will need an ambulance when we're out of here."

Glaring, you retorted, "I'm fine, a bullet just grazed my arm."

"It's still important to get it checked out!" Spencer replied in a harsh whisper. He was really pushing your buttons now.

"We're on our way up. Try to get him into the stairwell." Is the only response you get from Hotch.

You breathe out. "Okay, let's try to get to the stairwell."

Spencer nods, gesturing for you to take the lead and finally stepped back to free you from the cage of his arms. (And the suffocating urge to kiss him.)

With your gun stretched out in front of of you, you carefully take step after step along the eerily quiet hallway.

"You go right," Spencer murmured, "I'll take the left."

"What? No—" But it was an impossible task, stopping Spencer Reid once he was set on doing something. He had already disappeared into another hallway.

"Does he learn nothing from his mistakes?" You mumbled to yourself, but do as he demanded nonetheless.

You placed one foot in front of the other with caution, rounding the corners not before listening into the silence.

Suddenly there was a noise. You didn't know if it was Spencer, your imagination or the UnSub, but all of your body was braced for battle.

Taking a deep breath, you rounded the corner. The hallway ended with a wall adorned with two doors. One lead to the stairwell, spiralling down into the second floor.

The other door was open. It looked like a lab to you, but you didn't have a good enough angle to see what was inside. The walls specked with dust and grime, mold forming in the crevices.

You caught movement in the room and walked slowly towards it. You had a half formed though to signal to Spencer through the mic, but before you could execute it, you had already entered the room.

A man stood with his back to you at one of the work stations. You took another step towards him, but your boot crushed a shard of glass under its heel. You froze.

Theodore spun around in panic, picking his gun up from the counter. "You—You should be—I shot you."

You breathed in deep to steady your voice. Theo's choice of words struck a match of hope in you. Maybe he didn't know that Spencer and the rest of the team were in the building, too. Maybe he just saw you.

"The bullet graced my arm." You confirmed, taking a step closer to him.

"Get back. Get back!" He screamed, forcing you to walk deeper into the room with his gun, so his back was to the door. "If you shoot, I'll go down pressing the trigger and you will go down, too."

His hand was shaking around the gun, he looked like he might drop it every moment. The room was dark, just a little sliver of light coming through the small window.

You watched it flicker and tried to come up with something to say, but your brain blanked on the profile.

Being a profiler had taught you a lot, but in this moment all you could focus on was that Spencer was somewhere in this building and you had no idea if he was safe.

"Theo, I know what your father did to you, how he would train you to take every hit without flinching, the burning." You said carefully.

"Don't—don't talk about my father like you know anything! Because you don't—you don't know anything!Lower you gun!" He spit out.

Just as you were trying to find a way to tell him that there was no way you would lower your gun, you saw Spencer through the doorframe behind Theo, gun pointed at him, too. You tried not to look at him as you continued.

"I won't shoot if you don't give me a reason to, Theo. I—I talked to your mother." You tried in a last desperate attempt to deescalate the situation.

That seemed to get his attention, he lowered his gun a little, before taking a step closer to you pointing it at you again. "Leave my mother out of this." He growled.

You continued anyway. "She told me that she was sorry, about your fight before you left. She is so, so proud of you, Theo. Told me to tell you that she loves you. Nothing could make her stay mad at you forever, she just wants you in her life again." You tried not to look at Spencer as you spoke the words to Theo that were really meant for him.

Tears formed in Theo's eyes. A sight that you had seen just forty minutes earlier, in his mother's. "Stop! It doesn't matter if she's proud. I lied to her! I lied."

"Of course it matters, if you put the weapon down and come back with us to the station, you could see her again. You could be her son again."

His laugh is hollow as he said, "Do you think I'm stupid? You're trying to get me to surrender. What do you called it? A talk down? Making false promises just to get me locked up. You never end up keeping them." His grip on the trigger tightened.

Another thing you learned as a profiler was not to get attached to victims or UnSubs. And while most of the team had failed at that, you had always considered yourself lucky—or heartless, for that matter.

But as you watched the pain on Theo's face, you understood. Maybe not everything he did, but you understood the cause. Understood that all of his life was set up for him to end here, in this lab, two guns pointed at him.

Behind him, Spencer nodded towards the stairs and you tried to signal to him that you didn't understand without exposing his location. He just gestured towards them again, frowning at you to just do as he said.

He took a few steps deeper into the room to clear the doorway, somehow managing not to get caught by Theo. It was a gamble he gladly took if it meant you were safe. "Theo, you don't have to do this."

Spencer's voice startled Theo and for a second you were terrified that he was going to shoot. But instead, he just turned around quickly, panicked pointing the gun at Spencer.

Your moment to run. Just to get help and come back to him. You sprinted out of the room, past Theo and Spencer. Theo shouted "No!" but it was too late, you were already half down the stairs.

You silently begged Spencer to hold on for a little longer. But just as you practically jumped of the last step in a hurry, you heard a gunshot.

Freezing on the bottom of the steps for the fraction of a second, you tried not to panic, but just as you turned to sprint back up the stairs, an arm wrapped around your middle, the other covering your mouth.

"Shh," came Rossi's voice from behind you. You struggled as he dragged you out of the building.

Fresh air hit your face as you were forced to exit, but all you could think about was the fact that Spencer's dead body might be lying on the third level of an abandoned laboratory.

You tried to pull back from him but he wouldn't let you. "No—Spencer. Spence is still—Spencer!" You struggled against his grip.

"You can't go back in there—" Rossi said your name. "The kid is smart, you know that. He—"

Before he could finish, there was another gunshot, this one closer. You almost sank to your knees as everyone around you prepared to take down the UnSub.

And were rebuild when Spencer emerged from the building a few seconds later, hands raised, "Don't shoot, he is injured, but breathing." He gestured behind him somewhere.

Rossi finally let you go when Spencer was far enough away from danger.

Not wasting a minute, you ran towards Spencer, almost crashing into him in the process.

Emily, JJ and an EMT passed you in a blur as they went into the laboratory to secure Theo. You barely registered them.

"What happened?" You didn't know whether to push him or to kiss him. You opted for the first, pushing against his shoulders. "Why would you tell me to leave? I—We had it handled. Together. I—I—You fucking scared me."

Spencer just pulled you to him by your good arm and wrapped you in a tight embrace. He didn't say anything for a while, just letting you process your feelings.

The fear of loosing Spencer for good, the pain of the break up, the conflicting feelings of having to work with your ex (that you're still very much in love with). You clung to him as your emotions overtake you. And, fuck, your arm hurt!

"Shh, it's okay. I'm okay. Here—" he pulled back with some difficulty, given that you had quite a firm grip on him, and took your hand in his, placing it on the side of his neck. "Can you feel that? I'm okay."

You nodded. "You're okay." You breathed out, looking from your hand on his pulse point, to his eyes. "Why would you do that?" Tears pricked at your eyes.

"I didn't think rationally. All I could think about was that there was a gun pointed at you and all my brain would come up with was stupid ideas to make him point it at me. Please forgive me."

He looked at you with his big, sad, brown puppy eyes, while his thumb brushed softly against the skin under your eye to catch your tears before they could fall.

You would have said something flirty like, you might have to make it up to me some more, if you weren't so terribly mad at him. "Maybe. I can't promise anything."

He smiled softly despite your answer. Maybe even because of it. It was a silly thought, you not forgiving him. "I can work with maybe."

An EMT whisked you away shortly after, but Spencer's hand stayed in yours until they slipped apart and his arm fell to his side.

He wasn't sure if he could just follow, he stayed away and watched you get checked out by the EMTs.

All of it—the story of you and him—reminded him of Cassandra witnessing the fall of Troy. It was stupid to compare two people who were so insignificant to history to two of histories most known tragedies, but it fit like he still did into the palm of your hand.

He had known that he would never be able to get over you. No one had believed him, telling him that time heals all wounds and that he couldn’t see the bigger picture yet, because he was still in it.

But he had known, and it still rang true. You were it for him and he would never find anyone that made him feel more like himself. It was foolish to think he could survive the break up, foolish to think he would get over it.

Hell, he had taken being on the receiving end of your spite over being your friend because it meant you'd look at him and feel something.

Taking all of his courage together, Spencer decided to approach you after the EMT finished patching you up.

"Hey," he said gently. This was the first time you talked without snarling at each other outside of work since the break up and it felt like finally breathing fresh air again after living purely off of carbon dioxide. "Doing good? How is your arm?"

You looked up at him from the steps on the back of the ambulance. You looked rough, exhausted. The sleeves of your shirt were rolled up to allow the EMT to bandage your wound.

It felt different now, talking to you. The moment of adrenaline had passed and he had no idea how to talk to you. The times of snarling seemed to be over, but the ones of kissing and I love you's were long gone, too.

"I'm okay. All patched up. I don't think I will ever take my reflexes for granted ever again." You tried to smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "How are you?"

He wanted to deflect, to twist it back to you, but he humoured you. "Exhausted, but I'm good. I'm just glad you're safe."

What he actually wanted to say was: I love you, I'm glad you're speaking to me again. Let's never split up again. Please. And: I miss you, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like everyone is running laps around me for the first time in my life.

Of course, he said none of it, this wasn't the time to dig that hole. Instead he just looked at you.

The blue of the sirens flickered on your face and even though you looked exhausted, he could't help but think you were the most beautiful thing Mother Earth has sculpted. The Grand Canyon was nothing in comparison to the frown lines on your face, the stars nothing compared to your freckles and birthmarks.

You looked back at him then, but thankfully didn't question the look on his face that without a doubt read, I love you.

Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder in a silent, I love you, too.

There was so much to talk about, so much to tell him, but when he insisted on taking you home, because he wouldn't let you drive home alone after the events of today, all you cared about was that he was there again. Fully. Without snapping, without pretend hate. Just the old you and the old him again.

You fell into your bed that night, the glaring blue light of your digital clock telling you that it was 3am. Earlier than a lot of other late nights at the BAU.

Spencer didn't hesitate to take off your work clothes, didn't ask where your pyjamas were, didn't stop to think what this all meant for you now. He didn't need to, all of this was an Obvious.

You didn't tell him to lay down next to you, to climb under the covers and flip the light off, to let you rest your head on his chest. He just did all of it. Because it was a routine, the known in all the unknown that was your relationship now. A Constant.

In the morning, you would talk about it. While he was changing your bandage with careful fingers. But right now, the sound of Spencer's heart beating your name lulled you to sleep.

In the end, fear and worry had been the best matchmakers.

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PART TWO

thank you so much for reading! please remember reblogging, commenting and liking if you enjoyed the fic. feedback is appreciated!! 𝜗𝜚

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petrichoravis · 8 days ago

Text

love, written in the stars. | s.r.

summery: just a moment in the life you spend with Spencer.

what to expect: spencer reid x shy!reader, otherwise nondescript reader, domestic fluff, established relationship, lots of kissing, English is not my first language

word count: 1,3k (she's a cutie)

songs: ur so pretty - wasia project, falling in love - cigarettes after sex, kiss me - sixpence none the richer

a/n: little blurb as a thank you for all the love on bypros (lol that sounds like something medical) while I’m working on another project!!!

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Your lips connected with Spencer’s as you roll over on the bed, his hands find the dip of your waist where they fit like you were made for each other, one mould.

Soft music was playing on your vinyl player, the curtains were softly fluttering in the breeze coming through the window.

You and Spencer have been like this for a while—kissing, rolling around the bed. Your hair was slightly messy from Spencer’s hands running through it and your shirt was rising up were your right hip met his left one.

The quiet clicking sound of your lips connecting and disconnecting, the way his soft lips were sliding over yours with a dizzying ease were the only things you could focus on.

Ever since you had known him, Spencer had been a good kisser, he always knew when to kiss you were, with the exact right amount of fervour for that exact moment. But you have often been told (by Derek Morgan, no doubt) that Spencer hasn’t always been the man you know him as today.

Sure, Spencer was still an awkward nerd who liked to ramble, but he had an air of confidence that made your knees weak.

You’ve seen pictures of him from before you met and you seriously feel like you had missed out on a great time of a lot of teasing and making Spencer blush as much as he was making you flustered.

Spencer pulls you out of your reminiscences by rolling both of you over, his free hand finding the back of your neck, the other stabilising him next to your waist. He pulls back and you whine, lifting your head to chase his mouth.

His laugh is almost hoarse, but his lips stay (cruelly) far away from yours.

“What were you thinking about?” He asks softly, tracing his thumb along your cheek and nose.

“How much I think you should kiss me again—” you murmur, but your attempt stays fruitless.

He smiles fondly, because he’s cruel like that. “What were you thinking about before?”

“I…” you twist a curl of his around your finger, it’s an almost shy gesture, if Spencer didn’t know any better. “Do you ever wish we had met earlier?”

He thinks for a moment while his eyes trace your features like he hasn’t seen them before, like there was still a new treasure to find. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”

A nod confirms his suspicion, “Yeah. I just…sometimes I—Derek showed me a picture of you when you were twenty-four.” You blurt out.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Of course he did.”

“He told me how shy you were…how easily you got flustered. I—I don’t know. I kind of wish I got to meet that version of you. Every version of you.” You’re picking on the bedsheet out of shyness.

He just smiles, tilting your head gently so your eyes could meet his. “There you are.”

“You’re just so…confident now. I wish I could fluster you like you can me.”

Oh. “Oh, that’s what this is about? You think you can’t fluster me?” His smile really only proves your point and you try to hide behind your hands, but he won’t let you.

“Love, you fluster me all the time and you don’t even know it. Sometimes I feel like that version of myself again.” He says honestly.

“But you’re so…you always know what you’re doing.”

His smile softens a little. “I have no idea what I’m doing half the time, this is my first time really feeling secure and comfortable with myself in a relationship. You make me feel like I know what I’m doing. But you especially make me nervous.”

“How?” You’re still frowning (but a soft smile hides behind the facade), Spencer’s thumb reaches out to smooth the lines. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Let me think…” he grins like he already knows the answers to that equation (spoiler, he does).

“You do these little things…” he places a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “when you’re trying to reach for something in the upper cabinet and your shirt rises up, or when you touch my hair, for example.” He places another kiss to the other corner of your mouth. “Or just the way you look in general. Your face is incredibly flustering.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling openly now, a barely suppressable, giddy smile. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Those small things fluster you?”

“Uh-oh, I should not have told you all of that.”

“Absolutely you should have.” You grin, already thinking about all the ways to paint a soft red hue onto your boyfriend’s lovely face.

Speaking of, the man in question is looking down at you with a look that would make Jude Law look like he was glaring the entirety of The Holiday.

“What?” You laugh breathlessly, now back again with your attempt to get his mouth back on yours. You still can’t believe he just said that. Just like that.

“Nothing,” he says (the only way to describe his tone was lovingly). “You’re beautiful.”

“See? You’re doing it again.” You squint.

You obviously didn’t believe him. But he never did shy away from telling you his truths. So why would your beauty be different from the fact that the stars twinkle because their light passes through the atmosphere and is bent by varying temperatures and densities of the air? (Because it isn’t. Because it is just that, is what he would say if he wanted to stretch this into another argument about your beauty, a fact.)

But he decided that he wouldn’t fight you on it, he’d just simply know it enough for the both of you. He decided that he would rather keep kissing you breathless, until the stars in your eyes were twinkling because of a different reason. Because of him.

His lips connect back with yours before you can even think of protesting or—worse—reciprocating his compliment.

You smile against his lips as you finally get what you want (and truthfully, you were not going to protest, but he doesn’t need to know that if it means he’ll kiss you), burying your fingertips into the soft, brown mess that is his hair and your boyfriend sighs into your mouth.

The soft moment only lasts for a few seconds, though. The needle of your record player reaches the end, playing the last seconds of the song on repeat, signalling that needed to change discs.

The sound of a groan cuts through the air as you push against Spencer’s shoulders.

“Who invented this anyway? I’m sure they could have come up with something that automatically changes the sides.” You grumble as you push your boyfriend off of you, climbing out of the bed. (You make an extra big show of raising your arms to get the record sleeve from the shelf.)

“But that’s the charm, isn’t it?” He crosses his warms behind his head, watching you scurry around the room in his shirt and mismatched socks. One red with stripes, one purple, matching his.

You hold up two records. “Fleetwood or The Cranberries?”

He hums. “Your lips on mine?”

“I don’t think I know that band.”

“Smartass.”

“Mhm,” you reply as you start the record and climb back into Spencer’s arms. “My redeeming quality.”

Wrapping one arm around your back, settling in the dip, the other one cupping your jaw, he welcomes you back with a kiss on your forehead. “I don’t think there’s anything about you that needs redeeming, love.”

“That’s because you’re incredibly biased.” You don’t let him protest and kiss him again and he lets you, of course he does.

It would be a lie to tell you that your lips ever disconnected after that. You two stayed tangled up together until you became one with each other. And then with the many stars in the universe.

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