shiningjustforreid

[shiningjustforreid]

[shiningjustforreid]

early vs late seasons spencer reid

[shiningjustforreid]

early vs late seasons spencer reid

[shiningjustforreid]

go easy (on me baby)

bau!fem!reader faces immense grief and the aftermath. Spencer attempts to be supportive. sometimes it backfires.

a/n: grief is cruel. and sometimes, even the most caring people don’t know what to say or do.

word count: 4k

warnings/tags: 18+ for content, reader goes through it, funeral, season 11ish boyfriend!Spencer, mental health crises, Spencer is trying his best, grief, reader is fem but only physical descriptions are long hair(?), no use of y/n, church is mentioned for the funeral, mild religious themes

Crisp July wind, warm and suffocating, leeches into the bullpen, somehow, through the windows. Spencer’s flipping through files at his desk, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose; you’d both been in a rush this morning - your hair in a barely holding on pony tail and his lack of contacts proves that. Across the room, he hardly glances your direction as your phone buzzes and a frown paints your face when you answer. The gentle hum of other people and their computers drown out whatever conversation you have with whoever, but he does look up when you’re suddenly at his side.

All the life and color has been washed away from your face, smoothing your hands over your slacks, eyes unseeing, as you look down at the dingy carpet.

“That was my mom.”

You breathe out, voice catching, creaking. It doesn’t go unnoticed, certainly not by your behaviorally tuned boyfriend. He stands, his hands taking your forearms, sliding down until he can hold both your hands. HR and ‘PDA’ and fraternization be damned; you look like you’re about to tip over, and he’s not going to let that happen.

Strangely, though, you don’t look close to tears, as empty as your tone is. Thumbs soothe over your knuckles, as he watches your face, voice low enough that it gets lost in the nine fifteen hustle and bustle.

“What’d your mom say, Angel?”

Faintly, you realize he’s talking to you like he would a victim, or a victim’s family. You’re too stunned to be bothered by it.

“My grandma. She’s gone. Stroke.”

Several thoughts fly through Spencer’s brain. Your grandma, who practically raised you, while your parents were working. Who calls you at least once a week to check in, and sends small trinkets she thinks you’ll like in the mail. Gone. With absolutely no warning.

Quickly, he goes through what he knows about grief. What does he know about grief? Statistics, and informational articles about the five stages (or more) fly through his brain, but he comes up empty with what he should say. So instead, a simple phrase falls out.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Wrong response. Was it? He’s starting to freak out internally when all you do is raise your shoulders up, and down, a lethargic movement, as your eyes stay low.

“I suppose I should tell Hotch. My mom will want help. Planning the viewing. The funeral.”

Numbly, you turn, before he squeezes your hands tight, to keep you in place.

“Hey. Woah. Um, maybe you should just take a second and—“

“Spence. It’s fine. I’m fine. This— I’m just going to be very busy for a few days.”

You’ve got your ‘please-just-let-me-avoid-thinking-about-this’ face on, but to be honest, he’s considering having you go sit right back down and telling Hotch himself. Frozen to the spot, he watches you head up the stairs, how your fingers brush along the handrail.

As you initially described it, the next few days are a blur. Hotch gives you time off, and you spend it at your mother’s or the funeral home or your grandma’s house. The first night you come home after spending the day with family, Spencer’s already on the couch, book in lap, when you open the front door. He’s over at your side in a flash, too-quick hands shutting the door behind you and taking your freezing ones in his.

“Hey. You, uh, okay?”

You shrug, a half-hearted movement as your hands sit limply in his.

“I guess. I— maybe it hasn’t hit yet. I haven’t cried yet. My mom was crying, and my cousins, but I couldn’t. Think something might be wrong with me?”

Spencer’s face falls, and he’s quick to busy himself by smoothing through your hair, over the high plane of your cheek bone with his thumb; worrying with his hands so he maybe won’t say the wrong thing.

“Lovely, no. Nothing’s wrong. Grief, it, uh, comes in all types of patterns and forms, and maybe you’re still in denial?”

Still locked away somewhere in your mind, you shrug again, rubbing your hands over your arms. You might as well be underneath layers of ice, underwater, watching everyone up on the shore.

“That’s the first stage right? Makes sense. It’s cold in here, don’t you think?”

Frowning, he watches you head over the thermostat, and then to the kitchen.

Like nothing’s amiss. Like you didn’t just lose someone irreplaceable.

And yet—clearly, something’s very, very wrong.

“Angel…”

You don’t look up as you get out a pot, pan, a colander. Must be making pasta.

“Mm?”

“You can just go relax, okay, I’ll— let me get dinner tonight.”

Now it’s your turn to frown. He swallows, watching your face stay perfectly devoid of any real emotion, just carefully placed confusion as you turn his direction.

“Spence, why wouldn’t I make dinner? I usually do.”

“But I want to. Can you just let me? Please?”

He watches the indecision flicker through your eyes at his plea, and then you nod, slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll go— sit. For a bit. I’m really hungry anyways. Long day.”

Talking in cliches never good, especially when it’s you. Spencer watches you head to the couch, your eyes landing on a shelf — and he winces as you look dully at a frame.

He knows which picture rests behind the glass.

Staring for a moment, your muscles tense, and then you whisper, hoarse, like you’re talking to yourself more than him.

“It’s funny. How time works. Maybe ‘funny’ is the wrong word, but— how someone can be alive in a picture and you don’t think about it until they’re gone, it’s jarring. Wrong. That the picture is all you have.”

To your credit, you don’t choke, there’s no lump in your throat. But you sound so distant, and it absolutely crushes him.

“Baby, you—“

You head down the hall, before he can finish, and the soft click of the bedroom door is all he hears. Sighing, he turns back to dinner, anxiety bubbling in his chest. He knows you need a moment, to gather yourself back into something vaguely presentable, even for him.

How can he fix this? Can he? He can’t just apply his knowledge to his girlfriend like she’s a part of a case.

But he doesn’t know. And that terrifies him the most, that there’s something he can’t learn, can’t prepare for, because grief is different for everyone and God knows it’s going to be unique for you.

When the morning of the funeral dawns, you’re up before he is, taming your hair in the bathroom, already dressed — black skirt and a rather nice matching blouse that he’s never seen before. He comes up behind you, as you run the straightener down your hair, and you meet his eyes in the mirror. What he sees in your eyes is a whole lot of nothing. Emptiness. It’s deeply concerning.

“Hey. Morning, lovely.”

His lips find the side of your face, feather light, and then the column of your throat, but your face stays blank. Nodding your acknowledgment of his presence, your voice comes out dangerously close to emotionless. As if you’re discussing the schedule for a normal day.

“We need to leave by eleven. The funeral’s at 2, but the roads might be busy, there’s a lunch for us before, and a private last chance to—“

You stop. Compose yourself into something steel and put together, and continue.

“To see. Her. Before they close the-her- it. The casket.”

Spencer lets his hand come to rest against your hip, gentle, grounding.

“And then, there’s the funeral, and the burial, and—“

The recitation of the agenda halts as you finish your hair and set the straighter down with a clack against the laminate top. Hands falling against your un-made up face, as though you can hide yourself from the inevitable of today. As though you’re young again, believing that if something is not seen, it simply doesn’t exist.

And God, he wishes it could be done that way.

“Spencer, I don’t want to do this. I can’t, do this.”

A beat. He sighs, his other hand reaching to click the power button and unplug your tool.

“Baby, you have to.”

Perhaps, softer reassurances could have been spoken, but his gentle ones, firm in their candor, have you nodding, measured as you reach for your makeup bag. He can almost hear you repeating his reminder to yourself in your mind - an affirmation, that some things in this world are agonizing beyond human comprehension, because of how they remind us of our mortality. How small we are under the stars, but that we must use their light to keep going anyways.

Morning rushes into noon, and Spencer is dually impressed and unnerved as you stay polite but quiet through tearful family interactions and casserole. Right before the service, he pulls you to the side, some small room in the church, clicking the wood paneled door closed behind the two of you.

When he runs his hands over your arms, he winces at the chill he feels through your sleeves. Your eyes stay low, on the mulberry colored thinning carpet, avoiding his gaze, because you know — meeting his eyes and seeing the pain there will break you more than anything else.

“Angel girl. Hey. Listen. If you don’t feel these emotions, this grief, now, I’m afraid you’re going to regret it.”

Shaking your head, you look off to the side, voice hoarse.

“I can’t. I can’t fall apart in front of all these people, my mom, Spencer. I have to push it down, squash it so far into my heart that I can pretend it’s not even really happening to me.”

But it is happening to you.

Neither of you say it, but both of you feel it. Your mother weeps during the service, during the burial, until she’s all cried out and sort of just stands there and trembles. You? Stone. Several times, the urge to let out some sort of bitter little whimper crawls up your throat, but you shove it down.

You’re a gargoyle, watching the people you love and grew up with weep over the casket as it’s lowered into the dirt, your face impassive. Spencer’s fingers find yours when someone hands you a rose to toss in the grave, and on wobbling legs you move, tugging him with you, the breath in your lungs kept there only by the physical contact.

It’s not until you’re both back in the apartment, and you stand there, purse in when hand, dangling to the carpet, in the entryway, until Spencer turns to you, voice so soft you barely hear it.

“Baby? I can help with your shoes if you want, or—“

“I don’t need help with my fucking shoes.”

Immediately, the guilt replaces the anger, but not by much. Swallowing hard, you set your bag down on the counter with a little more force than necessary, and sigh, a quick, short burst of air.

“God, Spence, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

Pressing your fingers against your eyes, you vaguely realize that you’ll smudge your makeup. As if that matters. He’s silent, as you stand there, his hands darting over his slacks a few times, uneasy, before they’re shoved in his pockets.

“You didn’t mean it. I know. It’s okay.”

Is it? Does grief give you the right to respond in any way that rolls off your tongue? Looking away, out the living room window, you shake your head.

“No. It’s not okay. I’m sorry. None of this is okay. None of it. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I just can’t believe we just put her in the dirt like that in her dress; she doesn’t have her rose sweater, she’s going to get cold—“

During your ramble, your voice has gotten high, crackly, almost unintelligible, as you turn back to meet his eyes. The expression on his face borders on pity.

“Hey, come here. Let’s just sit for a bit, I can make tea.”

You can’t bear it.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

Spencer sighs, steps closer, lets his hand rest tentatively on your waist. Tensing, you turn, barely, out of his touch.

“Spencer, she can’t be gone, she— she didn’t even look like herself! Didn’t you see it? In the casket? That wasn’t her, they made her all up to look like her but it wasn’t, I swear to God, it wasn’t. How could my mom not tell? It couldn’t be, my grandma can’t be dead, she can’t, Spencer— she is.”

There’s the tears.

He folds you into his chest, feels your tears against his shirt for a moment, arms around your waist. In a desperate attempt to ground yourself, yours wind around his neck, lifting your head to rest on his shoulder so you can speak.

“I want it all to be some lie. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and call her again and she’ll tell me about the new cookies she baked for her neighbor and I would call every day, I would.”

What can he say? He’s never been well-versed in words when they matter, so he lets you get it out. His thumb drifts up and down the fabric covering your ribs as you hiccup another sob.

“It almost makes me sick. I can’t think about the fact that I didn’t return her calls, or that they all got together last Thanksgiving and we didn’t go, I can’t go back to see her, I can’t go back and fix it, I can’t—“

Breathless nearly, he shushes, gentle, one calloused hand coming to rest on your scalp, smoothing down the hair there.

“Breathe, angel. You will make yourself sick if you don’t stop hyperventilating. Just— let me help. Tonight. Okay?”

Somehow, the minutes tick by, and he’s managed to get you showered, in pajamas you love with tea in your hand, and he’s combing through your hair. Sitting, half nothing, half human, in front of him, you let him slide the plastic teeth through your damp locks.

“I was horrid today. You were nothing but supportive and helpful and I was terrible. I’m sorry.”

“You’re grieving. I can take it, okay? The anger. The pain, it’s all a part of this, and I want to be able to handle it with you. That’s— sort of my job, isn’t it? To help you. When you need it.”

Sighing, you turn to face him. He takes your hand, threading your fingers together and letting his thumb ghost over the side of your hand.

“I mean it, sweet girl. Grief is ugly. Horrid, as you say. I definitely can’t expect you to just act as though you’re fine when you’re not.”

“But you also don’t want it to consume me.”

You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, and he grins softly through the light pink that stains his face. Somewhere inside your heart, something glows— still, your affection overwhelms him, just a little.

“And I’ll be damned if I let it.”

“Spencer.”

There’s a warning in your voice, gentle, sad.

“There are some things you just can’t control. No amount of knowledge of statistics or information can fix my heart. This just hurts.”

He blinks. Something flickers in his eyes — upset, raw fear, then, that he won’t be able to drag you out of the pit that you’re slowly sinking into.

“Okay, but I can still apply what I know. How to alleviate some stress, please, just let me.”

Your heart twists. The way his shoulders won’t relax, how tense he is as he tries to hold your eyes despite how you try to avoid avoid avoid.

“We’ll see.” You concede, before you let yourself be tugged under the quilt of your bed and into Spencer’s grasp and the warmth that seems to seep from him. Mentally, you promise to try to let him help. However he can.

God, you try, you do. At first, it’s easy, faking cohesiveness, and you begin to wonder if you’ll really need external assistance at all. Too much blush and caffeine. A tight grin when needed. Barely collected and rationed laughs that the entire team pretends aren’t flimsy like ash.

Until you take the first sick day. Spencer isn’t thrilled about leaving you home alone, but you tell him that you’re just sort of blech, and a day is all you need to recover, and tidy up around the apartment.

What you don’t mention to him is how you spend the entire day in bed. Nothing gets cleaned. The lights stay off all day, curtains drawn tight, your home a dim shadow of what it normally is. Normally? It’s a sanctuary. It’s starting to feel more like a crypt. Coffee cups pile up on your nightstand, on the end table, and the more you stay home, the harder it is to leave. At all.

Because there isn’t just one sick day. There’s another, a week later, after a night spent in tears. And another two days later, when you feel so nauseous and tense at dawn that you feign a stomach bug. Despite the guilt the first few times, each time, it becomes easier to text Garcia that you won’t be in, with excuses that begin to sound poorly crafted even to you. And you want to believe them more than anyone.

You stop looking in the mirror, because all you see is her, and your mom’s soft reminders from childhood turned haunting whispers of ‘you look so much like her.’

In some back corner of your mind, you begin to wonder how long you can wallow before the water fills your lungs and you drown off shore, a corpse waterlogged with muddy memories. The sea salt in your wounds is when you see a picture, hear a song she loved, or smell her perfume in public, and your lashes catch droplets you try to hide from Spencer. Before you know it, you stay home from a case. One in Florida, that you probably would’ve been helpful on.

You don’t care. Every time you close your eyes now, you see her body, fragile and made up to look less gray than she really was, cushioned by pale pink satin. Hotch calls early, to say there’s a case, and you refuse to go, numbly, dully.

Spencer is shocked; no matter the amount of recent absences you’ve had at work, he still can’t believe the development of your depression.

“Baby, you love cases. Please, come along. You can’t just keep taking sick days and not getting out of bed and—“

“Watch me. I’ll do whatever the hell I like.”

The words are empty, despite their vitriol quality, and he frowns. You’re sat on the edge of the bed, hugging your knees to your chest, cheek laid upon them.

“Easy. I didn’t say you couldn’t stay home, but you already took Monday off, and last Thursday, and—“

“Damn it, Spence, I know! I know. I just can’t. Okay? I can’t. I don’t want to. Let it fucking go.”

Now his face goes dangerously blank. You two rarely fight, but your tone is starting to border on hostile. Guilt creeps up your throat.

“Sorry. God, you didn’t deserve that.”

He glides his hands over his suit jacket, voice clipped as he looks down at his shoes.

“I’m not able to support you if you don’t want it. I’ll see you when we get back, then, I guess.”

Panic claws at your chest, sinks its teeth in and has you flying from your spot, voice shrill.

“Spencer, hey, stop, I’m sorry, please, I know—“

He turns, and the anguish in his eyes is intense.

“Baby, I don’t know. Okay? It is excruciating to watch you collapse in on yourself. I want to apply some study I’ve read or even just cheer you up and I’m beginning to think you don’t even want to be helped.”

Taking in a uneasy breath, you nod, color drained away from your face. Spencer’s fingers itch to comfort you. He doesn’t. There’s so much defeat in his eyes, unbound desperation to fix and heal.

“If I stop being sad, if I just keep going on with cases and life, it’s like she’s not even gone. It’s like she didn’t even die, Spencer! And she did! She’s gone, I can’t do anything to bring her back, please, just let me—“

The tears fall now, clumping on your lashes and dribbling down your cheeks, and the pit in Spencer’s chest gets bigger. Sometimes it feels like all time is anymore is minutes spent weeping or not. He steps forward to bring you against his suit coat, trembling hands smoothing over the linen of your pajama top as you heave silent sobs.

“I’m here. You’re not going to make me leave. Because the one thing I do know, Angel? Deep down, you want life to go back to normal. And it will. The grief won’t get smaller, but you’ll grow around it. Okay? I love you. So much.”

Tender hands trace up and down your spine, one eventually coming to tangle in your hair.

“Tell you what. We take this case, and then come home, and take some time off. Together. I’ll help you clean, and maybe—“

Is he pressing too much?

“Maybe we could go see her. It’s been a few months.”

Immediately, your brain lights up with a oh no please don’t I can’t-

“Sure. Yeah. When we get back.”

Florida is what it is — hot and humid and you manage to stay in the field office the entire time. Vaguely, you wonder if Spencer spoke to Hotch. Eventually, you decide it was probably for the best.

True to his word, the apartment is cleaned when you both return home, and two days plus the weekend is granted to the both of you. During the drive there, your heart twists and you’re pretty sure no interrogation has ever made your stomach turn like it does when Spencer slides the car into park, and his hand squeezes yours to help you out of the vehicle and onto sun starched grass.

A quick glance your way tells him you’re apprehensive to the extreme, and he stops halfway there, turning to face you.

“We uh, don’t have to do this. If you don’t think you’re ready.”

You shake your head, one quick movement.

“No. I need to do this.”

He looks relieved, his small smile growing after you try to smile too.

“A lot of people say that it can provide a lot of closure, and be cathartic. It might also… not be easy. Might be jarring, but really, the potential benefits of this outweigh the possibility that—“

You stop, pulling him to a halt with you. Fresh stone, neatly carved letters, her name, followed by years, followed by some lovely sentiment you can’t read because your eyes are clouded.

“They did a good job. With it.”

He says softly, and suddenly, the adrenaline kicks in, and you’re shaking so hard you might just collapse right there.

“We need to go. I’ll come back another, we’ll come back, but right now I need to go.”

Typically, he’d suggest that studies show facing fears can help with said fears, but one look at your terrified, gutted expression and he’s leading you back to his car, hands on shoulders, voice in your ear.

“You’re okay. Breathe baby. In, two three four, out, two, three, four. I’m not going anywhere.”

Once back at the car, you sink down, your back against the cold metal of the car, to land on the ground underneath. He follows suit, and your glossy eyes find the sky, a crisp, autumn cerulean that you just stare at.

“Think she’s watching? Like people say?”

He stares too, and takes your hand. He hears the guilt, the loss in your tone, and knows you’re afraid she wouldn’t be proud.

“That’s one thing I’m not sure about. Religion is, I think, at its core, a response to what people see in the world. A solution to the agony and problems we face down here. I can’t comment on whether or not she’s watching, but if she was, she’d still love you. Still be proud. Just like me.”

“Really? Proud? Of me? When I’ve spiraled into a caffeine and depressive lump that barely gets to work, let alone gets anything productive done?”

“Always. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that, well, I love you. Adore you, really, and you’re still in there, even if it feels like it’s all too foggy to see. I still see you.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, and then pulls back, flushed, and looks away.

“Sorry, that was probably cheesy. But I do. Love you. A lot, and it’s okay if you can’t do this yet, and I—“

You silence him gently with your own mouth, a lingering kiss before you stand.

“We should go. C’mon. Thanks for driving me all the way here. Even if I couldn’t do what I wanted to yet.”

“Good clarifier, ‘yet.’ You will. Eventually. And I’ll be here for each attempt. And, when you finally talk to her.”

In that, in him, you have no doubt.

[shiningjustforreid]

one year of ttpd. this song changed my life btw. that one spencer reid edit to it also changed my life.

[shiningjustforreid]

hey hii how are u ??

I was hoping u could write something where reader has a tough relation with economy bills etc, cause in her child and teen years she heard her parents always fighting and struggling with it, so when spencer gives her gifts or they are doing the shopping it brings her memories etc.

if u are not comfortable, skip this hehe u can add more things to the fic if u want, but that's the basic idea, u have an incredible imagination!!!

The Price of Love

Spencer Reid x reader

w/c: 3.4k

a/n: I hope I did this prompt correctly 😰

You never quite learned how to enjoy the sound of a cash register.

The chime of it at the self-checkout aisle, the low mechanical clunk of coins dropping into a machine, even the smooth slide of a credit card being swiped—it all used to send a little wave of nausea to your stomach. Still did, sometimes. It wasn’t rational, you knew that. But feelings weren’t always logical, and your brain had spent too many years listening to dollar signs scream louder than lullabies.

“Are you okay?”

Spencer’s voice pulled you back, warm and soft like a cotton sweater on a cold morning. He stood beside you in the checkout line, a box of your favorite tea in one hand and a small pack of strawberries in the other. He was smiling, gentle and curious. His scarf—a soft gray one you’d picked out for him—was half slipping off his shoulder.

You blinked. “Yeah, yeah, just thinking.”

“You get quiet when you’re thinking.” He nudged your side playfully. “Statistically, people spend more money when they’re stressed during shopping. Maybe your brain’s protecting your wallet.”

You tried to laugh, even though your chest was tight. “Maybe.”

The total on the screen blinked up at you: $67.42.

You wanted to flinch.

Spencer moved like it was nothing, pulling out his wallet and sliding his card in without a second thought. The screen flashed “Approved.” Your stomach flipped.

“I could’ve—” you started, but the words felt like gravel.

“I wanted to,” he said softly, handing you the strawberries like a peace offering. “I always want to take care of you. That’s not a burden to me.”

You nodded, but something deep in your ribs twisted anyway. You knew he meant well. He always did. But the ghosts of your childhood had long fingers, and they tugged at your mind with every gift, every swipe, every whispered “don’t worry about it.”

Because you did. You always did.

The apartment was quiet that night, save for the rustle of pages and the occasional clink of Spencer’s teacup against its saucer. He was curled on the couch with a book in his lap—The Little Prince, this time, because he said it reminded him of the way you see the world when you’re tired but still hopeful.

You sat beside him, knees tucked under your body, chewing your thumbnail like it owed you something.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” he murmured, not looking up from the page.

“I know.”

A beat. Then, softly, “You’ve been quiet since the store.”

You sighed, rubbing your hands over your knees. “It’s dumb.”

“I like dumb things,” he said, setting the book aside. His tone was gentle but unwavering, the way it always was when he was trying to make space for you. “Especially when they live in your heart.”

You glanced over at him. His hair was slightly messy from where he’d been running his hands through it, and his eyes—those warm, stormy eyes—were completely focused on you.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “When I was a kid, my parents used to fight about money all the time. I mean, all the time. Screaming matches over electric bills. Silent nights because someone overspent on groceries. I’d pretend to be asleep, but I always listened. Every argument felt like a countdown.”

Spencer didn’t interrupt. He just let you talk.

“I think I started to associate spending money with guilt. Like, even if I’m not the one arguing, even if no one’s mad, it still feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m doing something wrong when things cost too much. Especially if it’s not even my money.”

You swallowed hard and looked down at your hands.

Spencer was quiet for a moment, and then he reached out, threading his fingers gently through yours.

“I know what it’s like to grow up around fear,” he said, voice low. “Mine looked different. Hospitals. Needles. People whispering outside my door about whether I’d be ‘normal.’ But the way it settles in your bones? That’s the same.”

Your eyes met his.

He gave your hand a squeeze. “So… when I buy you strawberries, or tea, or that candle you liked last week, it’s not because I think you need them. It’s because I want you to feel loved in small, quiet ways. Even if it takes a while for your brain to let that in.”

Tears blurred your vision, but they didn’t fall.

“You’re not a burden,” he added. “You’re a gift.”

——

You fell asleep with Spencer’s arm wrapped gently around your waist, his breath steady against the back of your neck, your fingers still interlaced like they’d promised not to let go even in dreams.

It wasn’t the easiest sleep. Your body wanted to relax, but your mind kept whispering things like you don’t deserve this and what if it’s too much. But his warmth made a soft cocoon around you, and eventually, exhaustion won.

When you woke, the sun was just beginning to brush gold against the edges of the curtains. The air smelled like cinnamon and something softly sweet.

Spencer wasn’t beside you.

You sat up slowly, heart fluttering with uncertainty, until your eyes landed on the small, folded note on the nightstand. His handwriting was instantly recognizable—neat, slanted slightly to the right, like he was always just a little too eager to say the next word.

Went to grab us breakfast. The cinnamon rolls you like. Also got the kind of juice you pretend not to like but always drink half of anyway.

P.S. No, you’re not allowed to Venmo me.

P.P.S. I love you.

You smiled before you could stop yourself, blinking hard to chase away the sting in your eyes.

In the kitchen, he’d already set out your favorite mug, a soft pink one with little stars on it, and beside it—a post-it that said Refill me with love, and also coffee. His thoughtfulness wrapped around you like a blanket warmer than any money ever could buy.

By the time he returned, paper bag in one hand and a sleepy smile on his face, you were waiting for him barefoot in his oversized sweater.

He froze in the doorway, eyes softening. “Hi.”

You crossed the room slowly, heart in your throat, and wrapped your arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

He hugged you back, one hand resting lightly on the back of your head. “For what?”

“For not making me feel like I owe you anything,” you whispered into his chest.

He kissed the top of your head. “You don’t. I give because I love you. That’s the only price, and you’ve already paid it.”

——

It started with a list.

Not a grocery list. Not a bill-tracking spreadsheet or a carefully budgeted monthly planner like you’d grown used to making. This one was written on a piece of plain notebook paper, torn from the spiral at the edge. You started it on a quiet Sunday, Spencer dozing beside you with his face buried in your shoulder, arms lazily looped around your waist.

At the top, you scribbled in tiny letters:

Things I Can Give Back

It wasn’t that you felt like you had to give him something. He never made you feel like your worth was measured in things. But you needed to prove to yourself that you could still give in your own way. That love didn’t have to be purchased. That you could fill a space with softness too, even if your credit card stayed in your wallet.

#1. Bake him the pumpkin muffins he likes.

You remembered him telling you once, in passing, that his mom used to make them in the fall before her illness took more of her time than she could spare. He hadn’t eaten them in years. So you looked up three recipes, practiced twice, and filled the kitchen with warm, cinnamon-sweet air before he got home from work one day.

He smiled when he saw them on the counter, one eyebrow raised.

“Are these for…?” he started.

You shrugged, trying not to grin. “Unless you’ve got another brilliant profiler hiding in your apartment, yeah. They’re for you.”

The way he looked at you—like no one had ever made him feel more seen—was more rewarding than any bouquet of roses or wrapped-up gift box.

He ate four that night. One right out of the oven, too hot to chew, and still grinning like a little boy.

#2. Plan something for just the two of us. No distractions.

The BAU had been brutal that week. A case in Montana that Spencer wouldn’t even talk about, his eyes going distant when he mentioned the victim’s name. He came back quieter, less inclined to read, more inclined to hold you for hours without speaking. That’s when you decided to make your own kind of healing space.

You borrowed an old projector from a friend and turned the living room into a blanket fort of warm fairy lights and too many pillows. You made popcorn from scratch, melted a little chocolate on top the way he secretly liked, and stacked his favorite books beside a handwritten sign that said:

“Welcome to the no-trauma zone. Stay as long as you want. No bad dreams allowed.”

When he walked in that Friday night, wearing a worn-out cardigan and the weight of the world in his eyes, he froze in the doorway.

“Did you do all this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, suddenly shy.

He turned to look at you, that same look in his eyes as when he saw those muffins. Like you’d somehow reached into the part of him no one else dared to touch and said, you deserve softness too.

Spencer stepped forward slowly, pulling you into his arms, burying his nose in your hair. “You make the world feel… quieter,” he whispered.

#3. Write him something.

This one was hard. Not because you didn’t have the words, but because you had too many. So you started small.

One morning, you left a note in the book he’d been reading—folded into page 198, because he once told you that was his favorite number (for reasons too nerdy and statistical to explain).

It said:

You’re my favorite place to be quiet and my favorite person to be loud with. Thank you for being home when I never thought I’d have one.

He didn’t say anything when he found it. Just walked into the room that evening, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and whispered, “Page 198.”

You smiled into his sweater. “I hoped you’d find it.”

“I’ll keep it forever.”

One afternoon, as you both lay tangled on the couch with soft music playing from an old record player, you finally told him what all of it meant. What the muffins, and the projector, and the little notes were really about.

“I think I was always scared,” you said quietly, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist where his pulse fluttered. “That I’d never be able to match what you give me. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m just… complicated. Too used to surviving to know how to just be with someone.”

He looked at you for a long time, brows pulled slightly together, expression unreadable. Then he sat up slowly, pulling you with him, cupping your face in both hands like he was trying to memorize every line of it.

“Do you want to know something true?” he asked.

You nodded.

“I grew up surrounded by chaos. Hospitals. Institutions. People who thought loving meant fixing. And for a long time, I didn’t think anyone would ever see me without seeing all the parts of me that broke first. But then I met you.”

His thumbs brushed your cheeks, soft and reverent.

“You don’t try to fix me. You see me. And you let me see you too. Even the scared parts. Especially the scared parts. That’s not weakness. That’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Your heart was beating so loud, you were surprised he couldn’t hear it.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth—slow, lingering, like he had nowhere else to be. Then another. And another. Until his lips met yours in full, and the world quieted to just the two of you and the warmth blooming between your ribs.

When he pulled back, he whispered, “Let me keep loving you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Tears slid down your cheeks, and he kissed them too.

That night, you lay curled together under a woven quilt, facing one another, noses almost touching. His hand rested against your back, fingertips drawing slow, absentminded circles that made you melt into the mattress.

“Do you know,” he whispered, “how many languages have words for love that also mean ‘gift’?”

You blinked sleepily. “No, but I feel like you’re about to tell me.”

“Finnish. Sanskrit. Ancient Greek. Even some Indigenous languages from the Americas,” he said, voice soft and low like it was lulling you. “They knew something we forgot. That real love isn’t currency. It’s presence. Safety. The way someone makes you feel when they just exist beside you.”

You smiled against the pillow. “And you make me feel… safe. Like I don’t have to be on edge every time someone pulls out a wallet.”

He kissed your forehead. “Then I’m doing something right.”

Silence stretched between you again, but it was the kind you liked. The kind that meant everything had been said.

A few weeks later, while cleaning out an old drawer, Spencer found your list.

You’d meant to hide it, but you’d forgotten, and there it was—creased, stained with a drop of muffin batter, and filled with the most beautiful, imperfect handwriting he’d ever seen.

He sat with it for a long time, hand resting over his heart.

Then, with your favorite pen, he added one more line at the bottom:

#4. Let him love me, without guilt. Every day. Every hour. Always.

And beneath it, he wrote:

Already happening.

[shiningjustforreid]

[shiningjustforreid]

[shiningjustforreid]

WAITTTTTTTTTTTTTT………

[shiningjustforreid]

[shiningjustforreid]

you can let it go

note: user reidrum's hurt/comfort demons are back but like don't read into it

summary: in which you feel yourself slipping away but not if spencer can help it

cw: hurt/comfort, reader is depressed, hairwashing, pet names, spencer loves you very much

wc: 1.7k

The soft glow of the television is the only source of light in your apartment, a marathon of sitcom reruns has been burning into the screen for the unknown amount of hours you’ve been laying on the couch.

When the door opens you don’t even notice it, your phone has been dead for the past few hours and so if Spencer or anyone else texted you about their arrival you were none the wiser. You’d feel bad about being unreachable if you knew Spencer wasn’t expecting it—you’ve played this role before, too well actually—and so Spencer knows better than to think otherwise until he’s checked home.

“Sweetheart?” he calls out softly, aware of the vague shape on the couch.

You hide it well, you think. Spencer being gone on cases most of the time makes it easier for you to slip through the cracks undetected, where the weight of the fall needs only to be beared on you and no one else. Spencer loves you, and you know this to be fact. You love Spencer too, so much that it would be the opposite of showing him love if you let him worry about you—so you don’t give him the opportunity to do so.

It’s not that you weren’t cause for worry, people worry for a reason. But the vicious cycle you’ve stuck yourself in means creating a set up for them to leave you. They can only worry about you for so long until they realize you’re not making tangible progress to get better; they’ll never know you don’t have a choice but they’ll know it’s enough for them to abandon you.

But Spencer, he has enough to worry about. His job requires him to see the worst of what humanity has to offer, not to mention he’s already dealing with navigating his own gnarly demons like addiction and incarceration. To add upon that would be selfish and irresponsible, you love him too much to do that to him.

He approaches closer and his heart clenches at how quickly you try to mask whatever emotion you had on your face to a stone cold front.

“I’m fine.” you mumble, “just tired.”

He frowns, because of course he knows. It’s the only thing you don’t like about Spencer—his ability to read you better than anyone.

Spencer finds your achilles heel and lets his arrow aim with accuracy as it disarms and exposes you. To Spencer, he’s just looking for a way in. If that’s through your most vulnerable spot then that’s a trek he’s willing to brave for you.

He kneels in front of the couch to be level with your face, his hand reaching out gently carding through your hair.

“Angel,”

Your eyes squeeze tighter, like if you try hard enough you’ll be engulfed in the darkness it brings you.

“Don’t.”

He sighs, he knows it’s a futile effort to ask you what’s wrong. His fingers don’t stop combing through your hair, and you’re thankful that your dismissiveness wasn’t a deterrent this time. You’re never sure when it’ll be the last time.

“What happened baby?” he whispers softly.

You let out a whine, unsure yourself when or how it got to this point. It just…happened.

His hand holds pressure on your head, “Did you eat anything?”

“Wasn’t hungry.” you claim but your stomach betrays you as you speak.

He’d laugh if he wasn’t as overly concerned as he was, “I’m gonna order food and then we’re going to take a shower, okay?”

You open your mouth to protest, “But—“

“No buts,” he chides, “Just…wait here.” he stands up and walks into the kitchen dialing the restaurant number.

Great, you’ve upset him now. He just came home from a trip after solving what was probably a very exhausting case, and now you’ve selfishly added more to his plate of things to worry about. You should have sorted yourself out before he got home, before you burdened him some more.

Spencer places the order and walks back out into the living room, “Food’s on the way, do you want to walk to the bathroom or I can carry you?”

Your reply is immediate, “I can walk, don’t worry.”

The ghost of a smile teases his face, “You sure? Morgan thinks I gained some muscle since the last case, won’t even strain a thing if I tried.”

You make a poor attempt at matching his joke, “It’s okay, my legs still work I think.”

“Alright baby, come on.” he holds a hand out to help you up and leads you to the bathroom.

You stand in the middle of the bathroom while Spencer turns on the shower making sure it’s in the right temperature setting as it heats up. He returns to you and gestures for you to lift your arms as he gently undresses you, before quickly removing his own clothes to join you. You both get in the shower with your back facing the water stream and Spencer in front of you. The warmth of the water is soothing on you, but the concern rises before you can counter it.

“You’re cold,” you note, as your body takes up all of the water.

“I’m perfectly fine, don’t worry about me.” he whispers gingerly, his hands coming up to frame your face to gently guide you, “Lean your head back, sweet girl.”

You listen and let the pressure consume you as the warmth surrounds you like a halo, his fingers threading through your hair to massage your scalp. It’s almost painful at how tender he’s being with you, you’re not sure what you even did to deserve this treatment.

Spencer removes his hands and pumps shampoo onto them, rubbing and lathering them together before returning to your head. His fingers rethread themselves again but he brings your head slightly closer to him to press a long kiss to your forehead. The familiar sting returns to your eyes and you know it’s not from the shampoo dripping down.

He leans your head back again to the water stream to wash out all the shampoo, before repeating the same process with the conditioner. His fingers spend extra time applying pressure to your scalp in hopes of it relaxing and calming you further. When your eyes flutter shut he smiles to himself softly before kissing your nose.

The intimacy of the moment is not lost on either of you. There’s a version of you that wouldn’t even believe someone cared about you this much to do things like wash your hair for you. Spencer can’t imagine a version of himself where he does otherwise.

Once all the conditioner is lathered out he makes quick to wash your body and his before rinsing you both down and shutting the shower off. He reaches for the hair towel and wraps your hair up, to which you can’t help but smile in amusement at the fact that he even knows how to do that. Spencer must sense your astonishment and chuckles, “I told you I’m a man of many talents.”

You reach for the bigger towel and hand one to Spencer as you both dry off and step out of the bathroom. He perches you on the edge of the bed while he goes to the dresser to grab clothes for you both, coming back to tug one of his sweatshirts over you and a pair of his boxers to slip into. 

Spencer puts his own clothes on and grabs your wet hairbrush, cause for another amusing smile because how the hell does he know the difference. He notices a lot more about you than you think, and for him sometimes it’s fun to keep those cards hidden until certain times. Like now, when he props himself against the headboard of your bed and calls for you to sit in between his legs.

Once you situate yourself he leans you forward slightly so he can brush all your hair to your back, and gently brushes out the tangles in your wet hair. The soft stroke of the bristles grounds you back to reality—back to him, and suddenly you don’t feel as heavy anymore.

The last tangle is brushed out and he sweeps your hair to one side and gestures for you to lean back into his chest, his nose burying in the crook of your neck.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says into your neck, “I know you think I am, but I promise you I’m not.”

You swallow a sob, “It’s okay if you are, I don’t mean to be so high maintenance.”

He holds you tighter instinctively, “It is not high maintenance to feel emotions, baby. Or to need support. Taking care of you is a privilege, really.”

Since the day he met you he’s spent everyday cursing and thanking whoever made you feel like this was a normal state to be in. You don’t deserve to feel scared at showing your face to the people who love you in fear they’ll weaponize it against you. But in an odd and maybe slightly selfish way he’s thankful that he gets to be the one who shows you what it means to be loved, that your ability to grow and heal is not sacrificed as a causality of the circumstances you’ve faced.

What he does get upset about is when you hide from him like this—he can’t take care of you if he doesn’t even know something is wrong, and as smart as he is sometimes it’s just not that easy to tell how you’re feeling on calls with you when he’s away.

“I mean it, I love you. Nothing will ever change that. I’ll always be here for you. Just need you to tell me when, okay?”

You angle your head up towards him, “I’m sorry.” you strain.

“Nothing to apologize for, angel,” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, shutting his own eyes, “You’re okay, everything’s okay.”

Spencer knows you trust him, and that your reluctance to open up is not personal to him but to who you were before you met him. He hopes that by loving you as much as he does it will be enough to uncross the wires that led you astray, and back into his heart.

[shiningjustforreid]

spencer reid + his crutches in season 5

[shiningjustforreid]

hiiii mae if you’re up for it would you pretty please write spencer and intern reader when she gets hurt? holding her hand while she gets patched up or comforting her when she’s concussed or something of the like. i love your writing so much xoxoxo

Thank you for requesting <3

cw: blood, concussion, vague mention of a murder case but it's really just background

Spencer Reid x intern!reader ♡ 946 words

“Look this way, please.” 

When you don’t move, Spencer gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “Hey. Can you look over there?” 

You turn your face from Spencer’s jacket, and the paramedic gives you a kind smile. She knows you weren’t ignoring her; you only hadn’t been paying attention. “Follow my finger,” she tells you. 

Spencer watches as you do, her pen light gliding over your bloody face. There are tear tracks diluting the red. 

Staying with witnesses is supposed to be a safe part of the job. That’s why Hotch assigned it to you. But when Morgan walked the handcuffed unsub through the station, one victim’s husband lost it completely, and when you got into his warpath he shoved you so hard Spencer heard your head knock against the precinct’s tile floor. Blood puddled around your left temple before anyone could even make it to you. 

You started crying nearly as soon as you woke up. It was more than understandable, given the blood all around you and the confusion you must have been feeling after a head injury like that, but what scared the team was when you wouldn’t stop. JJ tried talking to you, even Morgan softened his teasing and offered you a hug, but to everyone’s surprise all you wanted was Spencer. You calmed some once he sat down in front of you. Tears still dribbled from your chin, but you didn’t seem quite so distraught, and you let the paramedics look at you so long as Spencer stayed. Eventually he wound up in the back of an ambulance, an arm around your shoulders while you sniffled miserably into his windbreaker and a paramedic applied butterfly bandages to the cut on your head. 

Your eyes water as the paramedic clicks off her pen light and begins asking you questions. It takes a few moments for your gaze to settle on her. 

“It’s…it’s Wednesday.” You turn to Spencer. “Is it Wednesday?” 

His heart throbs at the vulnerability in your tone. “Focus on her,” he says, softening the directive with a stroke of his thumb over your shoulder. 

You turn back to the paramedic, answering her questions with varying degrees of uncertainty. Your fingers curl in the material of Spencer’s jacket. He has the urge to tuck your head underneath his chin. 

The paramedic informs you (or informs Spencer, really, you’re not paying much attention) that they’re going to take you to the hospital for a CT scan. They’ll let him ride there with you if he wants to. Spencer says yes without a thought. 

While she goes to pack up her supplies, he takes your fingers and unbunches them, warming your palm between his. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks you. 

You make a soft, stymied sound, bringing the unhurt side of your head to Spencer’s shoulder for a rest. “I don’t like this.” 

Spencer doesn’t need to ask which part you mean. He imagines none of it is pleasant. The light and sound of an ambulance in general has to be torment for your head. 

“Try closing your eyes,” he suggests. 

“I’m worried that will make me dizzier.” 

“Do you feel sick?” 

“Not really.” 

“Just try. It helped last time.” 

You sigh but do. You turn your head so your forehead is pressing into the bump of his shoulder, and Spencer reaches up to stop you before you can get close to rubbing against the bandages keeping your cut closed. 

Your voice is a watery consistency. “I really don’t feel right.” 

Spencer feels a painful tug in his middle. “I know. I’m sure it’s scary, but it won’t be forever. We’re going to the hospital, and the doctors are going to make sure you’re okay.” 

“I just don’t like this.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“Spencer?” 

“Hm?” 

“I really feel like I messed things up.” 

He has to remind himself not to move. In his surprise, his instinct is to pull back, to search your face for answers, but you’re pointed where he can’t see you with your voice trailing down his arm. 

“You didn’t. What makes you think that?” 

“It just…it feels like…” 

The words take a while to come. Spencer forces himself to set aside his curiosity. 

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to think about that right now. Just rest. You didn’t mess anything up.” 

“It feels like I’m…” you forge on, determined. “I’m always either not helping or in the way.” 

Again, Spencer’s first thought is to ask what you mean by that. But he doesn’t want to force you to overexercise your injured brain, so he tries to go along without elaboration. He fills in the gaps. 

“You’ve never been in the way,” he assures you, meaning it. “And you help us a lot. We wouldn’t be nearly as efficient without you, especially on this last case.” 

“I’m just an intern.” 

“Exactly. So it’s even more impressive how valuable you’ve been to our team.” 

You’re quiet for a few moments. Spencer starts rubbing slow circles into your shoulder with his thumb. Your forehead warms his arm through the jacket. 

“Thank you for staying with me. You’re always so nice.” 

“It’s no problem. I like hanging out with you.” 

“I don’t feel very well.” 

“Are your eyes still closed?” 

A pause. “Were they supposed to be closed?” 

Spencer smiles at the top of your head. Even confused as you are, there’s a familiar note of inquisitiveness to your tone. Like all you ever really want is to be sure you’re doing the right thing. Spencer is warmed that you trust him to tell you what that is. 

“Try closing them.” 

“Oh. This is better, thank you.” 

“It’s no problem.”

[shiningjustforreid]

spencer reid in 3.09

[shiningjustforreid]

spencer reid in 7.08

[shiningjustforreid]

spencer reid is in fact an outfit repeater btw

[shiningjustforreid]

7.11