simpleangst

[simpleangst]

you heard it from the man himself.

maria mgg once said he thinks he looks like an androgynous muppet. thoughts?

most self-aware thing he's ever said

[simpleangst]

𝐄𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐬 + 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

a/n : can you tell i like playing around with reader like a dress up doll?

𖹭 You’re assigned to cover a string of disappearances in D.C. that have recently been escalated to a federal level. The BAU’s involved.

𖹭 You show up to the police precinct in a pressed blazer, recorder in one hand, coffee in the other—composed, professional, and already annoyed that they wouldn’t let you into the briefing.

𖹭 Emily meets you with the trademark BAU frost: “This isn’t a press-friendly investigation.” “And yet, people want to know why there’s a body count and no answers.”

𖹭 You clash immediately. Not loudly, not dramatically—but with that calm, clipped tone that carries bite. She walks away and mutters to Tara, “I hate reporters.”

𖹭 After that you keep showing up. You’re respectful, never pushy, never reckless—but you’re sharp. You catch little things in body language, timelines, phrasing.

𖹭 Emily watches your segment that night expecting to be furious—but you’re measured. Informed. Fair. You don’t sensationalize the victims. You quote the families instead of spinning soundbites. She’s impressed. She won’t admit it. But she starts glancing toward the door when you’re due to show up

𖹭 You stop calling her “Agent Prentiss” so much as teasing it. “That was a very professional answer, Agent Prentiss. Did you rehearse that?” “Are you always this difficult with law enforcement?” “Only the hot ones.”

𖹭 She starts looking forward to the interviews. She teases you back. There's banter. There’s eye contact. You accidentally touch hands passing a file. She doesn’t pull away immediately. JJ side-eyes her with a smirk. “You sure you still hate reporters?”

𖹭 One night, it’s late. You’ve stayed behind at the precinct, quietly working in a corner because you want to run a piece on the victim’s advocacy group. Emily walks by and pauses in the doorway. You look up, tired, and smile. “Hey. Didn’t mean to linger.”

𖹭 She walks in. Stands next to your chair. Says, softer this time: “You’re not what I expected.” “Let me guess. You expected tabloid trash with fake lashes and a moral compass made of plastic.” “I expected someone who wouldn’t care.” You hold her gaze. You don't blink. “I care more than you think.”

𖹭 Once the case closes. You're prepping your final coverage. She's packing up. You bump into her outside the elevator. She hesitates, then says, “Are you... always this good at pissing me off and making me like it?” You grin. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone.” She pauses, licks her bottom lip, and then: “Can I take you to dinner?” You don’t even try to be coy. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

[simpleangst]

the crochet girlies rise UP

hi lovely I was yapping about this in the comments of the lipstick stain fic and now I can't stop thinking about reader who does embroidery and knitting and crocheting and a continuation of the kisses fic where she embroiders the kiss marks for him and ugh just pure fluff and reader making him sweaters and maybe for Christmas she makes the whole BAU sweaters personalized to their personalities and like Hotch and readers apartment is covered in crocheted blankets and stuff?? that would be so sweet (you obviously aren't obligated to do any request 🫶)

anyways yeah I can't stop thinking about that and you're like my favorite writer on here 😭

thank you for reading this babes mwah

kiss & needles| aaron hotchner

part two of lipstick stain

pairing: aaron hotchner x fbi!non-bau!reader summary: you learn the art of sewing and the bau team is your first victim. part two of lipstick stain content/tw: none! just fluff <3 word count: 1.1k a/n: hello my dearest !!!! i am a yapper #4life, so just know i was crazy excited for this request since the moment i saw it!!!! i absolutely loved your idea, and i can picture it perfectly 😭 i wanted to write more but i’m in my finals week and it’s currently taking my will to live. and now more importantly: thank you SO much for that, i keep rereading and it makes me emotional every time! you’re so kind, i absolutely love seeing your @ pop up, and once again thank you for the request and those sweet words! truly hope you enjoy this one, sending you much love 💗🪽 dividers by @uzmacchiato masterlist part one

It all started as a joke.

You and Aaron were exchanging Valentine's day gifts, on the rare occasion of him being home for a holiday. Since the main event was the romantic getaway, the gift-giving was merely symbolic. Sweet little cards and something silly to combine. And that was exactly what he expected when you handed him a pink box, tied in an overly big and dramatic red bow, giggling like crazy, your eyes sparkling with amusement and anticipation.

He arched an eyebrow, with that skeptical smirk of his and opened the box carefully not to ruin your wrapping-work. But, as soon as he glanced at it, your giggles turning into a whole fit of laughter, his world stopped.

Because, covered with little paper hearts, was one button-up white shirt just like the other 100 on his closet, but with a kiss shaped embroidery on the right side of the collar.

Not realizing the shift in his expression, you just kept laughing. “Get it? Because of the kisses…”  but before you could finish your explanation – that was completely unnecessary, of course he’d got it –, Aaron looked at you, his expression blank.

“Did you do this?” his voice was low, weak. All the laughter in your body vanished, and you felt yourself getting shyer. Maybe it was too silly.

“Y-yeah. It’s not really a gift, I know. I thought it would be funny. It’s a little crooked, I know, but if…”

He interrupted you once again, but not with words this time. In a matter of two steps he closed the distance between your bodies, his arms engulfing you in a tight hug. He buried his face on your neck, giving you hundreds of kisses, and you laughed in relief.

“I loved it. I can’t believe you did this.” he said, his lips barely stopped kissing you to mutter the words. You were blushing under his attention, “The shirt was really cheap. Not like those fancy ones you use.” you explained, cringing at yourself.

“I loved it.” Aaron repeated, firmer. He removed his face from your neck to face you, staring at you with that foundess that always left you weak on the knees. “I had no idea you knew how to sew.”

You chuckled “I didn’t. But I’ve been having lots of lonely nights.” you give him a mock pointy look, to which he just chuckled, leaning in and kissing you.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” he said, looking once again at his new gift — which he was still clutching with his fists — so happy you doubted he felt that bad about your free time.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

What started as a joke turned into your own free — not really — therapy.

When a case went wrong and you found yourself so injured you had to stay at home for a month, you found yourself close to climbing the walls — that’s it, if you could stand by yourself.

The fact that you had just moved in with Hotch a couple months before that was just pure luck. Even though he spent most of the time at the BAU, he made a little more effort to come home at normal hours — even though it meant having files spreaded on the dining table and unfinished reports on every possible surface — which was only a plus.

You found out that not spending more than half of your day hunting criminals was rather boring, and there wasn’t much you could do alone that didn’t involve the use of your legs. Also, Jack didn’t get back from school until late, and by that time he wasn’t interested in much besides tv shows and his homework.

So you decided to pick up a new hobby: movie watching and every form of sewing you could think of. It wasn’t long before you mastered the art of embroidery, knitting and even – but not as good – crocheting. Aaron, ever the gentlemen, got you all kinds of needles, yarns and threads, which made the weeks fly by quicker than you thought.

Which also helped was Hotch’s teammates, who took it their side mission to entertain you, specially when Aaron found himself lost between paperwork and meetings. They stopped by your place, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, always bringing something: food, wine, puzzles, books and gossip.

You usually hated being babied, but the way they cared and respected you made you feel even better. Now you understood why your boyfriend was so protective of them: they were family. And when you finally got better, before you started working, you made your way up to the BAU’s floor with Aaron by your side holding a bag full of gifts.

If you weren’t so excited to hand them their gifts – one sweater each, knitted by your own hands –, you definitely would’ve noticed the mischievous glint on his eyes. He almost giggled when you mentioned that you hoped everyone was already there. 

When you crossed the glass doors to the bullpen you heard a collective yell of “surprise” that had you yelping and jumping in surprise, finding his team gathered with pastries, a breakfast platter and a cake with a ‘welcome back’ written in frosting.

“I had a lot of free time. Also, it’s a thank you gift. You made this last month much more bearable.” you explained when they opened their gifts.

“A little more spoiling and she would’ve faked an injury to stay home.” Aaron joked, nudging your waist.

“I’m sorry if looking at dead bodies doesn’t feel as appealing to me as lying on a king sized bed, reading books and eating homemade italian food.” you explained, rolling your eyes.

“Please don’t give too many details about our boss’ bed.” Morgan teased, although his smirk showed he was very willing to hear it.

“Speak for yourself.” Emily chimed in, “Also, this is amazing. I can’t believe you managed to knit all of this.”

“You have no idea. I even ended up crocheting some clothes for myself. I can show you later, they turned out really cute.” you offered.

“Oh, oh! Have you seen that crochet white dress that’s viral…” Garcia asked, excitedly waving her hands to gesture.

“The backless one? With that flower attached? So gorgeous.” JJ groaned, glancing up like she was seeing it. 

“Yes, I’ve learnt how to do it. It’s really not that hard.” you explained, blushing “I am now on a mission to refresh my own wardrobe.”

“And luckily for me,” Aaron joined, his voice sarcastic “she gets to choose the exact length, or lack thereof, of her clothes.” The whole team laughed at that, Rossi and Morgan tapping his shoulder in sympathy.

Between jokes that you were now completely used to – even becoming a part of it, sometimes –, the morning went by, and more than ever you felt at home with them. And a few weeks later, when the team left for a case the next winter, you almost melted at the picture Aaron – now your husband – sent you. All of them on a police station, coffee, bagels and files scattered on the office table, smiling and showing off their sweaters: the very ones you gave them.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna

[simpleangst]

constant reactions to fanfic

[simpleangst]

[insert wolf whistle]

TOO PRETTY TO BE STRESSED

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: aaron swears he's not the clingy type...until you show up, and suddenly it's a full blown PDA parade in the bullpen, based on this request. warnings | an: fluff, they're so in love it makes me sick, lots of touching, hotch soothing r's stress with his credit card, i am once again spreading the suggar!daddy!hotch agenda, the team being annoying, hotch enabling r's spending habits. word count: 2.1k

✧ masterlist

Walking through the doors of the FBI never quite feels normal. You’d think being married to the man who runs one of its top units would earn you a little immunity from the nerves, but nope. There are still plenty of tight-lipped smiles from men who clearly think you don’t belong (to be fair, you technically don’t), and those awkward elevator rides where you end up clarifying, again, that you’re just here to drop off lunch for the most handsome agent in the building. Not that you say that part out loud. 

It doesn’t happen often, hardly ever, really. Aaron’s not the kind of man who forgets things, especially not lunch. Maybe twice every four months, if that. And even then, he never asks for you to bring it. He usually brushes off your offers with a quick ‘I’ll grab something from the cafeteria’ which, of course, actually means ‘I won’t eat until dinner.’ 

And that just won’t suffice. Especially not when he’s been filling out his shirt so nicely, lately.

So there you were, pretty shoes dragging against the dull bureau floor, lunch in one hand, cookies and your purse dangling from the other, wrist definitely starting to ache. You weren’t exactly sneaking into the bullpen, but you weren’t strutting either. Just stuck in that awkward middle space reserved for people who technically shouldn’t be there, but have the authority to show up anyway, because boss man said so.

“There she is! Hotchner’s better half,” Emily called out, spinning her chair around with a grin.

You offered a sheepish wave, trying not to drop anything. “I come bearing gifts…and mild wrist pain.”

“Oh! Are those the butterscotch ones?” Penelope squealed, jumping up from where she’d been perched on Spencer’s desk.

“Yes, new recipe,” you said, carefully setting your things down on JJ’s desk as she kindly unhooked your overloaded purse. “I swapped out the dark brown sugar for light, added a little sea salt on top, and I may have used browned butter this time. I was feeling ambitious.”

“You browned the butter?” Penelope gasped. “You absolute kitchen goddess!”

Spencer leaned in for a closer look as you popped the lid off the container. “That actually changes the flavor quite a bit. The Maillard reaction from browning—”

“Yes, yes, science, great,” Emily cut in. “Can we eat them now, or is there a presentation we have to sit through first?”

You laughed, nudging the tin closer to everyone. “No presentations. Just cookies. Though if anyone gives them a rating out of ten that’s higher than a nine, I won’t complain.”

Morgan was the first to grab one, swiftly using it as a pointer to gesture towards Aaron, who was pushing back his chair. “Oh look, here he comes.”

You glanced up just in time to catch it—that little motion he always did, fingers brushing his tie flat against his chest as he stood. A completely innocent gesture. Totally routine. And somehow still enough to make your mouth water.

“You know,” Morgan added, mid-chew, “that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him leave his office. Last time he moved like that, we had an active shooter in the building.”

“Alright, don’t scare her,” Rossi scolded, swatting Morgan’s bicep with a file. “She already doesn't like coming here as it is.”

“Now, that’s not true, Dave,” you corrected, grabbing Aaron’s lunch. “I love seeing you all. I just prefer doing it without all the security nuisance, badges, metal detectors and guns.”

Morgan nudged your elbow, eyes still on Aaron as he made his way over. “For a guy who claims he’s not clingy, he’s practically tripping over himself right now.”

“Oh, he’s definitely clingy,” you grinned, just as Aaron reached you, wasting zero time before leaning in and placing a swift kiss to your lips, murmuring a dreamy ‘Hi you’ before pulling away.

“Come on.” Morgan shook his head, reaching for his second cookie. “This is the same guy who made us sit through a mandatory refresher on workplace boundaries, and now look at him, breaking every single one.”

“Let them be in love,” JJ said sweetly, sipping her coffee like this was all perfectly normal.

You looked up at Aaron, eyebrows raised, trying to coax some kind of reaction to all the teasing. But he didn’t even glance at the others, just kept his eyes on you as he took the lunch bag from your hands, his fingers brushing along your wrist with just enough pressure to say thank you, I missed you, without saying anything at all.

“You didn’t have to come all this way, honey.”

“I know, but I overbaked and figured I was due for my monthly dose of shocking the system.” You glanced around the bullpen, cringing a little at the endless clacking of keyboards and constant ringing of phones. It was all starting to give you at least four different headaches. “Feels like there’s less oxygen in here somehow.”

“That’s because no one is allowed to breathe until all the paperwork is done,” Emily interjected dryly. 

“Is that true, Aaron?” you asked, reaching up to fuss with his tie. “Are you working your team too hard?”

“They live to complain.”

A chorus of groans and mock-offended noises rose up around you, just as Aaron’s hand slipped to the small of your back, steering you gently towards his office.

“Blinds stay open, you two,” Morgan called after you, pointing two fingers from his eyes to yours. “We’re watching!”

“Just keep walking,” Aaron murmured into your hair, voice quiet and beguiled, giving your hip a subtle squeeze as he guided you up the stairs.

You bit back a grin, feeling far too smug—and frankly, far too giddy—for someone standing in a federal building. Inside his office, he quietly closed the door behind you and you made yourself at home by sliding into one of the chairs across from his desk. 

“Think Morgan might have a point, you are getting a little reckless with the PDA. You’re going soft.”

He moved to his chair, smoothing his tie against his chest as he sat. “I’ve always been soft with you.”

That answer knocked the wind out of you in the quietest way. You blinked once, then shook your head. “Wow. Okay. That’s not even fair.”

He just looked amused, unpacking the lunch bag while sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. “You know they’ll be talking about this all afternoon.”

You waved him off and kicked his foot gently under the desk, because footsies, like true love, didn’t have an expiration date. “Let them. Let them talk about how you have a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife who is kind enough to hand-deliver your lunch.”

“They already know.”

“Good answer.” You nodded, satisfied, and handed him a few tissues just as he took the first bite of his sandwich. “Now, how's your day been? And don’t say ‘fine’, or I’ll start pulling out my therapist's voice and asking about your coping mechanisms.”

He chewed, giving you a dour look over the top of the sandwich like he was already reconsidering speaking at all.

“Busy. Two consults, one profile draft, and I’ve had to remind Morgan three times to finish his report.”

“So… business as usual.”

“Basically.”

He took another bite, and you used the pause to admire him. How pretty he looked. He was getting subtly more rugged with time, never quite managing the clean-shaven look, not for lack of trying, but that had always been fine by you. You loved him exactly as he was.

Your eyes wandered over his desk, taking in the meticulously organised scene in front of you. Everything was in its place, except for a single pen and one loose file slightly out of line, a tiny disruption in an otherwise perfect system. It made you smile.

He wiped his mouth, and in that moment, his wedding band caught the thin stream of light this moody building begrudgingly allowed in. As if the universe was saying, yes, look—he’s yours.

And you thanked her silently for it. Because he was.

“Want to ditch the rest of the day, fake a headache, and run away with me to somewhere that doesn’t require badge access?” you proposed, straightening the photo of you on his desk. 

He tilted his head. “Tempting.”

“You’d never actually do it, though.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll think about it the whole time I’m here.”

Your smile pulled a little wider. “That’s enough for me. That—and as long as I’ll have you home in time for dinner,” you said, though it came out as more of a question. Maybe even a tiny, minuscule threat. 

“Don’t worry, I will,” he assured you kindly. “I know your parents are coming over tonight. I wouldn’t dream of making you face that alone. I’m guessing that’s what’s been bothering you, hence the industrial-sized cookie batch?”

You sighed, slumping back into the chair. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

“You know they’re hard work. And I can only fake-smile and nod my way through so many stories about people I don’t remember and opinions I didn’t ask for.”

Aaron set his sandwich aside, abandoning it on the tissue you had passed him earlier. He used another to wipe his hands, then stood, taking two steps to get to you. 

Before you could say anything, his hands were on either side of your chair, gently turning it to face him. He crouched down, and you instinctively parted your legs so he could slot in between them. 

“Hey,” he urged softly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together, and if it gets to be too much, I’m excellent at coming up with polite excuses to get them out of the house.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, sweetheart.”

And just in case his words were not confirmation enough, his hands came to cradle your face, thumbs circling your skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Go to that bookstore you like,” he said next, already reaching into his pocket. “Grab your favorite coffee, roam around for a while, and try not to stress until they text you that they’re on their way, okay?”

He pulled out his wallet and fished out his card. “You’re too pretty to be stressing in this skirt.”

You raised a brow, lifting one leg and watching the flowy fabric settle back down over your knee. “It’s cute right?”

“Very.” He nodded, dead serious. “Go buy yourself another one.” He extended the card towards you like it was non-negotiable.

You laughed, giving his hand a light swat. “I’m not taking your card like some 1950s housewife.”

“You’re not. You’re my very independent, endlessly capable wife who I happen to love spoiling any chance I get. Now, please, take it. Call it payment for lunch…and for making you come all the way here, knowing full well how much you’d rather avoid this place.”

You pouted, eyes dancing between the card and his face. “Fine,” you relented, plucking the card from his hand. “But I’m only getting one book. Two max. The bookshelf is about to collapse.”

“Buy as many as you want.” He reached down, helping you to your feet with a gentle tug. “I’ll build you a new bookshelf.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.” 

“You’ll build me a new bookshelf?”

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “With actual tools.”

“Okay, now I have to see that.”

He pulled back, straightening your cardigan, fussing without ever making it feel like fussing. “Then you better pick up a lot of books.” 

You rolled your eyes, tucking the card away into your pocket. “This is enabling.”

“This is love,” he corrected, stealing a quick kiss before walking you to the door. “Text me when you get there. And if you see a ridiculous romance novel with a cheesy title, get it. I want to hear the plot.”

You grinned, poking his chest. “You just want to make fun of me.” 

“No, I just like knowing what’s taking up space in that beautiful head of yours.” 

“It’s mostly just you.”

He looked like he was trying not to smile too hard at that, so you saved him the trouble by leaning up and giving him one last kiss, ignoring all the hollering behind you from Morgan. 

“I love you,” he promised, smoothing a hand down your arm. “Now, go before I change my mind and fake a headache just to come with you.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @mggslover @khxna @keiminds

join my taglist here 💌

[simpleangst]

Spencer Reid says "I look like a teaching assistant without a gun." and sweetheart, honeybunchkins, light of my life. You'd still look like a teaching assistant but with a gun

Dr. Spencer "I'm rugged!" Reid

[simpleangst]

Dr. Spencer "I'm rugged!" Reid

[simpleangst]

Hotch's internal dialogue is haunted by 'fuck!' and variants.

dude deserves to scream in his car

Derek, running into Hotch’s office: reid is on the street and he’s waiting for a bus! 

Hotch: … okay..? where’s he going?

Derek: no- he’s waiting FOR the bus! 

Hotch: to take him…? 

Derek: TO RUN HIM OVER. 

Hotch: ohhhhhhhhh.

Hotch: again? 

Hotch, leaving: this fuckin’ guy-

[simpleangst]

"ahoy there, sexy."

can i request a derek fic where readers also in BAU and they’re married and everytime someone says “morgan” both her and derek turn around or show up and the teams figuring out how to differentiate the morgan’s and dereks just all smug like “yeah she’s MY wife”

i love you’re writing btw!!!🩷

"Morgan?" Penelope calls from the kitchen, "You're scheduled for a retake of your ID photo today at 12!"

The responses she gets are a, 'What?' from you, and a, 'What'd you say?' from your husband. You blink bewilderedly at him, and relish the way that his grin lights up the room between you, like a sunbeam shot into your chest.

"Oh, not you," Penelope huffs, peering over the open door of the fridge to glance between you two, "I meant the pretty one!"

"That doesn't narrow it down, babygirl," Derek raises an amused brow at her, drumming his pen on the wood surface of his desk, "You talking to me or my wife?"

"Your wife!" Penelope all but snaps, "Derek, your ego is so inflated."

"It's your fault," You tease Penelope, who withdraws from the fridge with a can of soda and a slightly guilty expression on her face, "I seem to remember you answering just about a thousand of his phone calls with, 'Ahoy there, sexy'."

"Stop," She pleads regretfully, cracking the tab on her soda can with more force than she needs to, "Don't- stop! I didn't know you two were- were hitched! -were canoodling! I never would have talked about his abs if I'd known he was taken."

"It's okay," You promise her, and you really mean it, because you know for all of their sex-crazed banter, they're friends to the highest degree, and Derek is faithful to you. "Penelope, if it weren't for you, he wouldn't know how to paint nails."

"It's true," Derek nods, grabbing your hand to showcase the baby blue color he'd applied for you just yesterday, "You're my personal trainer, P.G."

She surrenders with a sigh, and you're glad that she seems to not harbor any real guilt, because you'd hate for her to be burdened with it. She leans in to peer at your hand Derek has on display, and when she looks closely at your ring finger, her nose scrunches in a grimace.

"You got it on her cuticles, Derek," She chides, disapproval apparent in her tone that makes your chest shake in a gleeful laugh, "Have I taught you nothing?"

[simpleangst]

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: Spencer gets released from prison and decides he can no longer live another day without you by his side

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn’t cry in front of anyone not once. Not JJ, not Emily. Not even Garcia when she pulled you into a thousand hugs during those first few weeks after Spencer was taken into custody.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart. Because if you did who would be strong for him?

You visited every chance you could. You kept your voice steady when you spoke to him, even when his eyes looked so tired and haunted you could barely breathe. You told him about new cases, updates from Garcia, how Henry was doing in school. You wore your best smiles and never let him see the ache.

But behind closed doors , You curled up in his cardigan. You sobbed into your pillow.

You clutched the mug he used every morning like it was a lifeline.

And when you were alone in your car outside the prison, after another too short visit, you’d scream just to let it out. The fear, the rage, the heartbreak.

Because he didn’t deserve this.

And you missed him. God, you missed him so much.

When Spencer finally walked out of prison, he barely made it five feet before you were in his arms.

He’d grown thinner. Tired. But his arms still fit around you like home. You kissed his face, over and over, whispering how proud you were, how strong he’d been, how much you loved him.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” you kept whispering, like if you said it enough, you could make the pain disappear for both of you.

He didn’t say much that first day. He just kept touching you your hand, your cheek, your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. Every time he looked away, his fingers found their way back to you. And every time you looked at him, he was already looking at you.

You stayed home for a few days after his release. The two of you didn’t leave the apartment once. You cooked for him, let him pick the shows, read together in bed. You held him when he had nightmares and never let go.

One morning, you found him standing by the window before sunrise, staring out with tears in his eyes.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek into his back.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “I just… I don’t know what to do with all this freedom. But I do know one thing.”

You turned him around slowly, hands on his waist. “What’s that?”

“I’m never letting them take me from you again.” His voice cracked. “I wasted so much time thinking I had more time. But nothing is promised.”

“Spence—”

He dropped to one knee.

“I don’t have a ring,” he said quickly, nervously. “I was going to wait, to make it special. But I can’t wait anymore. I don’t want to waste another second. I need to know you’ll always be mine, because I am already yours.”

Tears welled in your eyes as your hands flew to your mouth.

“Will you marry me, right now? Today? Just us if you want, or the whole team, I don’t care. I just want to be your husband. Please?”

You knelt down in front of him, hands trembling as you cupped his face. “Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, yes, of course, Spencer. I’ve been yours for years.”

Two hours later, in Rossi’s garden you were getting married.

Garcia wore a crown of fake flowers and sobbed through the entire thing.

Rossi stood in the back with a soft smile.

You wore a simple white dress Emily had rushed to grab from her closet, and Spencer wore his best shirt the one you’d gotten him for his birthday last year.

The vows weren’t fancy. They weren’t rehearsed. They were spoken between tears and laughter, whispered promises, and forehead kisses.

When he said “I do,” Spencer looked at you like the sun had finally come out after the longest winter of his life.

And when he kissed you, you knew you’d never have to be strong alone again. Not anymore.

You were home.

He was free.

And you were finally his wife.

Forever.

The first night in prison, Spencer lay awake with your name in his mouth like a prayer.

The bunk was hard, the air heavy. He could still feel your hug the way you held on just a second longer when they led him away. You were trying to be strong. You were always trying to be strong. He hated that he made you need to be.

He kept your face in his head like a reel. The little squint you did when you smiled. The way your hands shook when you were overwhelmed but you always pretended they weren’t. The way you kissed his temple when you thought he was asleep.

He hated that he couldn’t protect you from this.

But worse he hated that you couldn’t protect him from it either.

You came to see him every chance they let you. Dressed in neat clothes, hair pulled back, smiles in place. At first, he thought you were okay.

But Spencer had studied you too long to miss the cracks.

Your eyes were always red-rimmed. You looked thinner. Tired.

And sometimes, when you’d talk about your day, your voice would catch just slightly like you were choking on words you weren’t saying. Like I cried last night or I had a panic attack in the shower or I miss you so much it hurts to breathe.

But you smiled anyway. For him.

You were always strong. For him.

And that’s what broke his heart the most.

He counted days in letters.

You’d leave little notes tucked into books you brought him. One liners. Inside jokes. Sentences that barely filled the margins but filled his chest instead.

“I wore your cardigan all week.”

“Garcia says hi and also to tell you she cried during a cat video yesterday.”

“I love you more today than I did yesterday, somehow.”

He would lie on his bunk and reread them like scripture. Because if he thought too long about what you were going through without him if he imagined you curled up alone in your apartment, trying to breathe without breaking he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

When they told him he was getting out, he didn’t believe it.

When they put him in clean clothes, when they walked him out the gates, his legs barely moved. Every step felt like waking from a coma.

And then he saw you.

You were standing there in a soft sweater, eyes full of tears. And suddenly the weight lifted all at once. It was over. He was free. You were real.

You threw your arms around him and kissed him like the world was ending.

He clung to you like it just started again.

Back home, he couldn’t stop touching you.

Not in a possessive way. Just… grounding. His fingers in your hair. Your palm against his chest. Knees pressed together on the couch. Your heartbeat was the only thing that kept the dizziness at bay.

That first night, when he woke up gasping, you were already sitting up beside him.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. You were crying. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

He nodded, but the guilt curled in his chest. Because you were still carrying it all. You still weren’t sleeping. And it hit him like a flood:

He never wanted to put you through that again.

The next morning, he stood by the window and watched the sky change color. You were asleep in bed, tangled in his shirt, peaceful for once. And it was there, in that quiet, that it clicked.

He needed to marry you.

He needed to make it real needed to tether himself to you in the only way he knew how. Not because he thought you’d leave. But because he needed to stay. Permanently. Legally. Eternally.

He didn’t have a ring. He didn’t have a plan. He barely had himself back together.

But he had love. And he had you.

That was enough.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said, voice shaking as he knelt in front of you.

You gasped, eyes wide and shining.

“I want to be your husband,” he said. “Please. Let’s get married today. I can’t be away from you again. I won’t survive it.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you dropped to your knees and kissed him, laughing through it.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Spencer. A million times, yes.”

A few hours later, surrounded by the team, he stood in Rossi’s garden in front of you in a borrowed tie and his best shirt.

You held his hands with that same steady strength you always gave him. But now he could see the relief in your smile.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

When he said “I do,” he meant it in every way possible.

I do choose you.

I do love you.

I do promise never to make you suffer alone again.

When he kissed you, he finally exhaled.

He was yours.

You were his.

And the rest of his life could finally begin.

Spencer had been nervous walking back into the BAU after prison. But walking in with you, as his wife?

That felt… different. Softer. Full circle.

The elevator doors opened and there you were, fingers laced through his, wedding bands glinting under the fluorescent lights like tiny flashes of rebellion against everything the last year had thrown at you both.

Your badge still sat proudly on your hip. His hung newly reissued around his neck.

And your last name, now officially hyphenated with Reid, looked absolutely perfect in the updated Bureau directory.

The bullpen was already buzzing when you walked in case files being shuffled, Garcia talking a mile a minute to Luke over speakerphone but the moment JJ looked up, everything came to a halt.

“Oh my god” she gasped, standing so fast her chair rolled back.

You barely had a second to respond before she rushed around her desk and threw her arms around both of you. “You actually did it!”

“We did ,” you said, grinning. “Last night in Rossi’s garden.”

“With me crying,” Garcia added, appearing suddenly from behind a potted plant like a pastel fairy godmother. “Like, aggressively crying.”

Rossi was next. He gave Spencer a smile, followed by a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome home. Both of you.”

Emily held your hands up, examining your simple, shining bands. “You two are disgustingly adorable. I hope you know that.”

“They know,” Luke said with a smirk. “They haven’t stopped smiling since they walked in.”

“We haven’t stopped smiling since the wedding,” you corrected.

Spencer just stood beside you, beaming. It was different from the smile he wore for press conferences or lectures. This was his softest smile. The one only you got to see most of the time. Except now? He didn’t care who saw it.

You were his wife. And he was proud.

Later that morning, Garcia showed up in the briefing room with a PowerPoint titled:

Operation: Welcome Back, Dr. and Agent Reid

It had confetti animations. There were cupcakes. A picture slideshow of you and Reid. JJ and Emily brought in a cake shaped like a stack of books. And someone probably Garcia hung up a ridiculous “JUST MARRIED (AND STILL BADASS FBI AGENTS )” banner across the whiteboard.

You and Spencer sat close during the meeting. His hand stayed on your thigh the entire time under the table. Every time he looked at you, he felt that swell of quiet disbelief.

You were his partner in every way now. In life. In work. In love.

After the debrief, he turned toward you with a smile. “How long do you think it’ll take them to stop making heart eyes at us?”

You grinned. “Let’s hope never.”

He leaned in and whispered, “I love you, Mrs. Reid.”

You squeezed his hand. “I love you more, Dr. Reid.”

And just like that, the world after all its chaos, its heartbreak, its time apart finally felt right again.

Because no matter how dark things had gotten, the two of you made it back.

Together. Married. Whole.Back where you belonged.

[simpleangst]

I will not be normal about this

[simpleangst]

imagine looking in the mirror and seeing yourself but as you age, you see someone who is not you but you became.

Gideon’s reasons for permanently leaving the BAU parallel why he took a break in the first place sooooo well, I know he’s one of those characters the fandom can’t really form a unanimous opinion on but I think he might be one of the best written on the show as a whole.

Like, he took a break because he felt responsible for the deaths of those 6 agents. Every catalyst after that followed the same pattern!!! Elle was shot because Gideon insisted on holding a press conference, Spencer was killed (then resuscitated) because Gideon made Penelope send out a warning about the videos being leaked, he felt responsible for Hotch being suspended and he blamed himself for Sarah’s death. I’d also imagine he feels at fault for Spencer’s addiction because Gideon was so involved in getting Spencer into the BAU in the first place. After the 6 agents, the Elle situation and Spencer he started blaming himself for things that were completely out of his control!!!

This also reflects in Spencer throughout the whole show soooo well I’m so obsessed with the whole ‘Spencer becomes more like Gideon the older he gets’ theme the show has

[simpleangst]

"But it's after ten pm and he never said he was strong."

I love this kind of self-acknowledgement. I eat it up every time

legally single - spencer reid x fem!reader

on a walk of shame after a frankly devastating breakup, reader gets stopped by coworker spencer reid and he offers her a ride home

genre: hurt/comfort wc: 1.1k warnings: break up, reader wears makeup and heels, mention of vomit, unhealthy coping, protective spencer, anxiety a/n: based off the beginning of legally blonde!!! yes i wrote this instead of my requests

Heels click on the damp sidewalk in a way that feels mocking. Like a toddler, you sniffle with a humbling pout on your pink lips. You ignore the burning in your feet because you fear it’s your punishment for having so much faith in a person. It’s ridiculous, you know, but if it wasn’t for blind optimism and high expectations you probably wouldn’t be crying on the side of the road. But you don’t know if it’s fair to hate yourself for something that’s not actually your fault at all. You’re not the one who uttered the words I think we should break up. No, that was him.

Unsympathetic too.

Each syllable took an eternity to actually fucking leave his lips. Like it was all an elaborate plan to humiliate you publicly. Or at least that’s what it felt like.

It was a long relationship that ended neatly with one very simple sentence. It feels like a cosmic joke created only for the purpose of you becoming the butt of some–any–joke. Unfair.

Every car that drives by ignores your presence. To them you probably look like you’re taking a walk of shame. Maybe, in a way, you are. One car doesn’t ignore you, though. An old one that’s white or pale yellow. You barely finish the thought that it looks familiar before you see the figure behind the wheel.

He calls your name but you don’t respond. It was embarrassing enough when you were alone.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks.

You just keep on walking. His eyes flick down to your shoes, dampening against the wet concrete. You can’t even remember when it rained last. He doesn’t let you go, slowly driving alongside you until you answer.

An answer he’ll get.

“Go home, Spencer,” you grumble, squeezing your hands into fists at your sides.

Unfortunately, he knows you. “You’ll ruin your shoes.”

He’s right. But you’re not happy about it.

You get in the car, never once allowing your eyes to meet his purely for the very big reason that you’re humiliated. Because of how he does nothing but simply drives, you think he’s okay with the silence. Awkward silence is discussed so often that every time nobody speaks, you feel uncomfortable. This might be the first time you’ve been comfortable in the quiet.

Whatever that means.

The silence only lasts so long, however.

Spencer glances at the smeared makeup under your eyes. “You don't need to tell me what happened but… just know that I’m sure you're better than whoever you're crying over.”

Your eyes finally and cautiously meet his.

That boyish look that shows that he simultaneously wants to make you feel better and show he cares makes your heart sink. You hate yourself for feeling. For having a reaction to what’s surely a friendly gesture. Your stomach swirls with uncertainty.

You know he cares about you, that much is obvious just by how he acts around you. Almost like he has to physically restrain himself from stepping between you and something potentially dangerous. The small kink is that, for him, everything is a threat of danger.

His mind works in a way you’ll never understand. One simple scenario has hundreds of outcomes, each one of them assessed by him in detail. With that ability, he’s able to create alternate realities within his brain. Some of which are affected by his fears. If he can think it, it can happen. So he puts himself a few sacred steps in front of you. Every time.

Because, if anyone was getting hurt, he'd rather it be him. It’s simpler that way.

So, yes, he cares about you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

It’s like the words register in him differently than they would to someone else. Because he looks at you like he wants to fix you so you never have to say thank you like that ever again.

You never thought you’d want a man to fix you.

The eyes you know so well seem to follow each microexpression on your face. While driving.

Somehow.

The familiar lead-up to your apartment building makes your stomach curdle. In a way that makes you feel like an expired bag of milk. You’re not sure why.

You think you might throw up.

That is, without company. 

Every time you look at the man to your left, you feel oddly at ease. Maybe he could be of service tonight. You mean, you haven’t been alone with a guy since you started dating your ex.

Ex.

It’s when he stops the car that you can’t hold it inside. The worst he can say is no.

“Spence… I really don’t want to be alone…,” you pause for a beat, looking down at your heels, “would you maybe want to come in?”

Your eyes anxiously survey his, searching for whatever it is that means he’ll say yes.

“Just for a minute?” you ask.

The gold in his irises is almost completely swallowed by his pupils, blown wide to accommodate the darkness. He considers it with a bitten bottom lip. His jaw stays stiff until he finally nods.

You try to hide the relief lacing your sigh and just get out of the car. After any emotional day, your advice is to simply go the fuck to sleep. Perhaps it's hypocritical of you to write that advice off as not relevant in this case. Perhaps you’re acting out because you think it’ll make everything go numb. It’s as if you have no control over your body because you know this is a bad idea. You know you shouldn’t be inviting your coworker up to your apartment when you’re in such a vulnerable state.

But you just don’t care.

When your feet hit the first step up, you can’t think of another way you’d be taking such a step. Having Spencer here feels like you have something tethering you to the outside. So you’re not just lonely in a place where you once were in what you thought was love.

That never meant Spencer belonged here, though.

His very presence makes you feel softer but it makes him feel indescribably lost. He wishes he could read the situation better or maybe even have the courage to ask you. His silhouette lingers in the open doorway like he knows he has a decision to make. A decision he would’ve made better any other time. 

But it’s after ten pm and he never said he was strong.

[simpleangst]

I've read this around 7 times at this point and it's a treat to reread

My Favourite Place Was You

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

Word count: 1.3k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: How is he so criminally (hah) underrated in a show where he's a main character 💔 Shemar Moore is so fine why are there no fics about him PLEASE

Death is not unfamiliar to the BAU. It weaves itself through every file, stalks each alleyway, spills out across basement tiles and forest floors. They’ve learned the vocabulary of loss, the scent of blood, the look in a mother’s eyes when she knows the worst before the words come. They’ve seen too much to pretend this job leaves anything untouched.

But nothing prepared them for this.

Not you.

It happened on a Tuesday. Some warehouse case turned explosive. You were halfway through evacuating civilians when the bomb went off. Morgan was shouting your name into the comms when the static swallowed you. And then—nothing. No voice. No jokes. No you.

Later they’d find the boy you shielded curled in the rubble, crying that you told him to duck and then you just—disappeared in the light. They’d call you a hero. They’d say you died saving someone. They’d write your name on a plaque and place it on a wall and call it honor.

But Morgan? Morgan doesn’t want honor. He wants you.

He doesn’t say anything at the hospital when they confirm it. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry. He just stares, like he can blink the truth away. Everyone around him is noise. Hotch speaking low to the team. JJ rubbing a hand over her mouth. Garcia holding a trembling folder full of what’s left of your life. Spencer whispering something about the odds of survival in an explosion that size.

But Morgan doesn’t hear any of it. All he can hear is the sound of your laughter, the soft way you said his name in the dark, the rhythm of your breath when you fell asleep against his chest after a long case.

No one had to know how long you’d been his. The quiet touches at hotels, the half-shared apartments, the nights wrapped up in one another with your legs tangled and your voice mumbled against his skin. It wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t loud either. It didn’t have to be. You were his. And he was yours. That had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

He goes home that night and sits in the silence. The apartment is still full of you. Your shoes at the door. The beat-up leather jacket you always wore still tossed over the chair. Your toothbrush in the cup next to his. The blankets still smell like you — pine, smoke, warmth. Morgan picks one up and holds it to his face, and that’s when the first tear slips down.

He tells himself he’ll only sit for a minute. But hours pass. The moon rises. His phone rings once, twice — Garcia, probably. He doesn’t answer.

He’s remembering the way you held him the last night. The way your lips found his jaw and stayed there, slow and steady like you knew you wouldn’t get another chance. You’d said something quiet, something soft. He tries to remember what. Was it “thank you”? Was it “I love you”?

Or was it just “save me some dinner” like always?

He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. It doesn’t help.

“You ever think about just… disappearing?” you’d asked softly, curled against his chest, breath warm over his collarbone.

“Disappearing?”

“Yeah. Letting it all go. The cases. The blood. Just… taking off somewhere no one can find us.”

“Every damn day,” he murmured, tightening his arm around you. “As long as you’re with me.”

You’d smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth, and said, “Always.”

By the next day, he finds himself in Quantico before the sun. He doesn’t even remember driving. His feet just take him to your locker, still untouched. The lock clicks open. Inside, it smells like you. He stares at your gear, at the spare gloves, the photo tucked behind your name tag — the one of the two of you after your first case together, both grinning like idiots, your hand on his chest, his arm around your waist. He hadn’t known then what he knows now. That you’d be the one person who could ground him when the world went to hell.

He slides down against the lockers and lets himself break. The tears come quietly, stubborn at first, then all at once. “You weren’t supposed to go first,” he chokes out, pressing the photo to his chest. “You promised me, remember? We said we’d be done with this job together.”

His voice cracks. “You were supposed to grow old with me. God, baby… you were supposed to come home.”

He whispers things he never got to say. That he loved you. That he would’ve married you. That he would’ve left the job, the danger, all of it if you’d just asked. That he thought you were invincible. That he was proud of you, and so damn angry you had to prove it like this.

It hurts worse than anything he’s ever known. Not just the loss, but the stillness of it. You’re not coming back. You’re not waiting for him at home. You’re not going to walk into the bullpen with coffee and that smug, quiet smirk that meant you’d handled the hard part before anyone else.

The team doesn’t know how to function without you. JJ cries when she thinks no one’s looking. Spencer can’t stop reading psychology studies on grief. Emily’s been on four morning runs in a row, like she’s trying to outrun the hollow space you left. Hotch is quieter than usual. And Garcia—God, Garcia’s voice cracks every time she says your name.

But Morgan feels it deeper than all of them. Because you weren’t just a teammate. You weren’t just a friend.

You were the one he came home to. The one who rubbed his shoulders after a rough case. The one who knew when to joke and when to hold him close. The one who made him feel safe — not in body, but in soul.

And now you’re gone, but the apartment still smells like you.

He doesn’t know how long that will last — the ghost of your cologne clinging to the sheets, your shampoo in the steam of the bathroom, the coffee brand only you liked still sitting half-used in the cabinet. Every inch of the place feels haunted, not in some supernatural way, but in the way that love lingers when it has nowhere else to go.

He hasn’t been able to sleep in the bed since it happened. Not really. Not without you. Some nights he falls asleep on the couch, others in the car. But tonight, the ache wins out. He crawls under your blanket, onto your side, where your imprint is long gone but the memory of your warmth still clings to the mattress like dew on grass.

He curls toward your pillow and breathes in deep, phone still clutched in his hand — the last text you sent him still open on the screen, unread, because reading it would make it final.

Grief hums through his body like a fever. It dulls everything but the pain. And just before sleep can drag him under, he hears it.

Soft. Steady. Teasing.

“You always did look better on my side of the bed.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. He’s afraid you’ll disappear again.

“Miss you,” he whispers.

And your voice — a breath against his ear, a balm over his bruised soul:

“I never left.”

But in the morning, it’s still just him. Just silence.

Death is not unfamiliar to the BAU.

But this—this grief shaped like your name, like the dent in his mattress, like a laugh that no longer fills a room—is a stranger they’ll never learn to live with.

Because for all the death they’ve seen, they will never get used to you being gone.

And Derek Morgan— Derek Morgan will never stop loving you.

[simpleangst]

honored <33

Not to be pedantic but I’ve never seen a Spencer Reid music headcannon (like songs he’d like) that I’ve agreed with

[simpleangst]

yay headcanons!

note: I totally forgot the specific song bit so. oops. genre headcanons

classical— a given.

I can see it mostly being soft & relaxing pieces but I think he would put this on shuffle, little to no skip button use. He enjoys this genre the most.

symphony / orchestra— specific circumstances.

This is FAR in the headcanon / AU territory— when he is remembering certain tidbits for a case, he'll put on a piece that has a similar "vibe" to get his brain into a specific mindset. I cannot explain this coherently.

blues— on the fence.

i don't listen to enough blues to make a solid statement.

jazz— on the fence.

personally, I don't listen to enough jazz to make a solid statement.

indie rock— likely not.

classic rock— no but not like a solid no.

I think he'd enjoy specific songs but I can't personally see him jamming out to many and calling him a rock fan.

metal— absolutely not.

too much stimuli.

country— no.

they just aren't compatible.

pop— also no.

incompatible.

Not to be pedantic but I’ve never seen a Spencer Reid music headcannon (like songs he’d like) that I’ve agreed with

[simpleangst]

ohhh how extraordinary. The acknowledgement of Charlotte being too young to properly understand the concepts but passion driving her anyways... Spencer acknowledging that it isn't logical to speak for the moon... Acknowledging the things that has brought him forward— his experiences in the BAU and the ending... I'm in love

fate, and other lies | s. reid

what moon songs do you sing your babies? / what sunshine do you bring? / who belongs / who decides who's crazy / who rights wrongs where others cling?

- Luna - The Smashing Pumpkins

summary : girldad!spencer who can't seem to find a logical reason why he was given the chance to be a father

tags : religion/religious questioning, mentions of the science/religion gap, spencer is a girl dad duh, his daughter's name is charlotte, sorry charlottes of cmblr, nerdy daughter, she's cute, spirituality, moon phases, fluff, no mention on y/n

a/n : thank u to @cherrriesinthespring for helping me not delete this entire draft. idk if this makes sense but i don't care!! this is my blog!!! general disclaimer idgaf what religion you subscribe to! spencer wouldn't gaf either! this is fiction!

words: 1.3k+

masterlist

Spencer is a man of science.

He has always been that way. He's never believed in the after life, or superstitions, or twin flames. He doesn't buy into astrological signs, or the idea of a past life. Manifestation doesn't happen. Religion abandoned him from a young age, and even if it hadn't, he's sure he’s read enough scientific literature to ruin the concept for himself eternally.

Fate is what it is; a series of events caused by a series of events. There is no luck–just probability– and if he's learned anything from his years of life, the odds are stacked against him.

It's dark inside the nursery, aside from the smattering of glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and the soft, warm glow of light reflecting off the smattering of space themed decorations filling the space. There's planets and stars, and somewhere among the chaos, a picture frame with the moon phase from the day Charlotte was born.

This does make sense. It's logical. Spencer Reid’s daughter, not yet three, who has taken an interest in science. Space, that is. Planets and stars and moons. And not in the way that many children are, focusing on astronauts and aliens, but a real, tangible interest. She asks questions with answers she's too young to comprehend, but she listens. The thirst of knowledge that drove Spencer to where he is today is somewhere inside her, too.

Charlotte’s cheek is tucked up against his chest, the warmth of her skin radiating against him. Tiny fingers wrap and unwrap themselves from the hem of his shirt, mindlessly toying with the material while she takes in the pages of the book propped against his knee. It's far past her bedtime, and while she should be tired, Spencer can just make out the movement of her eyes from the light reflecting off of them in the dim room.

“The moon does not produce it’s own light,” Spencer reads. “The moon reflects sunlight off its surface, which is what makes it shine at night. Depending on the position of the moon and earth, we can see the various phases of the moon.”

He turns the page carefully, placing the book back into its position without stirring Charlotte from her spot.

“Scientists use the phases of the moon for many different reasons. The moon helps us see the passage of time. It's phases also influence the tides. Some cultures believe the phases of the moon can predict other things about our lives.”

Spencer is well aware that Charlotte is too young to understand most of the book. She will grasp some things, like pictures and certain words. He doesn't expect much to stick.

“Do you know what that means?” He asks, smoothing back a stray curl from her face. “To predict something?”

Charlotte’s eyes momentarily glance up from their focus on the page. With her cheek still smashed against his chest, she shakes her head slightly.

“Predicting means we make a guess about something. A really good guess. So if we predict the future, we make a guess about what the future will be like.”

“The moon guesses what the future is like?”

“Not exactly,” he smiles. He sighs, searching for the words to explain such a concept to her. “The moon doesn't guess. We make a guess. We can look at the moon, and make a guess about the future based on its phase. But it's just a guess. No one really knows what will happen.”

Charlotte scooches herself up a bit, eyes still studying the page. He can tell she's formulating questions that he will struggle to answer.

“How do we know what the moon thinks?”

Spencer chuckles. “We don't know. But some people like to believe we do. So someone, a very long time ago, made up their own ideas about what the moon is trying to tell us. Look at this page.

He flips again to a new page, one that includes a picture of each moon phase. It only takes him a moment to locate what he's looking for.

“Do you recognize this moon?”

“That's my moon,” she nods. “What does the moon think about me?”

The logical side of Spencer knows not to feed into this. He knows how important it is to raise children who believe in science. One day, when she's older, he can explain to her why astrology, moon phases, superstition, and other similar things aren't rooted by science. But today he can play along.

“According to this book, waning crescent babies are very wise, empathetic, and introspective. They are good listeners, too.”

“I'm a good listener.”

“You are,” he chuckles. “But it's just a guess. It's just for fun.”

“Which moon is your moon?” She asks, tilting her head back to see him.

He sighs, but a smile is still present somewhere in his features.

“This one,” he says. “Waning gibbous.”

“You have a big moon, and I have a little moon.”

Charlotte's fingers run across the textured surface of the page for a moment as she absorbs the new information. Spencer is almost certain she's distracted herself with something else when she points back at the page.

“If we put our moons together, we could have a full moon.”

He looks down, back at her ever curious gaze. Her eyes, ones that mirror his nearly exactly, are seemingly searching his as if he has all the answers.

“I guess we would,” he nods.

“Is that because you're my dad?” She asks. “Does everyone’s moon match their dad?”

“No, honey. It's just a coincidence.”

His logical reasoning should remind him that there is no meaning in the phase of the moon, aside from the passage of time and positioning of the earth. But it's hard to ignore when this coincidence is just so big.

Charlotte tucks her head back against him, her cheeks squished to his chest. This is how every night ends for them. Spencer awkwardly sitting on her toddler sized bed, and Charlotte's entire body tucked up against his like she was meant to be there.

Part of him is convinced that she is meant to be there. And not only by way of a father and daughter relationship-of course he's responsible for her. But this, he believes, goes beyond obligation. Out of everything that's ever gone right for him, he's never had something that is so deeply correct. Something that comes so naturally, that he's not only good at, but also feels more whole for being a part of.

Moments like this remind him of just how strange it is to be someone’s father. And not just anyone, but Charlotte’s. Charlotte who looks just like him, acts just like him, and adds bits of his personality to her own every day. Charlotte who repeatedly chooses to be near him, to seek his comfort, and to trust him.

Spencer doesn't seek meaning in things. He's never been one to do that. But it's hard to resist the urge, particularly in moments like this. He hears it in the soft sound of his calloused hands running over the back of her pajama shirt. A callous from the pen he uses to sign paperwork, admitting faults in his own skills in the field. Another from the gun he carries that has been responsible for more deaths than he can count. Hands that navigated through his darkest of days, meanest of moments, and lowest of points. Hands littered with evidence that fate never should have led him here. But he also knows there are some things science just can't explain.

When he finally closes the book, she’ll already be fast asleep. He’ll tuck her back in, turn on her nightlight, and kiss her goodnight at least more time, even though she won't remember it. She's already asleep. His job is already done. Still, the fact that he's found himself lucky enough to defy every odd and wake up every morning to be her father is enough of a reason for him to buy into the idea that maybe, just maybe, there is something greater out there.

As far as he's concerned, she's enough reason to believe.

credit to @strangergraphics-archive for dividers