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snixkers · 10 hours

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Omg I'm obsessed with your work! The way I actually really felt the emotions instead of just reading it. You're so talented arghhhh

𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You worry your boyfriend is ashamed of you. This is very much not the case. Or, 5 times Hotch hid your relationship (+1 time he didn’t).

7k words, new-ish established relationship, lots of fluff between angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, reader calls him aaron mostly

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The security for Aaron's building is weird. Weird as in extensive, intimidating, and extremely intricate.

You'd really wanted to minimise his stress — the whole reason you're here is to bring him a forgotten sheet of paper that must've slipped out at your kitchen table from one of his case files because you don't want him to have to make up a new copy — but you're too scared to go in.

You pull your phone out reluctantly and dial in his number, eager to hear his voice even if the security detail a few feet away are freaking you out.

"Hotchner."

"Hi, handsome," you say softly.

There's a small pause. For a split-second a nightmare situation runs through your head, his low voice asking, Who is this?

"Hi, honey."

You beam so wide it aches, forcing a pleased little breath from your mouth.

"What do you need?" he asks.

"I'm outside of your building but I'm too afraid to come in. I'm not sure they'll let me. I need a badge, right?"

"You're outside."

You pick at the hem of your sweater, a loose thread marring your otherwise pretty outfit. You'll admit to dressing up unnecessarily to see him. Nice clothes, your most subtle perfume.

"I found something confidential this morning, a piece of paper. I didn't read it, I promise."

"You really shouldn't be here," he says.

Your smile abruptly drops. You press the phone closer to your face and wait, hoping he's not talking to you. When it's clear that he is you cringe, the silence pervasive and the most awkward it's ever been with him.

"Sorry." Your apology is quick, quiet. "I thought it would be easier for you. I didn't mean to… overstep."

"It's not that. It's busy. Would you hang on to it for me? Maybe I can come and get it tonight, bring dinner."

You love how he says it. It's not a question, not an assumption. And it's a relief. If he wants to see you on a night where you hadn't planned to get together, he can't be mad at you for being here.

"Yeah, please. If you want to."

"I want to. Okay?"

Not for confirmation, it's shorthand. You okay?

"Yeah. Okay. Have a good rest of your day, handsome."

"Bye."

You like to think you can hear the sound of his phone clicking shut, imagining him at his desk in one of his neat suits with a case file open in front of him. You're not sure on the specifics of his job but you know he looks good doing it, and you also know he's very, very busy. You don't take his clipped goodbye as anything but efficiency.

Maybe you should.

—

The next time Aaron inadvertently hurts your feelings is in person.

Compared to him, you wouldn't say you're an incredibly exciting character. Your day job is tame, your hobbies are invaried. You like to watch TV, see movies, you enjoy people-watching. When you hold that stuff up to his job, his profiling, and his hobbies (seriously, who likes triathlon?) you feel rather immature.

You know deep down that hobbies are hobbies and that your job doesn't define how special you are, but when you're with someone like Aaron who lives and breathes his profession it can play with your head.

"Is there something interesting about my shirt?" he asks, a murmur under the sound of the TV.

You look up from the hem of his nice button down and smile, a half-smile. You want it to be more genuine than it is. "Don't you already know?"

"What do you mean?"

"You can tell I'm…" You frown, dropping the starched material of his shirt from between your fingers. "I've given myself up, haven't I?"

"A little," he concedes sympathetically.

You huff your defeat and let your cheek fall into his chest. Nice to seek comfort from him, nicer for him to give it to you, his arm rising from behind your shoulders to hook around your neck.

"I'm not profiling you," he says, voice close to the top of your head, "I'm wondering what you're thinking."

You relax under his touch, his big hand settling in the curve of your neck. A semi-hug. It doesn't take long for you to melt into his front completely, your unhappy thoughts dissolving with any tension and leaving only a want to kiss his stupidly nice neck.

"It doesn't matter," you say.

"You sure?"

You lift your head from his chest. He has to lean back to meet your eyes and he does it unflinchingly, a bemused smile playing on his lips.

"I'm good. Better, if you would…"

"Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning down, down.

You can't withstand his charms. He knows exactly how to get you, his smile and his eyes, his lashes kissing in the corners as they close.

He's imposing in the best way, a heavy presence that overwhelms you. All you can think about is the way he nudges his nose with yours to encourage your head back and the heat of his lips as they touch your own. His arm tightens behind your head.

You try to rise onto your knees, hands vying for his neck and his pitch dark hair. You're doubly pleased when you feel his mouth turning up into a smile, a mirror of your own.

"Slow down," he chides gently.

You're about to say something unlike yourself, something loud and brash. Speed up, Hotchner. You're hopped up on the giddiness that comes with being close to him. You're just about to say it when his phone rings.

He gives you a short, hard kiss.

"Hotchner."

You sit back in his lap, his hand sliding to the small of your back to keep you close as his face clouds with confusion. You attempt to climb off of him because you're not a sack of sugar — you're probably giving him numb thighs — but he won't let you.

"Garcia," he says eventually, "is this an emergency?" His tone makes it clear to you that whatever it is Garcia is saying, it's far from an emergency.

His hand climbs up, over your shoulder. You shudder as he tugs your earlobe, a mild and thoughtless gesture. You're so busy shivering you almost miss his playful eye roll.

"I haven't changed my mind. Yeah. Thanks for the invitation, but I'm perfectly happy where I am tonight."

Whatever Garcia says makes him laugh. If you weren't sitting as close to him as you are you wouldn't have heard it.

"Have fun. Bye," he says succinctly. He snaps his phone closed in one hand, the other dropping from your ear to your shoulder. It's heavy with a remorse you can't allow. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," you assure, tilting your head toward his hand and pretending to size him up. You don't know how to profile, but you're a good guess.

"You're not telling me something."

"No?" He blinks in surprise.

"No. You've been invited somewhere with your work friends, and you usually go. Why not tonight?"

"I think that's obvious."

"You don't have to flake on your friends for me, Aaron."

He smiles as you say his name. "Like I told Garcia, I am perfectly happy where I am."

You hide your face in his neck lest he see your doped up smile. "You have nice friends," you murmur, working your hands under the hem of his shirt.

"I think you'd love Garcia after the infinitial terror."

"I think I would too. She's good to you, after all. Makes me like her… Maybe one day we can all go out for drinks."

You don't have to be a profiler to feel the way he tenses.

"Yeah," he says. It sounds very much like Probably not.

That's a strumming hurt. Aaron is so nice, so so nice, and he treats you like you're gold dust. He does all the movie boyfriend stuff like flowers, silver earrings on your birthday (with tiny diamonds!), dinner reservations at dauntingly fancy restaurants. And he does stuff you didn't know men did, like calling you near every night to make sure you had a good day, and praising even your smallest achievements, and leaving notes in places he knows you'll find them on hard days. You don't know how he knows when days are hard, he just does.

You'd figured all of this stuff meant he must really like you, might even love you though he's yet to say it, and that's why his lack of enthusiasm stings.

Why doesn't he want you to meet his friends? He's obviously very proud of what they do at the BAU. They're not the issue.

It's you.

You cuddle him as a pit forms in your chest.

"You're tired?" he asks.

Funny how it's his comfort you crave when he's the one who's hurt your feelings. You're a little lopsided being upset with him, and you know if you tell him how you feel he'll try to make it up to you, but you're too afraid of the other alternative — a fight. Right now his arms are a sanctity you wouldn't trade for anything. You hope he feels the same.

You're not sure anymore.

"Yeah," you say roughly.

Your eyes burn as he pats your back. "Let's go to bed, honey."

You'll just… have to prove you're someone worth showing off.

—

Your plan, loosely titled 'Get Aaron Hotchner to Show Me Off,' is going about as well as you'd thought it would.

If Aaron doesn't want me to meet his friends there must be a reason. You've been thinking about it and it can't be a coincidence that he hadn't wanted you to return his paperwork a few weeks ago. That must've been something significant.

But what?

You start with your hair. Aaron has expressed a lovely and heaping handful of times that he thinks you have pretty hair. He plays with it often, usually when he's limp and tired from a long day. You've always taken care of it. Now you're going to the extreme — hair masks, hair appointments you can't afford, anything to make it look perfect.

It doesn't work toward the plan, though your boyfriend certainly notices.

"Your hair," is the very first thing he says when he sees you, stopping only in his smiling assessment to kiss your cheek in greeting.

"Is it okay?" you ask, turning your face to one side.

"More than okay. Do you want to go in?"

So it's kind of a bust. But that's okay, you weren't expecting to get a haircut and magically be invited to team dinners. You persevere, and eventually you forget the plan for the night when Aaron promises to show you how much he likes your new look with a hand at the small of your back.

Phase two, your clothes.

You dress as nicely as you can but you're no fashion guru and you can't afford an entirely new wardrobe. You get a bunch of magazines and look for fall staples. What's in this year, and how do you style it? You buy a couple of pieces that fit your budget and try to work around them.

Aaron's favourite are the new corduroy pants. They aren't a great fit.

"They're too tight," you lament, pulling the fabric from your thighs where they hug snugly. They're a desaturated sort of burgundy, not bright by any means but a good 'pop of colour'.

"I know," he says.

You gawp at him, and when he gets his fingers on the buttons afterward, you break.

"You like them?" you ask worriedly.

"What makes you think I don't?"

"Besides how eager you are to get them off of me?"

He hooks two fingers in your belt loops and holds your gaze as he tugs them down. "I like them."

A good time, but still no dice. You suppose a new look, besides looking smarter, doesn't actually prove your merit as a girlfriend. Maybe he wants something a little more concrete before he introduces you to people. Maybe things aren't as good for him as they are for you, and he doesn't see the point.

That particular thought sparks a wave of panicked tears.

The next time you see him, it's like he can tell. You wonder if he has x-ray vision, some sixth sense for tear stains that he has yet to tell you about. He's been gone for a few days in St. Louis, and when he'd come back he'd spent the weekend with Jack, so it's a whole seven days since the last time you saw him and your worries have festered. Not even his doting phone calls had kept the thought at bay.

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend.

You open your door and there he is in a quarter zip with an overnight bag, matte suit cover draped over one arm.

"Hi," you say, unsure.

"Did I get uglier while I was away?" he asks seriously.

You startle. "No, of course not."

He smiles and meets you in the doorway, your head dipping back to accommodate. "I think I've had it too good," he says lightly, bringing a tentative hand to your cheek. "Are you okay?"

You're trying to work out what he means, and when you do your heart skips. "Handsome!" you say urgently. "Hi, handsome. No, you didn't get uglier, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and-"

He kisses you. It's malaligned because of your parted lips, but it's good. You'd really missed him.

"You're definitely still handsome," you murmur.

"Doesn't count. I begged for it-"

"No!" you deny, lifting on tiptoes to give him another kiss and stop his slander. "It does count because you're always handsome, I promise. I think I slept too much and miswired my brain when I woke up."

"I don't mind that you didn't call me handsome," he says firmly, "now let me in. We have dinner to make."

"Right, sorry."

Aaron frowns at you, then. It's weird. He frowns at his phone, at the TV, at nothing, but he doesn't frown at you.

"Is something wrong?" he asks as you traverse down the hall. You hold your hands out for his suit and bag to take to your room and hang up, ignoring his question. He doesn't give them to you. "Is there?"

"No." You smile as you say it.

You're an awful liar, especially with him. He makes you more nervous than anyone because he's your boyfriend and because he's a literal human lie detector.

"You didn't even try."

You cover your face with both hands and groan dramatically, spinning around and away from him. You don't want him to see how flustered you are.

"Don't make fun," you beg.

"You're embarrassed."

"Teach you that at the Bureau, do they?"

You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, distracted by your own racing thoughts when suddenly there are two long arms needling around your waist and pulling you backward. You gasp a laugh and squirm uselessly to escape.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

You tip your head back, hands falling from your face in surprise. "What for, handsome?"

His laugh fans out over your face but when he speaks again there's no humour there, only sincerity, "For being gone so long."

"Well don't be. You can't exactly help it, Agent Hotchner," you hum.

"Oh, don't."

"Going out and saving the world takes time. I knew that when I met you, 'n I know it now. You don't have to say sorry."

"I'm not apologising for my work. I'm apologising that we've," — his nose presses into the highest point of your cheek — "been apart."

"I did miss you," you relent.

He presses his lips to your cheek. "I missed you too."

It's a nice distraction. You'd missed one another, and now you're together. You forget for a while what you'd worried, and only when he leaves again do you remember.

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend.

You're not stupid enough to think Hotch is using you for anything, or that he's insincere. You're level-headed, though. His affection for you isn't necessarily permanent no matter how genuine.

You don't want to be overbearing. The offers start slow.

I can wash that for you. Of course I'm sure, I'm great with whites.

Maybe I could make you lunch tomorrow. You can take it in, spare yourself the federal cafeteria.

Yeah, I got them shined for you. They were looking a little dull at the toes.

"Do you want me to press these?" you ask.

Aaron looks up from where he's sitting in bed. You'd been out on a foray to the bathroom and have come to a stop by his bedroom door where a pair of black slacks hang in wait for the morning.

He pushes a darling pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "No."

"Are you sure? It won't take five minutes."

"I'll do it in the morning."

"I can do it for you, then. Just wake me up," you say, pushing back the sheets on the empty side of his bed. Your socked foot bumps his thigh as you pull up your legs. "What are you reading?"

He puts his book on the nightstand, takes off his glasses. It's too bad. He really suits them.

"I want to talk to you about something."

You laugh and slide down onto the flat of your back.

"What?" he asks, confused, the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"It's unlike you to start that way. You always cut around the fat." You bring his bed sheets up to your nose and squint at him. "'M I in trouble?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"You know I care about you."

Your heart somersaults. That feels very much like a break-up opener, and he must see your anxiety on your face. He wrangles your hand from under the sheets and leans over you, his face in your eyeline, his fingers massaging yours until they ache in the good way.

"Do you know how much?" he asks.

"Is that a trick?"

"No."

You wait in case there's something he's going to add. When there's nothing, you pull the sheets to your chin and tamp down your perplexed pouting.

"Yeah, I know how much."

"I'd like to tell you how much." He pulls your joined hands toward his jaw. "I know I'm not always here, but I'm always thinking of you. In roundabout ways."

"What ways?" you ask. Self-indulgence.

Aaron Hotchner indulges you.

"I see," — he kisses your hand — "trees. I've seen a thousand trees, but when I see the bigger ones I wish you could see them too."

It's a dropping sensation, near uncomfortable, that's how gutted his confession makes you feel. "You do?"

"Sometimes women walk past me and I swear that it's you because they smell like your perfume. Flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Lights through the jet window." It's the kind of stuff you like to point out to him when you're together.

He stares at you, a long, reassuring look.

He deserves a better reply, but all you can say is, "I think of you all the time, too."

"I love that you want to take care of me, but you don't need to wear yourself out."

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. So that's what this is about. Aaron has profiled you, and now he's being the gentleman that he is and assuaging your fears.

"I'm not," you say quickly.

He understands that you're saying I'm not wearing myself out rather than I'm not taking care of you. You are taking care of him, the best that you can, the best that he'll allow.

"I can press my own pants," he says, leaning down for a kiss. "I can shine my own shoes." He kisses you again. You screw your eyes closed as the warmth of his breath heats your cupid's bow. "I can do my own laundry." He pulls back, dropping your hand in favour of your neck. His thumb pushes against your windpipe gently, palm hot over your skin. "I'll accept the lunches, if you're sure you don't mind making them."

You feel as excited as you did the very first time he touched you, chest full of a dizzying pleasure, heart bump-bump-bumping a racing rhythm. His thumb strokes a lazy quarter circle into your neck. He can probably feel your pulse, see the way your eyes have blown.

"I love making them," you say, breathless in earnest.

"The team think I'm spoiled."

"You aren't spoiled." You're adored, you want to say. You cup his cheek instead. "You'd be spoiled if I brought them by everyday."

Aaron doesn't stay with you and you don't stay with him enough to make him lunch everyday. He might get one or two a week, and that's when he's home.

"Wouldn't that be nice," he mutters, his fingers pushing between your neck and the pillow underneath.

You hike up on to your elbows slowly to avoid headbutting him. "Well, I could."

His easy, loving smile flattens. "No."

"I wouldn't mind. My lunch break is super long and it only takes me ten minutes to get there. We could have lunch together."

"That's not going to work."

"Okay." You wish you could take it as calmly as he says it. You sound choked up. You are choked up.

"Sweetheart, the office is a war zone. Half the time I'm not there."

"I get it," you say, dropping flat onto your back again.

"Sweetheart."

"Handsome," you mirror, putting on your best unaffected smile.

You can't hold it very long, his concerned brows too much to deal with. You turn your head to the left and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, throwing at least half of your expression into darkness.

Aaron doesn't give up. Does he ever? He cups your cheek and pulls you back to face him.

"I can't promise any lunch dates. But I was thinking we'd go out for dinner next week, Friday," he begins hopefully, "somewhere nice."

It feels like an apology and you're desperate to take it.

"I don't need somewhere nice, s'long as you're there 'n not in Kansas, or Colorado, or Idaho, or New Jersey-"

He hums and drops his head until his nose lies against your own. "Gonna go through all fifty?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotchner?"

"I love your voice," he says agreeably.

Disarmed, you let him charm you, and you let him push it all out of your mind. Plan foiled, your fears fall on the backburner for a third time.

—

His fourth rejection is the first that feels entirely intentional, though you won't know until later.

Mostly because Aaron pushes you.

Far from cruel, the two of you are actually out walking in the city when he forces you into an alleyway, your fancy drink sloshing down the front of your sweater.

You laugh in surprise and almost roll your ankle, hands clinging to his coat to stop an unfortunate fall.

"Holy shit, Hotchner, learn to be a gentleman," you say as he presses up against you. "What are you doing? I'm soaked, you're gonna ruin your sleeves."

He kisses you hard. It's a surprise, your head jumping back against the wall to find his hand already there to protect it.

It's worth noting that Aaron is a sweetheart in practically every aspect of life. He once apologised after having walked in on you changing, which is ridiculous because most of the nights where you're together he insists on getting you some sort of undressed (even if it's just to help you into your pyjamas).

Needless to say, he's never kissed you like this. Your emotions spike so suddenly you laugh into his mouth, a girlish peel of giggles that you'll regret afterward but can't stop for the life of you.

He shushes you. "Sorry," he whispers, as ill-composed as you've ever heard him. "Sorry, just-" He cuts you both off with another bruising kiss.

Your laughter fades into sighs and little gasps for air. Somewhere near the alleyway opening a group of people pass by, a jovial series of cheers and friendly laughter trailing behind them. Aaron presses you further into the wall behind, and slowly, slowly winds down. Weirdly, you think his last couple of pecks feel sorry, softer and sweeter.

Your lips buzz.

"Why'd you buy me that fancy drink if you were gonna tip it all over me?" you ask good-naturedly when he finally pulls back.

"You looked too nice today." His deadpan voice wars with the smile on his face. "I'm sorry. We'll go find you something to change into."

"Was it really that important that you kiss me right then?" you ask, feigning disdain.

He looks out toward the main street again. "Yes. Where do you want to go? There's a Nordstrom."

You take a sip of your drink, unsurprised when he takes your hand and starts to lead you toward the department stores. "Have you ever been inside of a Nordstrom?"

"I'm sure I'll figure it out."

—

The fifth time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Or the brick. It feels heavier than a strand of straw. It's technically already come to pass, so it's an invisible brick.

You're out for coffee by yourself which really means you're out for something sweet, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fight the night-time chill.

"Thank you," you tell the barista, accepting your drink and receipt with a smile.

You turn around and almost walk straight into a pretty dark-haired woman with really nice hair. You make a note to tell Aaron about it when you see him next, not because he'll care but because he likes to hear what you've been thinking about. And right now, all you can think about is her feathered bangs.

I want nice bangs, you think offhandedly.

"I'm sorry," you say, trying to move around her.

She steps into your path.

"Sorry," you say again.

She's squinting at you, thin eyebrows peeking out from behind her hair. "Sorry, have we met?" she asks.

You try not to be too hasty, but you're not sure you've ever seen her. You stare at her as she stares at you, and you get a tiny inkling of familiarity, but it's gone as quick as it comes.

"I'm really sorry, I don't think so," you murmur, tilting your head to one side.

She bites her lip, let's it go. "Oh!" she says excitedly, voice bright with triumph. "Oh oh oh! I know who you are, you're Hotch's mysterious girlfriend!"

Your smile turns quizzical. You know nearly everybody calls Aaron 'Hotch'. Whenever you try it he either gives you the silent treatment or covers your mouth with his hand.

"I'm Emily Prentiss, I work in the BAU," she explains rapidly, shoving her purse under her hand to offer it for a handshake.

You do the same and shake her hand. Introducing yourself feels awkward. She knows you. You don't have a clue who she is. Only-

"Oh, I know who you are now, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before!" you say contritely. "I've seen photos of you and the team together. It's really nice to meet you."

She nods. "It's nice to meet you too. I have to say, we've been dying to meet you. We even have a betting pool on what you're like, because Hotch barely says a thing about you."

You try not to look as devastated as you feel, re-wrapping your fingers around your cup. "No?"

"We didn't even know what you looked like until we saw you the other day. We came looking to say hi and you'd disappeared."

You lick your dry lips. "The other day?"

"Yeah, last Friday. We were out for impromptu drinks, celebrating a case. You know, you should come with sometime. It would be fun."

Emily talks each word with an undertone of good humour. She's stunning, bubbly, and her hair flows around her face with every movement.

"He really doesn't talk about me?"

Emily drops into girl code niceties, backtracking. "I mean, not too often. We catch him smiling at his phone and hear your voice sometimes when you call. He seems happy. Well, happy as Hotch can seem." She swallows. "He's a private creature."

He doesn't talk about me.

You pretend to check your watch.

"It was really good to meet you," you say, voice airy with a feigned nonchalance.

"Yeah, of course. Super nice," Emily says.

You smile at her. It's more like a grimace. By the time you're outside of the coffee shop you're too upset to care, a humiliated shock of tears brewing behind your achy eyes.

You hold your cup to your chest and unzip your purse to tuck the receipt inside, trying to maintain some control. There's a folded note inside, thick cardstock quartered.

You take it out. Your fingers tremble with offended adrenaline.

You're beautiful.

Short, sweet, extremely Aaron Hotchner. Too bad you can't believe it.

Emily Prentiss being out and about means the BAU are done for the night, though whether your workaholic boyfriend got the memo is anyone's best guess. You're not sure if it's better or worse if he's in work when you call. You're so upset that you can't help yourself.

"Hi, honey."

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" you ask, staving off tears with all your willpower.

"I wouldn't write it if I didn't mean it. That one took you a while to find, I was-"

"Are you sure?"

"...Are you okay?"

You glare up at the dark sky rather than answer, blinking hard to force down your tears. You really don't wanna cry, but it's been a bad day and meeting Emily has made it worse. No matter how hard you try to think otherwise, all signs point to Aaron being ashamed of you. Embarrassed to be with you. He's hiding your relationship from everybody.

"Am I- Is it my clothes? My job?"

"What's wrong with your clothes?"

"You tell me, detective."

You're getting angry. He's- he's lying, or he's messing with you. He's making fun of you. At least that's how it feels.

"Where are you right now?" he asks. You can picture him shrugging on his suit jacket, putting his files in order to come and meet you.

You don't want to see him. "I'm at the coffee shop by your apartment. I actually ran into somebody, and I'm feeling very well-informed." A first tear bumps down your cheek. You ignore it.

"I don't understand."

"I don't understand! What am I doing wrong?" You bite your tongue in last ditch efforts to remain intact, but the tears won't hold off any longer. You swallow a sob. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing. Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you."

You wipe your wet face with mean hands.

"Stay where you are. I'll come and meet you."

"No. I don't wanna see you."

"Honey-"

"Leave me alone, Aaron."

You hang up. You walk for a while, feeling as though steam is rising off of your flushed skin with every clumsy step. It had been a short phone call and already you can't remember what you said, all you can feel is angry, and then that runs out and all you can do is cry.

You've never felt incredibly attractive. Aaron makes you feel better than that — he has the uncanny ability to inspire self-confidence with a loaded look alone. He can smile at you and your skin feels like it's glowing.

So why doesn't that translate? If he thinks you're so pretty, why does he insist on hiding you away?

Because that day, he'd seen his friends. He could've introduced you but he took you down the alley and kissed you so you wouldn't be seen. That's not too busy: That's secretive.

That kiss. You fooled yourself into thinking you must've looked irresistible. Fuck. You went home that night thinking you were the best thing since sliced bread.

"I'm so stupid," you mutter, sniffling.

Your self deprecation is muffled by the sound of a slowing car. You don't look up. There are two possibilities for who it is, and you don't want to deal with either.

The car parks and then you do look up. Despite how mad you are you're not suicidal, and Aaron's given you extensive coaching on sex trafficking.

It's him. Shocker.

You're half-expecting him to reprimand you. You didn't look up until I parked. You know it takes five seconds to snatch and incapacitate someone?

He looks haphazardly put together. Suit jacket on but tie loosened, he rounds the hood of his car and joins you on the sidewalk. You don't want to play games with him. He really doesn't need it, he didn't sign up for it, and drama isn't your style, but you're sick of this.

"You want to tell me what you're thinking?" he asks, standing an amicable two feet away, hands at his hips.

"I'm really mad."

"What else?"

"I'm thinking," you say, looking down at your cold hands, "that you… That you're…" You rub your cheek into your shoulder to hide a fresh tear. "I don't know, Aaron. I'm thinking lots of things."

"Do you want to think about them in the car?" he asks.

Do you want to talk about it?

You don't want to talk about it. You don't like crying in front of him on a good day.

You're pretty sure he'll combust on the spot if he knows you're walking home alone in the dark and distracted.

You get in the car. He has the good sense not to touch your shoulders like he normally would.

You buckle as soon as you've closed the passenger side door. "I'm sorry," you mumble, looking down at your knees.

"Let's forget that, for now." He turns the key but doesn't pull out. "Tell me what's upset you and I'll explain."

"I met Emily Prentiss."

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"She told me that you don't talk about me. Ever. That they didn't even know what I looked like."

You know he's listening but he keeps his eyes on the road, and you chance a look at the side of his face. He doesn't seem mad.

"I don't talk about you often," he says. "But that doesn't mean never… It's true that they didn't know what you look like."

"Until last week, when they saw us together and you pulled me into an alley so they couldn't see me."

"Yes."

Your lower lip trembles. "Do you see why that would upset me?" You're asking genuinely.

"Yeah, honey."

Your head jolts up. He's diverting his gaze from the road to you intermittently, offering up a regretful grimace. The oncoming headlights splash over his work worn face.

"Then why are you doing this? What's so wrong with me that you won't even admit we're together?"

"Nothing is wrong with you. I'm not ashamed of you," he says firmly, volume rising.

"Then why?"

His eyebrows pull together. "You're the best person I've ever met that isn't my son, and I selfishly don't want to share you yet. I also don't want to scare you off."

You pull your sleeves over your hands and turn in your seat, wiping your damp cheeks as he continues.

"My job is hard, and it's dangerous. It has jeopardised the safety and wellbeing of people I love before. So no, I'm not eager to introduce you to my world. The more intertwined with my life that you become, the more danger I put you in, and…" The car slows down again. He turns to look at you. "And I like that I'm the only one who knows you like this.

"I have been hiding you. I have. But it was a," — his tone turns wry — "misguided attempt at keeping you all to myself. Safe, and to myself."

You're finding it difficult to be mad with him.

He's finding it difficult to maintain his poker face. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you're not sure what it's made of, fatigue or relief or plain hurt, whatever it is he doesn't like it. He pulls over.

You hold still as he pinches the tear off of your chin.

"How long have you felt like this?"

"Like what?" you ask wetly.

"Like this." He opens his hand against your cheek. It encompasses your face; you lean in, hungry for reassurance.

"I don't know."

"This is why you changed your hair. Your clothes. And started making my lunch."

You cover his hand with your own. "I actually really like making your lunches."

You stare at each other until suddenly you're laughing, sniffly, short of breath. Aaron joins in soon after. He always sounds so surprised to be laughing.

"I'm glad," he says when your laughter has abated, pinky and ring finger caressing down the slope of your cheek. "I really like having them. Rossi can't hide how jealous he is."

"They know about the lunches?"

His mindless petting pauses. "They know about the lunches. You're not a secret. I'm… selfish with the details. I'm selfish." Aaron takes back his hand. "I'm sorry."

You take as deep a breath as you can. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. Can we go home?"

His eyebrows jump and swiftly smooth again. "Yeah, we can go home." He chucks your chin and gets the car moving again.

You watch him drive.

When you get home, he doesn't mind reassuring you some more. Actually, it's like he needs to do it. You'd love to say that it's overkill and that his low murmurings of praise are unnecessary, but you can't.

"You're lovely," he says seriously across two plates of pasta. Again through the mirror when you're brushing your teeth, and again when you've curled into his chest for the night. You're lovely. Nothing that needs hiding.

You hear him on the phone early in the morning, half asleep.

"Hey, Dave. Yeah. Okay. Uh… No, that's fine." He laughs under his breath. "Yeah, if she was awake I'd ask her to make you one. I think she would… Okay. See you in forty."

You bury your tired face into his pillows and beam.

—

Aaron's office is terrifyingly hectic. You can see already that the bullpen is full to bursting with agents, including but not limited to his special team of profilers. There's the distinct smell of coffee, sharp and burning, and then the underlay of printer ink, new paper.

You can't believe you're here.

You're not brave enough to introduce yourself to his team, and half aren't at their desks anyways. You hover in the doorway until somebody needs to get past you, taking a reluctant step inside.

You shouldn't wait for Aaron. You should be brave. You're a grown up, and you're bringing your grown up partner his very grown up lunch. You'd wanted desperately to do this. The least that you can do is do it by yourself.

You've scrapped most of the fall staples but kept the burgundy pants Aaron likes so much at his request. They feel insanely tight on your thighs, as does your collar. In fact, the room has definitely shrunk since you got here.

Like an idiot, Aaron says your name loud and clear, standing with a hand on the railings at the top of the instep. You hadn't even noticed him emerging from his office.

His voice demands — commands — attention. People turn in their seats, first toward him, and then toward you.

All eyes on me.

You don't run but you don't walk either, weaving through desk chairs and people looking a mix of busy and curious.

"You're being cruel," you say as you approach him, a brown paper bag held close to your abdomen.

"Hi, honey," he says. He wears a knowing smile, all dark and tall and handsome as he starts down the stairs to meet you.

"Don't punish me."

"Is that what you'd call this?" he asks, hand quick to clasp your shoulder, glueing you in place so he can kiss your forehead.

And yes, this is what you'd wanted. The doting boyfriend not just at home but at work, too.

That doesn't mean it isn't really, really embarrassing.

"Is everyone looking at me?" you murmur.

He slips his arm behind your shoulders to walk you up the stairs. "Yes." His voice drops lower. "At one place specifically, I imagine."

"What part is that, Agent?"

He laughs and opens his office door to beckon you inside. "Don't start."

༺༻

my first hotch fic omg. i did a big character study beforehand but i doubt it's entirely in character, hotch is a difficult character to write for! (and im only at season 4). but this was so fun and he's hot so it's worth it. if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging! i promise it makes a difference to me (and also i love seeing what people thought). thank you for reading!! ♥

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snixkers · 1 day

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if lesbian jj isn’t real then why did jj act like that during the conversion therapy episode hm? that wasn’t ally empathy or profiling that was a coming out scene

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snixkers · 3 days

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WHAT THE HELL DON’T GET MY HOPES UP!!!

There’s a chance it might be just prop and they say he’s on an assignment somewhere but OH MY GOD LET THIS BE REALLLLLL

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snixkers · 3 days

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We're fanfic writers, we spend hours researching an incredibly niche topic we know nothing about so that we can have one sentence be factually correct

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snixkers · 3 days

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YOUR ART STYLE IS SO SIMPLE AND CUTE ARGHHH

another Criminal minds doodle :)

(i’m so in love with emily prentiss)

based on this

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snixkers · 4 days

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HOLY CRAP THE TALENT???? BE ON THE LOOKOUT PEOPLE IM WAITINGGGG

coming soon — in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti.

hotch x consultant!reader. multi chapter. case fic.

in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti…

“amen.” if you weren’t paying attention and side eyeing him at that exact moment, you might’ve lost the way his lips moved following the ritual, no word actually leaving his mouth.

the black haired man didn’t look too comfortable, but didn’t look out of place either, he knew the cues, he spoke the words on automatic it seemed. it amused you to observe people’s behavior on holy grounds, that was part of the reason you asked to meet in silver spring.

“catholic, mr. hotchner?” your question is met with a low scoff, the type only those with a bad bad history with the church gave you. “that much, huh?”

“my parents were.” the answer is simple and you think it might stop at that, but he shakes his head and scoffs again. “was an altar boy for years before i left for boarding school.” you nod.

“ah. i’ve met some of you in my research.” some of you. church babies, altar boys. spoon fed the bible from birth while watching everyone around sin. sin becoming a term to reflect on what they hated.

“and you? catholic?”

“oh no. never been.” you don’t explain much, aware emily probably told him of your time in rome, where the two of you met. “your unsub is though. either devoted to saint michael or knows enough about his roles to look like one.” you note, being reminded of the pictures emily sent you, big stab wounds, a small scale tipped to one side, the words hebrews 9:22 written in blood.

hotchner doesn’t reply, making a mental reminder of the new information, he looks around the place as you both leave the church and it hits him, silver spring’s st. michael the archangel parish, the church you chose as a meeting place.

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snixkers · 4 days

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Derek Morgan School of Rizz I'm cackling-

Also yes, I am this dilusional

strange perfections

in which spencer reid and fem!reader meet by accident at a coffee shop. and then they keep meeting there. they've really got to stop meeting like this. (no, seriously. hotch is pissed.) / do you believe me now? bonus chapter!

fluff! warnings/tags: meet cute:) some dark humor, romantically inexperienced reader, spencer reid graduated from caltech, mit, and the derek morgan school of rizz a/n: this can absolutely be read as a standalone BUT it was written as a prologue for my series do you believe me now? to explain how spencer and r met! completely optional, if you're only here for the smut no worries! reading this bonus chapter might make the next chapter better though as it contains discussions of how they met:) anyway, I LOVE YOU!! let me know if you like this silly little random thing! kisses

The café door opens again. A blustery wind raises goosebumps on your arms and makes your bones ache again. You look up at the latest intruder—a hobbling elderly man in a newsboy cap and a knit red scarf.

Stupid scarf, you think.

Stupid door.

Stupid wind.

Your mug is empty, and the table you’re sitting at is sort of sticky and rickety, and there are so many papers in front of you that you wonder why the hell you thought it’d be a good idea to print the PDF out and annotate it that way instead of just doing it on your laptop like a normal person in the 21st century. Nothing is going right today. It’s the third café you’ve tried in the past few weeks as you attempt to find some place that feels homey, lucky, but this one just feels… inconvenient.

You look at the stack of papers and sigh.

Stupid Lord Byron.

Stupid cafe.

Usually, cafés are relatively quiet and peaceful—a refuge for the overworked to bask in the luxury of quiet jazz and the smell of dark roast as they continue to overwork themselves. This particular establishment, however, today hosts a group of teenagers—presumably playing hooky—who have commandeered a big booth in the back and keep walking right past your table because apparently they couldn’t have just ordered their drinks at once and they all have to do it separately and loudly.

One of them has an incredibly irritating, gratingly pubescent laugh, and they think everything is hilarious. This whole situation is unbearable.

Just as you’re gearing up to go, of course the fucking door opens again. This time, it’s accompanied by a particularly strong gust.

Strong enough that Lord Byron doesn’t stand a chance.

Your printed copy of his works blows off the table, at first page by painstakingly annotated page and then before you can even process it, all at once.

Yeah. This is definitely not your lucky café.

As you curse and go to stand up, you run into one of those dumb kids. His huge ceramic mug goes flying, careening against the edge of your table and completely splattering you and all your stuff in 16 liquid ounces of scalding espresso and milk.

It’s silent for a second, save for a few drips from the puddle on your table to the floor, before the kid is apologizing profusely and turning red as a tomato. You can’t even respond—you look down at your ruined favorite sweater, and then around at the pages of Byron littered with color-coded sticky notes, overflowing with angry and purposeful red ink that you spent so much time on, scattered all over the floor.

Eventually the boy catches on that you’re not going to forgive him and he skitters away, back to his friends, who whisper and giggle profusely. Only a few of them get up to start gathering the fallen pages with you. Several other patrons end up helping as well, so the sheets of paper are gathered and returned into your sticky hands fairly quickly. You thank each person without looking up as they hand you their respective stack. All you want is to get out of here.

“Here—I’m really sorry about this,” someone says—a tenor-ish male voice, distinctly sympathetic as he holds out a rather larger stack of papers than anyone else had bothered to pick up.

“I’ll live,” you sigh, straightening up. “But thank… you.”

The man standing in front of you is the kind of man who makes you want to untuck your hair from its usual spot behind your ears, and to stand up straighter, and to try and not stare even though you want his attention. He’s gloriously beautiful in a way that repels and attracts you. He’s the type of man who wouldn’t have given you the time of day in high school and probably wouldn’t now. Instantly you feel both insecure and reduced to a former version of you who would simper and fawn over boys who wanted nothing to do with her. You feel like going to the other side of the café and sitting in the best light and staring out the window poetically and hoping he’s looking at you.

“On the one hand, I feel bad for being the person who opened the door and let the wind in. On the other… I feel compelled to say at least they’re not covered in coffee like the rest of your table is?”

You laugh vacantly, a second too late, positively coveting the awkward smile on his angular face. Then you make eye contact, and his eyes are so the opposite of angular—they’re huge and inviting and the warmest golden-brown you’ve ever seen, and they’re looking right back at you—and you have to look down. Fuck. You hate when you do that.

Think of something normal to say!

“Yeah, true. Now I just have to reorder 264 pages. That… that don’t have page numbers.”

You shuffle through the papers. They are hopelessly scrambled. Your heart sinks just a bit.

“Um… I might actually be able to help with that, if you want?”

You frown, glancing up. What kind of sex trafficking ploy is this?

“That’s okay. Might be easier with just one person.”

He laughs—it’s similarly awkward, similarly endearing.

“Do you mind letting me just… try? It’ll only take a minute.”

Only take a minute? Is this beautiful man deranged? Why are the hot ones always crazy?

But, perhaps because you’re a pushover who can’t stand up to people, much less beautiful people, much less beautiful men who are paying you undue attention, you find yourself giving in. You hold the stack out.

“Sure. Give it your best shot. I’ll be impressed if you can even figure out what page one is.”

He’s already flipping through the papers with a drawn brow, walking away with them, and barely looking over his shoulder as he mutters, “I have Byron memorized. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

You follow him, because hello, he has all your annotations. He’s definitely insane, you think, as he sits down at a table and starts rapidly sorting the sheets into separate piles.

All you can do is stand awkwardly behind him as he stacks papers seemingly at random, barely glancing at them before deciding where they go.

Maybe a minute, maybe a few go by, each of which have you progressively more flabbergasted, before he’s tapping the edges of a stack of paper on the table and standing, handing them to you with his lips pressed into a thin pleasant line. There’s almost a glow about him—like he couldn’t be more in his comfort zone.

“There you go. Should be in order now.” You sport a frown bordering on a grimace as you take the stack and flip through it a bit. Sure enough, it seems that everything is in order. You keep looking between the man in front of you and the papers, incredulous as you wait for something to be in the wrong spot.

“How did you do that?”

His cheeks turn slightly pink.

“I know Byron really well. I know how each passage ends and begins so I put them together like puzzle pieces.”

“How did you read that fast?”

“Uh. I’m a speed-reader?”

You scoff, taking another look through the stack.

“I think that may be underselling it.” A thought occurs to you as you’re grazing over one of your longer annotations—full of expletives and strong opinions. “Oh, god. You didn’t… you didn’t read my notes?”

The man’s eyebrows raise as if he was waiting for you to mention that and he smiles like he doesn’t quite know how to break it to you gently.

“Maybe a few,” he eventually decides, laughing under his breath. “I appreciated the commentary on his relationship with Augusta. It was… colorful.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as you mumble.

“Yeah, I had a hard time appreciating the romantic poems. They’re less cute when there’s like a fifty percent chance he’s writing about his sister.”

“Half sister,” he corrects. You give him a look.

“Does that make it better?”

“… no,” he realizes. “Not even a little bit.”

You laugh, relieved that his face looks as warm as yours feels.

“Well… thank you, for the help,” you say after a silent second.

“Of course. Sorry, again. I, um—I hope your day gets better?”

“Yeah, well. I feel like statistically it has to, right? It’s kind of a low bar.”

He smiles, a perfect, perfect smile, and gives you a little wave as he leaves. Without coffee. Checking the clock on the wall, you realize it’s approaching one in the afternoon. If he’d been here on his lunch break, he sacrificed it to organize your stupid Byron texts. You smile to yourself.

He was totally in love with me.

And he can’t prove me wrong because I’ll probably never see him again.

All things considered—this coffee shop does seem pretty lucky. Maybe you’ll stick with it for a while.

The next time you see the mysterious sexy speed reader is four days later—though you’ve been here every day since. He catches your eye right as he walks in, and his brows jump in pleasant recognition. You smile. He smiles back, before going up to the counter and ordering a coffee with a ludicrous amount of sugar in it.

I should take note for when I make him his coffee in the mornings, you think to yourself, and then you snort at your own delusions, shaking your head at your book. Obviously you’re not that divorced from reality, but you’ll entertain the fantasy forever until one of you stops showing up to this café.

What you’re absolutely not expecting is for him to walk up to your table with his to-go cup.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi!”

Jesus. Tone it down, girl scout.

He gestures to your stack of papers: now secured in a three ring binder. The cup says Spencer.

Spencer. Spencer.

It feels important.

“I see you’ve upgraded.”

“Yes! Yes, I did,” you laugh self-consciously, still struggling to meet his eyes. “Thank you for the help the other day. I would still be sorting through all of this if it weren’t for that, so… yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course! I’m glad I could be of use.”

“Spence!” Someone calls from the cafe door. You both look up to see a stunning blonde beckoning him away.

Ah. Naturally. The girlfriend who is one trillion times prettier than you.

Spence.

Reality sets in.

“Coming!” He replies, with all the eager compliance of a child, before turning back to you. “Um… well… I’ll see you?”

It’s an awkward way to say goodbye to a stranger, but you suddenly don’t care enough to dwell. Instead you nod once, less enthusiastic now that you know he has a 10 waiting for him on the sidewalk.

“I am a creature of habit.”

Another wave as he walks away.

The two disappear from the doorway, but the perpetual breeze seems to carry a snatched bit of conversation your way.

“Who was that?”

“Uh… I don’t actually know.”

Yeah. Reality definitely sets in.

Over the next few days, you break your café streak. Life is busy. There’s not always time to artfully ponder Romantic poetry and drink a six dollar coffee while waiting around for certain people to show up.

Okay, so… maybe it has more to do with him than you’re letting on. But you’re not going to do that thing you do again, where you become limerently obsessed with a man you don’t know and who is way out of your league just because you can’t form an actual attachment to anyone to save your life. Besides, you remind yourself; we probably wouldn’t be compatible anyway. He’s probably a huge loser. Or secretly a douche. Or chews with his mouth open. Obviously nobody that attractive can also have a good personality.

Not to mention he has a girlfriend. That should put you off, too.

But you hadn’t been lying when you’d proclaimed to be a creature of habit—you return to the café once you feel sufficiently detached from this Spencer character.

He’s there. Of course he’s there. Why had you been expecting for him to not be there? It’s not like he was a figment of your imagination.

This time he’s accompanied by a different blonde woman—a bespectacled blonde with a big floral headband and a patterned dress and a red cardigan and tights and heels that look self-injurious. She’s quite eye-catching; you want to keep looking at her, but you seem to draw her attention, too. Her big eyes widen minutely and briefly you wonder if you’re supposed to know her, but certainly you’d remember meeting a person like that. She doesn’t seem easily forgettable. Both of you look to Spencer at the same time, who’s looking between you with an almost panicked expression.

“Oh! Th—” the woman whispers, cutting herself off when she realizes how loud she’s being in the otherwise silent establishment. “Ah! Okay, right. Never mind.”

Spencer sighs. You want to laugh, but you’re baffled by the whole thing. So you go back to reading.

Ten minutes later, they draw your attention once more.

“Go, go ahead! It’s more problematic for you to be late than me. I’ll be like, thirty seconds tops.”

You don’t look up as Spencer leaves the café—but are you supposed to gather that these two eccentric individuals are coworkers? And what of the first blonde woman, who you’d presumed to be his girlfriend? Where is she?

While you’re wondering all of this, the new blonde teeters her way over to your table.

“Hi!” She says pleasantly, waving a purple-tipped hand and wearing the biggest grin.

“Uh… hi?”

“I’m Penelope. You’ve met my friend Spencer. He just left.”

“Oh—sort of,” you smile weakly, closing your book. “Not formally. I didn’t know his name.”

That’s a lie, but maybe feigning non-chalance will make it real.

“Well, I just wanted to come over and say I love your bag. And your jewelry and your coat. I love your whole look. I bet you’re a really cool person.”

“Um—thank you!” You perk up, smiling genuinely now. The compliment warms you—you didn’t think your look was all that interesting today. “You too. I love your outfit.”

“Great! You’re—you’re great. This is good information. Um… just out of, like, sheer curiosity, could I get your name, age, and occupation? Oh—and your zodiac sign?”

What kind of convoluted sex trafficking ploy—

“Garcia!”

Spencer is at the doorway again, looking adorably miffed.

Adorable? Get a grip.

“Wh—I’m just making a new friend! Is friendship illegal, now?”

“This is the kind of friend-making that gets you a restraining order,” he urges.

You look up at Penelope Garcia, enamored by their whole dynamic. They clearly care for each other, despite the squabbling. What kind of job do they have where they talk to each other like this?

“It’s fine,” you smile, introducing yourself to her.

“That is such a good name!” She says, and you’re getting the sense she’s kind of always this enthusiastic. “So now we know each other’s names—we should probably definitely be friends, right?”

“Yeah! Um, definitely!”

“Yes? Oh my god! I love this! Okay, um—we work at Quantico, so, we’re like, 10 minutes away—but this is better than the coffee shop that’s closest to the building, so we come here all the time. Usually it’s just us and five grouchy old men, which makes this is really exciting.”

“Quantico… that’s the FBI academy, right?”

“Other stuff, too,” she nods, still smiley.

Oh! Cool. So they’re FBI agents.

So that’s cool.

You’re cool with that.

Her phone starts ringing—she locks eyes with Spencer.

“Hotch?”

“Ooh, we are in trouble,” Penelope sing-songs, leaning down to write her number on your notebook without asking. Not that you mind, of course. She adds a little heart and a smiley face next to her name before capping your pen and toddling away. “Bye, new friend!” She calls over her shoulder, waving goodbye with just her fingers.

��Bye,” you manage, though it’s probably too quiet.

Spencer flattens his mouth into an approximation of a smile and waves again.

You accidentally find yourself mirroring his goodbye, facial expression and all. Fuck. You hope he doesn’t notice. You hope he doesn’t read into it.

Nah. Boys are dumb.

You text Penelope later that afternoon—a simple greeting so that she can save your number—and then you forget about it.

It’s not until five days go by without sign of any of them—the two blondes, Spencer, this mysterious and foreboding Hotch figure—that you start to seriously question your sanity. Did they drop off the face of the planet, or what?

But of course, just as you’re sitting at your usual table, Spencer walks in. Alone.

He sees you immediately, but instead of the wave you’d come to expect, he immediately flushes, looks down at his shoes and hurries into the small lunch-rush line.

Weird.

You corner him at the coffee bar, where he’s adding more sugar to his coffee. How are his teeth so nice if he does this to himself every single day?

“Hey,” you say, affecting casual confidence as you bus your empty mug. “… Spencer, right?”

It’s comical how you’re pretending you haven’t turned that name over and looked at it from every angle hundreds of times since the first time you heard it.

He nods, only glancing up at you as he stirs. To your surprise, he knows your name, too. When you give him an odd look, he smiles almost apologetically, finally looking at your face for longer than half a second.

“I heard you introducing yourself to Penelope. Sorry if that’s…”

“No, no! Is she around, today? I texted her last week, but she never responded...”

“Today is operating system update day, so I don’t even really have a way of knowing if she’s alive in her office.” It’s funny to him, but you just smile, baffled. He notices your silence and catches on, scrambling to explain himself. “She’s our tech analyst. There are 243 computers in our building and she has to update them all remotely, which requires getting every agent to agree to not touch their computer at the same time for an hour or so.”

“Oh… does the FBI not have, like… an IT guy, or something?”

He laughs again—the way his eyes crinkle when he does it makes you a little breathless.

“You should say that to her. I think you would become her favorite person.”

It’s hard not to smile when he’s smiling because of you—however indirectly that may be. Quickly you realize you’ve both been standing in front of the coffee bar for too long.

“Alright, well… tell her good luck, for me?”

“I would, but I’ve been kicked out for an hour while she does the updates.”

Your brow furrows and you laugh.

“From the whole building? You just can’t keep your hands off your computer for an hour?”

“Not if I want to do my job, no. And I am kind of obsessive about my job. I’ve been the reason she had to start the whole process over again before and I’d rather not be that person again.”

You say it before you can think too hard.

“Well, if you have an hour to kill… there’s an open seat at my table? No pressure, obviously.”

And that was the first of thousands of hours you would come to spend with Spencer Reid.

After that, it sort of becomes a regular thing. He comes almost every day—except for occasional week or so long stretches, which you have discovered are a part of his absolutely fucking insane job—and sits with you, sometimes with Penelope, once with the other blonde, JJ, who you’ve since deduced is not his girlfriend, most often alone. Usually he can’t spare more than ten minutes, but he begins pushing it, little by little, until thirty minutes go by and you think surely his boss (the great and all-powerful Hotchner) must be beginning to notice.

One day, during your usual lunchtime rendezvous, his phone rings. He talks right on through it, like it’s not happening.

It ceases. And then it starts again.

Your head drops to your shoulder, something like pity or regret softening your features. He catches your eye and melts slightly, mid-sentence—like he knows you’re about to tell him to be responsible.

“Do you think you should…”

His hands drop from where they’d been enthusiastically positioned mid-air.

“They’ll be fine if I’m late from lunch one time. I’m usually more punctual than any of them.”

You roll your lip between your teeth—it’s not that you want to tell him to go; in fact, those delusions you’ve been harboring about your future life together are only getting worse with each inexplicable minute he entertains your company.

But his job is important.

“What if you have a case?”

“Then I would have gotten more calls from more people by now.”

Your head tips back as you laugh lightly at his unwavering insistence.

“I’m flattered that you so enjoy my company that much. But I can’t with good conscience keep taking up your work hours like this.”

As the laughter fades, he just… watches you, lips slightly parted, eyes intense but not entirely present.

“You’re probably right,” he finally breathes. “Maybe… you should start taking up my other hours, instead?”

Spencer Reid, you unexpected charmer.

You balk.

“Like… we would hang out? At a different time of day? Not here?”

“Those are the basic premises, yes,” he chuckles, nodding affably. “I’ve never actually seen you anywhere else. For all I know you could be a ghost eternally tethered to this building.”

“Where would this hanging out take place?”

Fuck, you’re totally being weird. His brow knits.

“I don’t know. Where else do people hang out?”

He’s not genuinely asking you, he’s gently turning you in the right direction. You charge forward blindly.

“Restaurants.”

There’s that pretty smile of his again, the one that makes all the thoughts drain from your head like cold bathwater. Though, there’s a sort of mischievous edge to it now that you haven't seen before.

“That’s certainly an option. If I asked you to hang out with me at a restaurant... would you say yes?”

You look down. God, your face feels warm.

“Would you be asking me out on a date? In this hypothetical scenario that we’ve constructed, I mean.”

Spencer seems to think about it for a moment, which fills you with unexpected panic. When you look back up anxiously, he has the same smile on his face, but his eyes are a little softer now.

“I would.”

More panic sets in—just a bit. But you don’t let what is undoubtedly a tidal wave of anxiety break through the emotional guard-dam. Keep it together. This is a good thing. This is what you wanted.

Unfortunately, you are perhaps more transparent than you’d realized. Spencer begins to look slightly worried, leaning forward in his chair.

“You don’t have to say yes. I know we don’t know each other very well, I just—”

“No!” You find yourself assuring him, though you curse yourself because you kind of want to know what he was going to say. “I would say yes. I’ve just, um—god,” you laugh gustily, self-consciously. “Sorry I’m being so weird. I’m out of my depth. Nobody’s asked me on a date before. I don’t really know the etiquette.”

Spencer chuckles.

“You’re doing great. Don’t worry about it.”

Not, what?

Not, you’ve never been on a date before?

Not, that’s crazy, or that’s weird, or how have you gone your whole life without being asked out?

With the implication being, you’re odd. Different. Maybe not in a good way.

He says none of that.

“But I should probably actually ask you, huh?” His cheeks turn pink as his laughter is redirected inwards.

“Sounds like a good first step.”

Spencer is still smiling as he says your name and it sounds so good from his mouth. It makes you sound so real.

“Will you go on a date with me?”

Butterflies in your stomach doesn't begin to brush what you're experiencing—your entire abdominal cavity is like a Monarch sanctuary.

“I’d love to.”

He seems genuinely relieved as he beams, slumping back in his chair.

“Oh, thank god. I was so nervous you’d say no. I never do that. Thank you for not saying no. Not that you couldn’t have said no—it would have been completely fine and obviously within your rights to—”

His phone rings again. Both of you are relieved that he was interrupted—but admittedly you thought his rambling was super cute.

“I should—”

“You definitely need to go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a still-breathless smile. “Um—what’s your number?”

You look around fruitlessly for pen and paper.

“I don’t—”

“Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

He’s so weird.

A breeze hits your skin as he opens the door. You’re already writing your wedding vows in the back of your mind as you watch him go.

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snixkers · 4 days

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YESSSS BLUEY MENTIONED!!! YOU GET ITTTTT

My Personal Spencer Reid Headcanons Part 2/? (Dad!Spence Edition)

(This one’s for you, Ozzie)

He gets Derek to help him build a little bookshelf that can be completely dedicated to children's books

Reads every book on early childhood development he can get his hands on because he's a worry wart

GIRL! DAD! Although for me, I imagine he has a daughter first, then a son a few years later (mostly because I'm a first-born daughter and my brother is four years younger than me)

He does the thing where whenever his baby babbles or makes any type of noise, he responds with something like "Oh, really?" or "That's very interesting, tell me more" to help them build up their conversation skills

Fully commits to the bit during play time. Whether he's pretending to slay an imaginary dragon or falling over when hit with pretend magic, he'll do the absolute most to make his kids laugh

Would probably show up to work with his baby strapped to his chest in a baby carrier if it wasn't against FBI protocol to have a literal child in the same room as crime scene photos and multiple firearms

He'll carry his baby around and point out seemingly mundane things, but explain it to them in a way that makes it seem like the most interesting thing in the world. Especially with people, like he'll say, "See that pretty lady right there? That's your mommy, and she's the most wonderful person in the whole wide world."

He falls asleep with his kid on his chest all the time, especially after a rough case involving kids and he just needs to know that they're there and they're okay

Vehemently hates mindless children's programming, so he's definitely a nature documentary dad. Although he will allow Bluey, because he likes that it makes harder subjects easier for kids to digest while still being entertaining and fun

He gets his kids into puzzles as soon as their hand eye coordination develops, so whenever he's not on a case, he can usually be found at the kitchen table poring over a puzzle with his mini-me

Always hams it up with the voices when reading or telling his kids a bedtime story to make them laugh

He does magic tricks for his kids when they're babies just to see their eyes triple in size because their little baby brains don't have enough power to process what just happened

He cries whenever his kids copy what he does because it's too cute, whether it be mismatching their socks to match him, or calling you whatever sappy nickname he has for you like it's your name "because that's what Daddy calls you, and Daddy's always right"

Inhumanly fast at changing diapers. You once timed him, and he changed the baby's diaper and outfit in less than five minutes

He loves doing arts and crafts with his littles, and he loves it when they make something for him at school. Your fridge is positively covered in artwork, and whenever he swaps one drawing for another, he puts the old one in a memento box because he'll be damned if he throws away something his kid makes for him

He takes his kids to the park as often as he can to teach them how to play chess once they get old enough

Once you guys move to the suburbs away from all the light pollution, his favorite thing to do is to take his kids into the backyard, set up a little nest of blankets and pillows, and stargaze with them to teach them about all the constellations and planets

Sometimes he goes through little anxiety spats where he worries he's not cut out to be a dad, but the second his little one bursts through the door and yells, "DADDY, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED AT SCHOOL TODAY!!!!", every fear or doubt about his abilities melts away, and he jumps right back into World's Best Dad Mode™

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snixkers · 5 days

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Seriously one of my favs! So talented and the way you write angst is just *chefs kiss*. I can literally feel the emotions through the screen

pretty girl | spencer reid

spencer x fem!bau!reader summary: you realize you’re not that special to spencer. after all, he’s sharing his coke and kisses with someone you aren’t. and you could never be. still, you’re his friend. you’re gonna be always on his corner even if it means shattering your heart. genre: hurt/comfort i guess. and slow(est) burn with best friends to (maybe) lovers! warnings (?): lila archer's ep spoilers. 18x01. a/n: okay, at first i thought about making Spencer suffer a little more, but i'm not going to lie to you, my heart hurt. because i just finished the prison arc and- i just want someone to comfort HIM. please. he deserves some peace. so- yeah, that's why reader is so soft to him. hehe. i really hope you like this one! thank you so much for reading. word count: 6.7k previous | next

Los Ángeles, California

Late night

Art galleries remind him of you, especially those of contemporary works. He has to admit that he has a bit of trouble interpreting them. Spencer knows color theory inside out and is aware of the influences of psychology on art. In that sense, reading them is easy for him. But when it comes to enjoying them or feeling them? Well, that’s where he has troubles. So, from time to time, you swap movie nights for gallery ones. And he is more than happy to oblige.

“Does it make you feel anything?” Lila suddenly asks.

Oh. Spencer is surprised to not hear your voice. He frowns in bewilderment.

“Like what?” he answers, returning his gaze to the exhibit. It is an urban landscape of saturated colors. The gas station is dyed phosphorescent green and the sky in the background is an electric blue. Overwhelmed, maybe that’s how he feels.

“I can’t tell you how to feel,” Lila smiles, looking up at him through her long eyelashes.

He knows she can’t, but somehow he’s still waiting for you to guide him in the answer. You know that he has no problem deciphering the meaning of the work, and what the author meant. That’s easy for him. It’s almost like profiling the piece of art. So, you’d ask him what it means to him. And sometimes it just doesn’t mean anything to him beyond what the artist meant. In those cases, you would just shrug your shoulders and tell him it’s okay. “Not all art pieces have an impact on us,” you’d say. At those moments his breathing usually catches and he gently brushes his fingers against yours, just to make sure you’re real. To make sure that he can afford not to know something- at least when he’s with you. That he can finally stop being a genius and still be able to be looked at by you. He smiles just thinking about it.

“Right now I feel pretty good,” Spencer admits. And he wants her to feel good as well, so he talks about you. “Uh, my best friend usually takes me to gallery arts. And one night we went to one of John Baldessari’s. I think it’s one of my favourites.” He doesn’t say that maybe it’s because you are a huge enthusiast about his work. And when he sees you talking about it? Well. He definitely feels warm. “And, so, my friend was explaining to me the importance not only of what we can see in the exhibitions but also those elements that aren’t there. She then told me that Baldessari once said that one of the best compliments he ever got was ‘John, what I like about your work is what you leave out.’”

“He sounds like a smart person,” Lila says. “Your friend, I mean.”

“Oh, she is,” Spencer nods, correcting Lila. “She’s very smart.” There’s a hint of proudness in his voice that he doesn’t try to hide.

Quantico, Virginia

Next morning

You have the back of the chair reclined as far as it will go, with your feet resting on a space on Penelope’s overflowing desk. Your eyes are fixed on the wall, watching how the light changes inside the pink ball each time you bounce it against the same spot over and over.

“Could you stop that, please?” Garcia repeats. “You can break something and my babies are pretty expensive.”

“Sorry,” you say, stopping. “But are you doubting my aim?” you joke.

“I am doubting my patience, sugar.”

“Ouch, you know.”

“Where’s Reid when needed?” she mutters under her breath.

You straighten up, swinging your feet off her desk. The spring of the chair squeaks at your sudden movement.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, trying to measure your surprise. Or your indignance. You are confused.

“You know what I mean,” Garcia says, though her tone is more gentle. Almost like apologizing.

“I really don’t,” you frown. You start to feel like you had been cut by a thin paper sheet.

Gracia sighs, spinning her chair so now she’s facing you. “We both know you are only this early in my beautiful cave because Reid’s in L.A, and since he can’t entertain you from there…” She explains.

You can feel how your cheeks are getting hotter- when, suddenly, you realize.

“Wait.” You say, narrowing your gaze at her. “So… when Spencer casually swings by your office and takes me back there to the bullpen…?” Garcia looks guilty and refuses to return your gaze. “He only does it because you call him! You tell him what, to pick me up?” You can’t believe her. You laugh genuinely surprised.

“No!” She says. “Well, yeah, sometimes. But only sometimes, I swear. And I only started doing it because he already came looking for you often enough.”

“I thought you liked having me here,” you say, the joke dying in your remorseful. Have you been making Garcia uncomfortable? (And in the back of your mind there’s playing a song you are trying to stop- does Spencer seeking out for you in her office mean that he misses you the same way you are missing him right now?)

“I do!” she quickly clarifies you. “But-“

“No, yeah, I get it.” You smile at her. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be!” Garcia’s expression is somewhat pleading. “I’m so sorry.”

Your laugh is amused again. “It’s nothing.”

There’s a knock. “Kid, we’ve got a case,” Morgan says as opening the door.

You nod, standing up in a second, and before leaving Garcia’s office you croon “I know you called him.”

“I didn’t!” Garcia grins back at you.

Morgan just huffs, shaking his head. “Later, babygirl.”

“So, where are we heading?” you ask, making your way to the roundtable room. Morgan stops you in your tracks.

“L. A, we’re leaving now. Grab your go-bag, we’ll debrief on the plane. Reid and Gideon are already visiting the crime scenes.”

“Oh.” You nod, suppressing the smile that threats to slips. “Okay.”

Los Angeles, California.

Later that day

You owe me. You repeat the words in your head. But not exactly how they sound, but rather how they were written on the newspaper. With pink sharpie. Dark enough so someone could mistakenly believe it was red. It’s odd. How many UnSubs had pink sharpies lingering in their houses? It’s very specific. You chew your bottom lip, waving the options.

“Kids, let’s go,” Morgan stands up, bumping Spencer’s knee.

Spencer waits for you to clear the doorframe before adjusting himself to your side.

“Do I look twelve years old to you?” Spencer asks out of nowhere.

“No,” you answer in a beat. “Why? Did someone say you do?”

“Yeah, yesterday we visited an art gallery with Gideon, and uh, an old high school classmate said I looked exactly the same.” He frowns, looking lost. Social cues are hard.

“Well, you don’t,” you assure him, flashing a smile. “I promis-“

You are cut by the sight of her. Gorgeous, gorgeous blonde hair. Beautiful side profile. Bright blue eyes. Oh, she must be a star-

“Lila?” Spencer is pleasantly surprised, his eyes lighten up with recognition. “Hi.”

She looks at him wearing the same expression as his.

Oh, she is a star. A star that Spencer likes.

* * *

“How well did you know Natalie Ryan?” Hotch asks, crossing his arms.

“We spoke when we saw each other in public, but we were never friends,” Lila replies, her gaze flickering through all of our faces. Poor girl, she must be scared, you think.

“How about Wally Melman?” Hotch tries again.

“What?” Lila looks confused.

“Wally Melman,” Elle repeats. “He was a producer who was killed a couple months ago.”

“The paper said that was a robbery,” Lila insists.

“Well, the paper was wrong,” Gideon intervenes, not even glancing up.

“Did you know him?” Hotch redirects the conversation back to the course.

“Well, we met a few times about a project, but I didn’t get the part. They went a different way.”

“Which way?” Elle asks.

“He cast another act-“ Lila’s voice dies. “Oh, my God.”

“What is it?” Spencer asks, concerned.

“He cast Natalie Ryan.” Lila’s manager explains.

Spencer glances up at you, standing by his side. You lift the newspaper. “You owe me,” you repeat the words written by the UnSub.

“I guess that’s one way to ice out the competition?” Elle’s eyes are sharp and her tone is sharper. She’s looking directly at Lila’s manager.

“Don’t look at me,” he’s quick to answer, holding his palms up. “I brought her into the police station.”

“Had you ever sense that someone is watching you, following you?” Gideon inquiries, absentmindedly.

“From the moment I get to work,” Lila starts, “I have hair and makeup, and warddrobe people, producers, writers, my agent, my manager, publicist. Not to mention photographers. I-“

“It’s part of the life”, her manager simplifies.

Phew. What a life. Must be exhausting. You think about it and shudder. You look down at Spencer and he’s- worried. His big puppy eyes are full of pure concern. For her.

“Anything that seems odd, out of the ordinary, happens on a regular basis or a semi-regular basis?” Gideon continues, now looking at Lila.

“What do you mean?”

“Repetitive phone calls with hang ups?” Spencer suggests.

“Gifts left anonymously?” You complement.

“I receive flowers.” She shrugs. “On the seventh of each month, they just appear in my trailer. Never a note. Just a plain glass bowl.” You and Morgan share a glance. “Red anemones. My favourite.”

“And you don’t want to know who they’re from?” Elle doesn’t blink.

“Celebrities get anonymous gifts all the time.” Her manager intervenes once more. Then he clears his throath. “She has fans, you know.”

“You remember meeting anyone on the seventh day of the month?” Gideons suggests. “Or in July, the seventh month of the year?”

Lila’s eyes are fixed on the floor, her hand holding her forehead. She shakes her head before glancing up at Gideon. “No.”

“Wally Melman was a producer who considered hiring you, but didn’t… and Natalie was a rival.” Hotch summarizes.

“And Chloe Harris, she looks a lot like you. Don’t you think?”, Elle adds, holding a photo of her.

“Who?” Lila asks, shooting her eyebrows up.

“A potential rival,” you say.

“She was murdered too,” Hotch clarifies.

“So, all these people are…” Lila stops, testing the word in her tongue. She looks like she has licked a lemon. “... being killed because of me?”

“It’s possible.” Hotch’s gaze soften a bit.

Lila brings both hands to her face and breathes out her frustration through them. “Ugh. Sorry. I can’t. I have to go.” She grabs her purse and hurries to the exit. Not even a heartbeat later, Spencer’s following her.

“Ooooh,” Morgan nudges you. “Looks like pretty boy got a celebrity crush.”

“Yeah.” You force yourself to laugh. “Looks like it.”

Elle places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Have any ideas about the case?”

You blink and then you are nodding. “Actually, yeah. Uhm, here, one sec-“

Morgan laughs.

“What?” you say.

“Actually,” he mimics you.

“Oh, shut up.” “Grow up, Morgan.” You and Elle say almost at the same time.

“L/N?” Hotch says, stepping closer to the three of you. “The ideas?”

“Oh! Right,” you pull out your notebook. You don’t have an eidetic memory, so you manage yourself. “Uhm, there were a couple of things that stood out to me from what Lila told. Especially the flowers and the plain glass bowl. If you are choosing a vase and not just leaving the flowers on their own- why choose one without decorations? If I’m trying to win the heart of my object of delusion, wouldn’t I make more effort? Unless I don’t want her to know who I am. Unless my preferences are very obvious. Or I don’t know. Because there’s also the fact that the UnSub knows which flowers are her favorites. How many people know that? I’m going to call Garcia and ask her if there is any interview where Lila said that. Otherwise, maybe we should explore the possibility that the UnSub is someone close.”

Hotch nods. “Alright. Call Garcia. See what you can get.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, already dialing Garcia’s number.

“Ask and you shall receive, my lovely” Garcia’s voice answers.

You bite a laugh back. “Hey, Garcia, could you check some of Lila’s interviews for me? I want to know if she said something about red anemones.”

Spencer is back in the precinct and taps your shoulder to let you know, but you hold your finger up at him, motioning at your phone. You walk away to the other side of the room. And he stays dumbfounded.

* * *

Hot weather doesn’t excite you. Even less when you’ve forgotten your sunglasses. You sigh, cupping your hands over your eyes, praying it’s enough relief for now. While you wait for Gideon to arrive with the boys, you look around Lila’s trailer. There is no space in the parking lot, but there are not too many people passing through either. So the UnSub could be stood out and no one would notice, ‘cause there isn’t much going around. You don’t know for sure.

“Did you forget your sunglasses again?” You squint at Spencer’s emerging figure. Gideon, Morgan, and Detective Kim are a few steps behind him.

“Mhm,” you wince. “I’m so ready to leave L. A.”

He just hums, but something else is holding his attention. You follow his gaze and it lands right on your necklace. The sun shines sparkles on the pendant he gave you.

“May I?” he asks, his fingers twitching in anticipation.

You are unsure what he is talking about, but you nod anyway. Then, he ever so respectful, not even daring to touch your skin, picks up the astronomical ring. He unfolds it, lifting it towards the sun so you can see the shadow that the principal ring casts on the other ones. “See?” he whispers, “the shadow? It’s around noon.”

You’re positive you’ve forgotten how to breathe while buzzing ants walk over your arms. You can’t help but giggle. “Yeah?” you say.

He nods, wearing his good-boy smile. He’s close enough you can see the golden flecks dance in his brown eyes. “You can check it with your phone if you want.”

“I don’t need to do that,” you smile, leaning in enough so that your forehead rests against his cheekbone as shallowly as if it were a feather. “I trust you. And your 187 IQ,” you chuckle, pulling away.

“Are you two done?” Morgan tries to ask in a stern voice but fails to hide the smugness in his smile.

You are about to bicker back when you notice the uncomfortable expression on Detective Kim’s face and the warning in Gideon’s eyes. Maybe later. “Yes, sorry,” you murmur.

“C’mon, kid,” Morgan rolls his eyes, looping his arm around your shoulders to drag you inside Lila’s trailer.

Once inside, all of you begin to search for new details that will help you materialize the UnSub. And as if sent from heaven, Lila enters with a crumpled paper in her hand. Gideon, gears fast from years of experience, puts the note right away in an evidence bag. He hums before passing it around. “I’m intrigued by this particular version of the verb ‘to be,” he says.

“Past participle.” Spencer adds, holding up the evidence so you can read it too. The message is written in pencil this time, with angry caligraphy, made it in a hurry. Lila- I’ve always been good to you. Why’d you go to the police?, says the paper.

“Steady state of being,” you nod, understanding where they are getting.

“Preceding adverb,” Gideon continues.

“‘Always’,” Spencer agrees.

“In English?” Detective Kim urges.

“That is English, actually.” Spencer explains, uncrossing his arms so he can be able to gesture with his hands. You hold back a smile. “We’re discussing the verb tenses of-“

“Reid. Reid.” Morgan cuts him. This time, you don’t hold back your frown on him.

“Our stalker sounds like someone she knows,” Gideon translates.

“Based on the tense of the verb,” you add. “Plus, Garcia couldn’t find any interview about red anemonas. So, the UnSub might even be close to her.”

Morgan then suggests that maybe it’s time to take Lila off the streets in order to protect her. Spencer argues that so far Lila has not been physically threatened and that perhaps it would be best to do the exact opposite: keep her in the public eye. Gideon is about to give his opinion when Lila speaks for the first time since she came in.

“I’m standing right there, guys,” she uses her celebrity tone, tilting her head to the side and letting her hair flow down in a coordinated cascade of golden champagne.

“If we did remove you, we’d have to take you to a non-disclosed location,” Gideon states, glancing at her above his glasses. “I’m sure your stalker knows where you live.”

“I’m not having the whole show close down.” She shrugs, nonchalantly. “I only have one more scene to shoot.”

Everyone shares a moment of silence.

“Look, last night I decided I wasn’t going to be afraid of this lunatic.” Lila’s expression leaves no room for doubt. Surely she gets things done her way more often than not. “Am I safe here?”

“Well, the set’s cleared of everyone except essential personnel,” Detective Kim concedes, “and we have increased security at the gate.”

There’s a knock on the door that waits for no response. “Lila, they’re ready for you,” a blonde girl says.

“I’m staying at work,” it’s the final answer Lila makes, leaving the trailer.

“Well, she’s one tough girl,” Morgan says.

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees.

You press your lips into a thin line to avoid scoffing. Yeah. Tough girl.

* * *

You make the paper cup dance in circles, watching thoughtfully as the watered-down coffee spirally reflects the lights of the studio. You and Morgan are waiting on this fake beach for Spencer to come back from buying his coke.

“Everything alright?” Morgan asks, toasting his own bad coffee with yours to get your attention.

“Hmm?” you reply, lifting your gaze to him. “Yeah.”

“What’s bothering you?” he insists.

“I don’t know…” you hoop your finger in your necklace, fidgeting with it. “I think we’re missing something but I can’t really tell you what. And- on the other hand, I feel like our efforts are being dismissed by the very victim.”

Morgan huffs, noding. “I hear you.” Then a smile takes over his features. Oh, no. You know his teasing look. “Ooh, pretty boy is bold.”

You don’t want to look. You really don’t. But you can’t stop your feet soon enough, already turning in Spencer’s direction. He stands awkwardly close to Lila, shifting his gaze to every available surface to avoid looking at her. She is so bright it may burn him. And then- you can swear Morgan hears you gasp when Lila extends her hand, grabbing Spencer’s coke.

“You don’t mind sharing with me, do you?” Lila says matter-of-factly before bringing the bottle to her lips. And Spencer just shakes his head.

The acid settles at the bottom of your heart. You can’t help but feel displaced. You’d never say it out loud, but you thought you were special to Spencer. You thought you were the exception to his aversion to germs. You thought you had earned the privilege of sharing food with him out of confidence and a record of cleanliness. Well, you were clearly wrong. Because you’ve learned to carry hand sanitizer everywhere you go, but all Lila has had to do is reach out and shoot her sly smile. Huh. It doesn’t seem fair. But you should know that playing against stars isn’t. You will never shine the same.

And as if she were listening to your thoughts, Lila drops her bathrobe. You are going to cry. A blue bikini hides enough to not be censored on open television, but that’s it. The rest of her slender body catches the studio light in all the right places, making her skin look like porcelain. You know you shouldn’t, but there isn’t enough willpower in you: you look up at Spencer. And he’s looking at Lila like she’s the first girl he’s ever seen. You drink the horrible coffee hoping to choke.

Morgan, however, has another agenda in mind. He walks over to Spencer and waves to you. You shouldn’t listen to him, but there you are. Right behind him.

“You don’t mind sharing with me, do you?” Morgan repeats, already laughing.

Spencer flusters immediately. “Shut up.”

You don’t look at him and he doesn’t try to make you do it before leaving as fast as he can. Like your presence is unbearable to him. You don’t know why. He’s not the one having his circulatory system drowning on poison.

* * *

Are three agents more than enough to take care of Lila? Maybe you should leave this to Spencer and Morgan. Maybe you should’ve gone with Gideon. You sigh. You’ve already done your best to profile every person on this studio set. From the lady styling Lila’s hair to the guy carrying the microphones. Even the girl that popped up into Lila’s trailer- huh. That’s funny. You don’t have eyes on her anymore. But you do have eyes on Spencer. Again. He’s talking over the phone and sending worried glances towards Lila. You bite down your jealousy and approach him.

“Is everything alright?” you ask, keeping your voice low.

He shakes his head, not acknowledging you, his eyes still fixed on Lila. “Gideon’s got too late to her manager. He told me to take her out the streets.”

“By yourself?” you furrow your eyebrows, worried.

Spencer blinks, looking at you somewhat hurt. “Why? You don’t think I’m capable?”

“What?” you step back, surprised. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant?” he’s using his flat tone. The sarcastic one. He’s shutting you out.

“What? Where is this coming from?” you say, blood boiling in incredulous annoyance. “I am just worried. You might as well be a target. Lila likes you, after all.”

Spencer’s gaze softens a bit, but his words are still defensive. “I can manage. I am an FBI agent just like everyone else on the team.”

It takes everything in you to not roll your eyes. You sigh and hold your hands up, offering peace. “Okay, Spencer. I’m gonna get back to the precinct with Morgan. Let Gideon know that you’re safe.” ‘Cause right now I don’t care. You don’t wait for his response before turning around.

* * *

You never made it back to the police station but instead went after a lead. Joe Martinez, a paparazzo in the words of Detective Kim. You guys found a ton of photos of Lila and even a schedule of her shots. And several close-up photos of Spencer from his night in the gallery. The “I told you so” is quickly swapped away by your worry. You can only pray that he and Lila are okay.

And perhaps you prayed too much. Elle clicks her tongue in disapproval, looking Spencer up and down. He is soaked and his hair acts as a curtain, protecting him from embarrassment. You focus on the camera in your hands, mechanically taking out the photo roll. At this point in the investigation, you should know better than to trust your masochistic instincts, but it’s as if you’re looking to stab your heart at every given opportunity. You hold the negative photos up to the moonlight. And you would like an eclipse to occur that pulverizes the evidence of his indifference toward you.

Each frame is fascinating in itself. Lila grabs Spencer’s tie. He doesn’t make much of an effort to move away, but you notice his resistance. Lila’s lips are persuading, however. And Spencer’s conviction wavers with the flow of the pool. In the next photo, they both hold their faces as if they were what kept them afloat. Safe. They are the oxygen they need in the middle of the chlorine.

“I, uh, fell in,” Reid explains to Elle.

Elle extends a hand toward you, palm up. You’re more than relieved to leave the photo roll in her possession.

“Yeah, and I’m sure there’s plenty of photos of it,” Elle states bluntly, passing him the film. “You’re welcome.”

You chuckle, but it comes out more like a huff. And now Reid is looking at you. No, Spencer is. He brushes his hair off his face. You want to follow Elle and get out of there, but there’s a longing in Spencer’s gaze that you can’t ignore. You know what he’s willing to find. And you know you weren’t quick enough to hide it, so you disguise it. You dress your wounded heart with a protective layer of disapproval. He’s a federal agent. He was supposed to take care of a victim being stalked. Is his idea of surveillance making out with her in an open pool? What if Joe Martinez turned out to be the UnSub? They would both be dead. A bullet pierced between their eyebrows by now. He accused you of not believing in his ability to get the job done because all this time he was the one doubting his own skills. He was projecting. You know it well because you know him. And because you know him, you also know that he is having this same monologue inside his head. You sigh. You really don’t want to add more pressure to his guilt. You might be disappointed, but you know he is even more.

“Ang-“ he starts, but you cut him right there.

He wouldn’t. He has no right to call you that. Not now. Not after- Lila.

“Of course you fell in, Crash,” you say, your tongue tracing soothingly every letter in the nickname his mother gave him out of his clumsiness. “Make sure Lila lends you a dry mismatched pair of socks, okay?” you smile softly at him, turning around to enter the house and hide the sting that your eyes surely hold.

Comforting him as your heart bends in two unable to hold its own weight is the last thing you thought of doing, but you don’t regret it. If you are being honest, there’s no room for your hurt. You two are friends. And friends support each other, they don’t rub their mistakes on each other faces. It doesn’t matter how poorly they did their federal job. After all, he’s only 24 years old and he was in a pool with a gorgeous girl. How to blame him? Clearly, his IQ does not exonerate him from being human. But what really hurts you is that he tried to call you angel. How does he think that’s fair?

You can count on one hand the times he has called you that. The first time was when you killed your first UnSub. You stayed as still and quiet as a rock the whole travel back to Quantico. You felt like a bad person. What was the difference between you and him? You both pulled the trigger. You were just like the UnSub. You should resign from the FBI. Maybe it’s the first thing you’d do when you get to the office. The fluorescent lights in the elevator were suffocating you. All your mistakes were on display. The team would see them. Spencer would see them. My God, your lungs were burning.

Before you walked through the glass doors, Spencer pulled you lightly by your sleeve. He took you to the side of the hallway and looked you straight in the eyes. You’ve never seen him so determined. There was no trace of the timid genius who doesn’t shake hands.

“You did what you had to do,” Spencer assured you.

“It doesn’t feel like it.” You simply replied. You couldn’t talk more or you would break.

“It doesn’t matter how you feel right now. It matters who you are not.” He grabbed you by the shoulders, acting as an anchor to the real world.

You were not following, your brain being blurred from tears.

“You are not a murderer,” he breathed out, lifting your chin with his thumb. “You are not the same as the UnSub. You are not a bad person. And you are no less angel than before. Okay?”

You blink the memory away along with the tears. What is an angel compared to a star, anyway. With your focus back to the present, now you notice the collage in front of you. You must be losing your mind, ‘cause you swear you can see Lila’s features all over the art piece.

“Pretty girl?” Morgan softly calls you. It’s the first time he ever calls you that. And you know why.

You look at him like a deer caught by the front lights in the middle of the night. Frightened. In awe. And a little startled to be noticed, allowing you to accept your own existence now that you are in evidence- even if it means your death. “Am I that obvious?” you lower your voice, ashamed.

“Nah.” He hugs you by the shoulders. “Babygirl figured out. She might not be a profiler, but she sure has a sixth sense when it comes to these things. She was the one who told me. I don’t think anyone on the team had noticed, tho.”

“I can’t believe Penelope,” you breathe out, hiding your face in his chest. The tears are gathering again.

“She meant no harm,” he says, locking you secure against him. “And neither did pretty boy.”

“I know.” Your voice comes out muffled by Morgan’s shirt. “But it hurts anyway.” Knowing that I will never be the one he likes.

“Yeah, I know.”

You wipe away your tears, stepping back from Morgan’s embrace. You smile briefly at him. “Thank you. And, please-“

“Not a word, pretty girl. Of course.” His smile is nothing but gentle and caring. “So, what’s up with this collage? What’s so interesting about it?”

“Lila said she likes it because it reminds her of life itself.” Spencer’s voice says from behind you.

When you look at Morgan, pure terror in your eyes, he just shakes his head. Thank God. Spencer wasn’t there the whole time. You let out an audible sigh of relief.

“What was that?” Spencer asks, placing himself by your other side. Now you are between him and Morgan, all of you in front of the collage.

“Nothing,” you dismiss. “What did you answer to what Lila said?”, you turn your attention to him, tilting your head so you can face him better.

“I, uh,” he attempts to control his blushing. “Said there was something definitely appealing about this one.”

“Oh,” you nod, returning your gaze to the exhibit. “That’s a first time. You’ve never used that word before-“

You are right. He has never used that word before towards a piece of art. And maybe it is your hot white jealousy talking and you are really losing your head- but now you can see more clearly splashes of Lila. What did Lila say? Life itself. Of course. The collage is made with moments of Lila’s life. You share a glance with Spencer and you know he has clicked as well.

“I hope you already committed to memory this, ‘cause we are tearing it apart,” you say to Spencer, before addressing Morgan. “Help us to take this down.”

You guys take the strips of photographic montages to Lila’s kitchen table and recompose the work. You can’t believe it. It is a great warm and sick love letter that tells Lila’s entire journey.

“Lila, it looks like someone’s been stalking you for years,” Morgan says.

“Yeah, this tells your whole life story,” Elle adds. “Movie premieres, theater playbills.”

“Everything since college,” Spencer says.

“Who gave you this collage?” Morgan urges.

“He did.” Lila points to a photo in the collage. A bearded young man smiling.

“This guy? Who is he?” Morgan insists.

“That’s the guy I went to high school with, Parker Dunley,” Spencer answers.

What? That doesn’t makes sense.

“Garcia.” Morgan pulls out his phone. “Parker Dunley. E-mail me a sheet on him, all right?”

Spencer notices your puzzled look. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. “It’s just… all right. Everything here feels so intimate. So close. So purposefully placed. Almost like a feminine touch. It’s something a girl in love would make like an anniversary present. And I am not saying that a guy couldn’t do it but… a guy like Parker? C’mon. He thought it was a funny thing to say that you look like a 12-year-old kid.”

Elle hums. “Whether Parker is the UnSub or not, we should pay a visit. Morgan?”

“Garcia already sent the address. Let’s go.”

* * *

The lights in the office are off and the only desks on are yours, Morgan’s, and Spencer’s. You want to finish the paperwork today. You don’t want to touch this case ever again, so the quicker it’s over, the better. But you’re so, so exhausted. Even though you pretended to sleep on the return flight, you didn’t get any rest.

The UnSub turned out to be not Parker Dunley, but Maggie Lowe. An old friend from Lila’s college. The same one you saw disappear from the set in the morning. So, so stupid. If you hadn’t been blinded by your dull feelings, perhaps you could have done a better job. Still, the only thing your mind is really determined to remember is Reid’s hands grabbing Lila’s face. It’s an infinite loop. It rewinds every time it ends. Her fingers intertwined in his tie. Reid’s hands on her face. Their lips colliding. Her fingers in his tie. His hands on her face. Their lips-

You make sure to read your report twice, afraid that you’ve accidentally described Reid’s kiss with Lila. You sigh with relief. Nope. None of that, just details of the case. Your eyes hurt and sometimes sting. The tears are at the back of your throat and you know it. Maybe you should have accepted the girls’ invitation. You could be laughing lightly in alcohol instead of drowning in thick sadness.

“I’m out,” Morgan announces, switching off his light desk. “Night, Hollywood,” he says, nudging Spencer’s side. “Need a ride, pretty girl?” he then offers to you.

You jump out of your chair like a spring. Her fingers in his tie. You can’t stay alone with Spencer. His hands on her face. Not with your broken heart on your sleeve. Theirs lips colliding. “Yes!” you nod, grabbing your satchel. “Bye, Spenc-“ You fail to act casual and he fails to hide his sad expression.

“Uhm, alright,” he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Have a good weekend.”

Oh, God. It’s Friday. You can’t do that to him. You swallow your shattered love. You’ll be okay. You’re his friend.

“Uh, Morgan, y’know what, I’ll take the train.”

Morgan shakes his head. “Okay, kid,” he smiles with sympathy, opening the glass doors.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Spencer says, gathering his things. “I get it if you are tired.”

You don’t know how much.

“No, it’s okay. What are we doing tonig-“

Oh. There’s a magazine on Reid’s desk. A pop one. Spencer never reads that kind of magazine. But of course, he had never been on the cover before. He has his hand resting on Lila’s shoulder and she leans her cheek there. It feels wrong seeing this. It feels more intimate than the kiss. It feels almost personal- Your breathing hitches. He has also taken your shoulder and you have also leaned on his hand. You’ve also seen it like Lila is seeing him in the photo. But he’s never seen you the way he sees her.

“Mystery man, huh?” you joke, trying to suffocate this ugly feeling that spreads through your body faster than the light itself.

“Hmm?” he says, not seeing what you are. But when he does, he looks guilty. A mystery man in Lila’s life?, the magazine says.

“You know, if this thing with the FBI doesn’t work out, you can always be a mystery man,” you chuckle. You can laugh this out. You know you can. You have to.

But Reid doesn’t find funny your joke. “Why’s Morgan calling you pretty girl?”

“What?” you reply, confused.

“Why’s Morgan calling you-“

“No, I heard it.” You furrow your brows. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugs. You don’t understand.

“I’m just curious.”

And you are not sure why, but you get angry. What does he care what Morgan calls you. You know your anger isn’t more than just an unfounded resentment, but you can feel bile creeping up your tongue and you’re not quick enough to stop it.

“Why? You don’t think I’m pretty?”

He looks surprised. “What? That’s not what I said!”

Oh, how the roles can change. “But that’s what you meant?”

“Wh- no! Stop twisting my words” his voice is coming out in high pitches. And then he realizes. You are just repeating what he said earlier to you. And he hasn’t apologized yet. “Oh.”

Silence fall between you two. And not the comfortable one you’re used to. Maybe you were too optimistic. Clearly, you can’t be alone with him right now. You’re not being fair to him. Maybe you should have taken Morgan’s offer.

“You are pretty,” he then says. “And I’m sorry.” A pause. “Both are facts.”

You hate how your heart seems to sew back with honey threads when you hear him call you pretty.

“And you know how serious I’m about facts.”

Yeah, you do. And just like that, the silence is warm again.

bonus!

spencer’s pov

Spencer feels uncomfortable and it has nothing to do with the feeling of wet socks. No. It’s like a crashing shame that doesn’t let him breathe normally. What is Hotch going to think when he finds out that he was making out with the victim he was sent to take care of? Forget Hotch. What is Gideon, the man who introduces him to everyone as a doctor, going to think? Nonetheless, even as Spencer thinks about their disappointments combined, the weight isn’t enough to explain the pressure in his chest. What is it then? His own disapproval of him? As genius as he is stupid, he calls himself.

Forget both. When Spencer watches you hold the roll of negatives up to the moonlight, it’s like someone has kicked him in the pit of the stomach, effectively knocking the air out of him. And then a pale lightning bolt hits the necklace he gave you and he feels like he’s going to die. He becomes aware of every drop of chlorine in his body and how dirty that water must have been. Even if he bathes a hundred times, he will never feel clean again.

He expects to be greeted by well-deserved anger in your eyes, but instead, he finds a deep sadness that gobbles him up. No. Did he do that? Impossible. He tries to approach you, but the fear of you rejecting him immobilizes him. He is bolted to the ground and desperate. How can he return the stars to your gaze that he is used to looking at? How can he make you understand what an angel you are to him?

“Ang-“ he tries, but he is immediately shushed by you.

“Of course you fell in, Crash.” He doesn’t remember a sweeter nickname or a gentler gaze. He is ashamed of how fast you can soothe him, his guilt draining as your eyes are no longer devastating. “Make sure Lila lends you a dry mismatched pair of socks, okay?” You shoot him a soft smile that smooths his sharp ugly feelings.

His heart fills with relief to see that you’re not angry. Nor disappointed. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve you in his life, but he hopes to do everything he can to keep you in it. “Okay,” he replies even though you’ve already inside the house. It doesn’t matter. After all, you’re always present in his mind. Just like the stars are always in the sky.

taglist: @mirdnightmass @monstrosityinside @nervousmumbling @sunflowersndpeaches s0urmarvelwispystarss405rryavis-writeshqsyrrupwishyoudaskmehaileycannotcometothephonernlololololooolook69redros3y@stargirlsturniololoveriamburdenedpleasantwitchgarden queermaxwooo becauseimamirrorball13 smashleywow cultish-corner zeida lou-the-confused-bisexual chaosemia l4venderia jupiteroftheuniverse keenstudentsuitcasegarden nomajdetective bohemianrhapsody86 sabage101 (once again, i hope i am not letting anyone out. THANK YOU SO MUCH, YOU GUYS! is wild how much you are liking these silly blurbs. it means a lot to me, thanks).

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