There's not much Barty Crouch Jr content out there. If you don't mind writing about him, can I make a request? After escaping Azkaban, he serves his Lord to the best of his ability, but there is someone from his past that he still can't get out of his mind. A Slytherin and from a family of followers of the Dark Lord. They had a relationship during their youth. After many years, he finds her again. He always had a soft spot for her. But the reader (like Snape, a sort of spy) is secretly thinking against the Dark Lord and stays away from these things as much as possible, but she is definitely in danger. Things are complicated, but the strong attraction and longing between them cannot be ignored...
The Boy I Knew
Barty Crouch Jr. x Black!Fem!Reader
Cw; Y/N, obsessions, one sided love(Barty pining), Barty being unhinged. Reader is morally grey, Remus Lupin onesided love (Rem pining), sexual themes and scenes, mentions of murder}} Please tell me if I missed anything!
AN- this fanfic is now well over what it should have been. I am posting a fraction of the proofread bits as of now, as I realize this is probably not at all what you wanted and if so I am SO sorry. If you want more I have a pouch that just needs to be beta read
Wc-5670
Taglist: @defnotfrey @au-ghosttype
{. 1972 - Barty’s Year 1 .}
Bartemius Crouch Junior couldn't have been older than eleven when he first met {Y/N} Walburga Black. A cool upperclassman, if only by a year.
Bartemius, at that ripe age, knew only a handful of things, and two of those was how badly he wanted to be seen and known. He wanted to be seen for who he was, and known for what he would do. That's likely what drew him to you.
At only twelve, you and your brother had made a name for yourselves, in much different ways. Your brother was popular, for his quick tongue and clever quips, his innate ability to get under anyone's skin and stay there. Those traits could be forgiven, and they always were, for his big heart and intense sense of moral.
You, however, were known for harboring a few very non Black traits, like your intense empathy and your crazed thirst for knowledge. Even as a Slytherin, your loyalty and curiosity rivaled the students around you tenfold. Your bravery knew no bounds, even with all the wrongs you had been done, you were forgiving and understanding. You were seen by everyone, you were known for everything.
As he got older, he wondered where that forgiveness went. You grew cold.
When he was innocent, when he had done no wrongs, you cradled him in your hands like he was a gift. You looked at him with eyes you shared with everyone, so much care and patience, so much understanding and kindness. So if those eyes were shared with the masses, he struggled, but was determined, to keep them focused on himself at any chance given.
It was obvious to anyone who saw the two interact. Barty wanted to be witnessed by you. The halls filled with the judgeful and teasing murmurs when he found you in the halls.
“There goes {Y/N}’s prodigy.”
“Barty is off to find his guru.”
“That boy will never learn.”
“How annoying.”
Barty had never been ashamed of his declarations for praise. He knew most of the voices were bitter with jealousy. He would be jealous too. You were both so young, and yet even some older students looked to you like you were twice your age, yet every Friday when the tests were returned, you sat in the courtyard and waited for him. Your personal underclassman.
You would meet in the yard and he would brandish his flawless marks, you would praise his abilities in absolute pride. He had never had someone prideful of him before. Everyone knew him to be a mother’s boy, but he would challenge any of those claims. He was a {Y/N}’s boy, he'd tell them, no shame as students snickered and made their fun of him. He was never afraid of how much he liked you. How much he admired and respected you.
He would turn from the RavenClaw table and look to you after his announcements everytime, you would be eating with Lily Evans and the other girls of her group, but your eyes would be on him. You would give him a soft smile that drove him mad. He would return it with his own, the smile he would save for you. Just you.
When he was only eleven and you were twelve, everything was perfect for him. You focused your attention on studies, your friends, and of course, Barty. That's how it stayed for years.
He would reminisce in his cell, running his dulled nail along the jagged stone walls, carving intents of every minute that passed. Remembering all of the things he regretted most in his life. Losing your trust was where his spiral began. He was a foolish kid.
{. 1974 Barty’s Year 3 .}
“It's getting embarrassing.”
Barty was eating lunch with one of the many friends he had made during his years at Hogwarts, Evan Rosier. He was once again bringing the conversation back to you, as he had been for the past few days.
“You trail after her like a loyal dog. Has she even given you a hint that she may return your feelings?”
“What feelings?”
Evan and you did not get along. You never had. When he first found himself growing closer to him, you voiced your distaste for Evan the very next day. Barty always trusted your judgment, he obeyed you without much of a fight in most cases. This was not one of those cases.
He figured you to be biased, your brother thought him to be a Death Eater and you despised them. Something he could never understand, you were a pureblood, a Black, you were a powerful witch, and you would never have to worry about falling for a half blood or muggleborn, or Merlin forbid, a muggle. You were smarter than that. He always figured. You wouldn't taint your legacy.
Not like your useless brother, who he could see even now, describing his entanglements with witches and wizards of any kind, to the other Marauders.
As the years went on, you and Barty’s meetings became scarcer and scarcer, they went from Fridays to every second Friday, finally, you now only met every last Friday of the month. Still, Barty clung to you with a desperation he never would give anyone else.
Recently, you had gotten into a fight. One where you expressed your worry for what could possibly happen to him if he got involved with the wrong crowd. Barty, admittedly, didn't respond in kind. He was furious with you. You questioned his company but pushed away from him, you questioned his morals and his standing on the war. He told you there was no war to him, there was no fight.
At the end of the day, he would be standing by you.
The answer seemed to distress you further. It turned into a match of shouts and desperate pleas of compliance. It caused a scene, people watched as you defended your standing on your side of the war, this fight you were having with yourself he assumed. There was no war. This was a power struggle.
Evan’s scoff snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked up from his plate to his eyes.
“Barty, half the school knows you've been in love with her since first year.” He hissed and Barty frowned. Would he call it love? He didn't think about it long before he had his answer. Love wasn't something he looked for, but he found it constantly. From the love he shared with Pandora, to the love he shared with Regulus, even the love he was nurturing with the brutish Evan.
No love in his body burned hotter then his love for you.
He never thought about it because he never had to. Why would he? He knew you loved him too. He knew what you two shared was never anything that could be challenged. He was your prodigy. He was your prodigy. He didn't care for much, as long as he was yours.
Evan snapped his fingers in his face and drew his attention back to him. He gave a slick smirk and wet his lips. “Come on, Barty, she's just a girl. You're wasting talent. Talent that could be used for someone who actually appreciates you.”
“She does appreciate me.” Barty challenged immediately, before Evan smirked and gestured to the Gryffindor table. “Does she?”
Barty turned just in time to see you, he never had to stare at a crowd too long to find you.
You were sitting with your brother and his friends, side by side with Remus, sitting far too close for comfort. He was whispering something in your ear, making you giggle. Turning to look at him with the truest smile he's ever seen you make. Flashing your beautifully uneven teeth, your cheeks dimpling and eyes seeming to sparkle. Your eyes met Lupin’s and he took in your expression like he could die in that moment.
Barty had never seen you smile like that before. He had never seen you look that way before. You had never looked at him like that before.
He hadn't even noticed as he began to bend the fork in his hand, fist tightening as he watched as Remus lean in and stole a kiss against your cheek. You gave a bigger laugh at this. Moving in to kiss his lips carefully.
The wonderful moment you were having was interrupted when a loud snap sounded threw the cafeteria. Your eyes snapped over to the RavenClaw table, as did a lot of your peers. Barty had snapped a fork in half with his thumb alone. Before a professor could scold him, he got up from his seat and stomped out of the grand hall, and your eyes followed them.
You muttered a quick apology to Remus and he nodded in understanding as you scrambled to your feet to follow after him.
He wished he could take every word he called you in that hall back now. He wished he had been smart enough to know that loving you with you in his life would of been far less torture then loving a girl who hated your guts.
“You blood trader!”
“This! This is what I meant, Bartemius! My Barty would never-”
“You don't have a clue about me, you insolent heartbreaker! What of us, Black?”
“Us? What Us, Barty?”
That night he realized that no matter how genuine his love was for you, how deeply it ran, those times spent alone meant far more to him then it ever meant to you. You did stuff like that for everyone.
He wasn't entitled to your love. Running his nail down until it was blunted against the wall. Azkaban could no longer do more harm then it already had.
{. 1974 Barty’s Year 4 .}
An entire school year. You and Barty didn't speak for an entire school year.
He kept his tabs on you, of course, because no matter what you said to him that day, you were still his person. Knowing how ignorant and how dangerously minded you could be, he took it upon himself to look over you. You may have been older, you may have sworn him, at one time, your loyalty and protection. But now, he had power of his own. He would repay you. He would repay and reeducate you, given the chance. With all the training him, Evan, Muliciber, Avery, even Snape had done? By Merlin’s beard he could do anything.
He had the mind to back that up, but he kept his power under wraps. You were always frightened by what you didn't understand, the last thing he wanted was for you to fear him. He wanted everyone to know him as fear, not you.
Never you.
When the school year started Barty noticed the shift instantly. He knew you like the back of his hand, far more than he let on most days, but it didn't take a genius to see that {Y/N} Black sitting with Regulus Black at the Slytherin table was odd.
He soon learned of what happened between Sirius and his family, a right disgrace. Then to learn Sirius scorned you from his life for choosing to stay with Regulus, that was probably what started Barty’s absolute disdain for your brother. You had gone through training per Regulus. Saying before Sirius left he let it slip about you and Remus, trying to entice you to leave with him. You refused and your mother lost it. Walburga was a stain on this earth for what she had done. Even then…
It was all for the better, as he saw it. You don't need the impressions of Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Mary Macdonald, Remus Lupin, or any others that pour their venom into a perfect witch as yourself. He would make sure it stayed that way, even if it hurt you. However, he couldn't lie.
You always looked your best when you knew your worth.
It wasn't just your routine that changed, you became cold to your old friends, dropping the Muggle borns and staying weary of the half bloods. You started to associate mainly with more influential Purebloods.
That meant him.
He knew his father was good for something.
“Crouch? Would you like to accompany me to the library?” Your voice sang out to him, despite your listless monotone and drifting eyes. It was the first sentence you muttered to him in 13 months. Your voice was more reserved, your back straightened and your lips pouted. You didn't look like that 12 year old he knew, you were 16 now. Even in his depravity, he took notice of every lovely advancement you had taken in care of your appearance. Your mother instructed you with glamours and proper wear, even now wearing a black feathered choker and brandished a black quill. A family heirloom, Regulus would tell him.
Now, he hated your mother, there was no question about that. What she had done to Regulus was unforgivable, what she had done to you was cause for retaliation in his eyes. But Merlin, did she put you back on the path of greatness.
“Crouch? {Y/N}, my love, it will always be Barty to you.” He lit up like a child, voice sugary sweet. It was your turn to take notice of his change. He was still the same boy you met in first year. Endlessly obsessive, devoted, and excelling at all the things you liked about him. Unfortunately, also the things you hated.
But, he was still your Barty in your heart. The boy you loved, the boy you cherished, the boy who charmed your soul in ways you didn't know possible. If you had to pick anyone to fill the hollowed out ache in your chest, you chose dangerously, Barty Crouch Jr would be your reprieve.
He was just older now. He was becoming a man.
Everyone knows what they say, about a boy and a girl, coming into their own together. Barty figured this was your love story, you weren't one to argue any longer.
He didn't care that you only seemed to speak to him out of necessity. When he heard from Regulus that your mother was making you pick your friends based on their social standing, any males to soon be a suitor, he was ecstatic.
He was remarkable. He was seen. He was valuable enough to you to not be a mere pawn but maybe even a queen on your chest set. To be used by you? It was worth every moment of the ache. All of this because his father just so happened to keep his filthy hands to the purest bloodlines.
That was his value to you. His blood, his sweat, his labor, and his mind. They were yours, no questions asked. He clung to your heel with new found determination. He would keep you on the right track, the promised one. The one that would ensure your children had the same opportunities.
He knew he wanted this the moment he walked in on you and Severus arguing in the courtyard.
“You dare call her a Mudblood, you incessant pompous Half Breed?!” Your voice echoed through the halls. People watched in horror, some in absolute shock, the sweet kind girl they had grown attached to was a right monster now. Barty, however, was loving it. You were a proper pureblood.
“{Y/N}-” Severus spoke carefully, something about his tone was far too familiar for Barty’s liking, him addressing you by first name made his jaw tighten. He didn't have to say a word. You rectified it.
“Do not address me as anything other than Black, you dirty mutt!” You screeched. Severus looked stunned, the usually stoic boy looked broken. Barty watched as your eyes trailed over a shocked and watery eyed Lily Evans, he almost didn't catch you muttering, “You lost that privilege.”
He, of course, came to your rescue, as he always promised. Hand around your back and escorted you away from the fight. As you both walked down the corridor your path was blocked.
Barty almost laughed, Remus Lupin. He was standing with Sirius Black, both staring threatening daggers at Barty. When you both kept walking, Barty shoved a path between the two boys, you hand a fistful of his cloak so as to not be left behind.
He didn't like how Remus’s eyes softened at the sight of you. He didn't like how Sirius reached for you. He walked faster, putting your sniffling form in front of himself.
After that, he knew he had you.
You were becoming who you were meant to be.
~~~
He took his mark that summer, standing alongside your brother Regulus Black, Lucius Malfoy, Beatrix Black and Evan Rosier. They were at your cousin’s manor, in the ballroom standing side by side. He was as straight as a board, brimming with pride, smirking to himself and brandishing his left arm.
He could feel your eyes on him, from where you stood, next to Narcissa, your aunt and your mother. Waiting for him.
Evan was first, standing beside Barty and holding out his wrist. When the wand hovered over his wrist and the Death Eater began to mutter the incantation, Evan let out a blood curdling sound. Pure brutish pain shot through him, leading him to fall back. Quickly held up by two other death eaters behind him.
When the wand brushed Barty’s wrist next, he hardly flinched. Tilting his head back as sweat gathered around his temple and neck. He bit his lip and let himself feel every sharp intrusion the spell took, letting himself succumb to the blissful pain.
When he returned to you, not standing to wait for dismissal like the rest of them, he wrapped his arm around your waist and yanked you in. He stole your lips for his own, making you give a slight gasp. You don't fight it, so he pushed further, letting himself taste your bottom lip and pulling it punishingly between his teeth. Through his high he was able to recognize and memorize the feel of your lips and the taste, in his mind, it was the closest to the gods he'd ever get. What was true heaven, however, was when you took his cheeks in your hands and kissed him back.
“Enough.” He heard your mother hiss from beside you. She shooed Barty away like he was some stray dog. He backed down from where you stood, licking his lips and admiring just how shaken and red you looked. Your mother, the hag, pushed you behind herself and hid you away from his eyes.
When you looked away and covered your mouth, he almost didn't notice how you also licked your lips clean. That drove him mad.
He had come to the conclusion early on, you were a temptress. A vixen. A damned Siren as far as he knew.
Memories of that night, your first kiss, the moment he could see you falling for him. A proper man, worthy of the worship he planned to give you. Worthy of serving a goddess like you. It kept him up most nights, it was a high even the dementor's couldn't take away, but they did manage to warp his obsession from what he believed to have been holy, to the truth.
He was brought on this earth for you. Without you, he was nothing. He was rotting.
{. 1976 Barty’s Year 6 .}
The next year he took your hand and promised you the world. To his delight, you responded in kind. You began dating his sixth year and it was absolute bliss.
It didn't last long, that bliss. It became a thrill.
Despite his power and loyalty to the dark lord, your mother favored another's for your hand. Particularly, Avery. His father came to your mother with the proposal, your mother liked his offer of the estate and your own power over the house.
You, however, much to Barty’s delight, were way too far gone. In your now secret meetings, where you would take you strolls along the city street, to the shop or to the boutique. You made a show of it; but you only truly left for Crouch Manor.
Where Mr. and Mrs. Crouch turned their other cheek as you snuck your way to Barty’s chambers. Behind those locked doors your love was dangerous. His whispers and promises of treachery against your family name were met with nothing less than desperate devotion and promises in kind. As your palms glided over his bare chest and his large hands found their way under your skirt.
His favorite memories were all locked away in that room. The room he made you his own, where his hands grew familiar with your skin in ways no one else ever could, where he found an affinity for you breathless, and where he heard you let out sounds no self respecting Black heiress should ever let out.
He claimed what was his birthright, between your legs. Bruised your lips numb and left marks you had to charm away when you made it back home. Just in time for supper.
With the feeling of him still fresh on your body. The pureblood heir your parents thought so lowly of. The heir they didn't see fit to sit at that very table, was still there. His lips were on the rim of the cup you sipped from, his hands were on the arm rests you relaxed against, and his teeth and claws were buried into their perfect daughter.
{. 1978 .}
By the time you both graduated, you took your place at the table. Having fought to hold off your engagement to Avery, Barty took it into his own hands to get between the two of you. Every time you glance in the boy's direction, he shrivels in on himself.
“Barty?” You whispered between his greedy kisses, in the halls of the Malfoy manor. The only times his hands could find your hips and his lips could find yours outside of his own room now. He was starting to see less and less of you. The war was in full swing and with his desperation for you was all that was driving him most days.
Thinking now, he wondered what drove you. Even now, having spent a year in Azkaban, you were still the light he flew to, no matter how much it hurt him. He could have sworn, at one time, it was him.
“Darling.” He whispered low against your lips. You tangled your fingers into his hair, before pulling him down. He rested his chin against the curve of your chest and looked up into your eyes.
You bit your lip, running your thumb along his own reddening ones. “Do you love me, Barty?” You cooed.
“I do.” He affirmed, licking the skin you touched along his Cupid's bow, “I do, more than anything.” His voice was raw and rough, he pulled at your hold, trying desperately to kiss you again.
“Do something for me, Barty.”
“Anything, Darling. Anything.” He muttered, eyes still on your lips.
“Be within my reach. Always.” You whispered before releasing him. He took your lips once more, pushing you back against the wall like the very prospect of not touching you in some way was physically painful. His hand traveled up from your hand to rub over the mark you took just days earlier.
Every moment like that seemed fleeting.
The very next year, Regulus Black passed. He had gone MIA and your mother, despite her loyalty to Voldemort, commanded you home. It got worse when they officially announced his death.
You stayed locked in those walls, by order of your mother. He missed you dearly. Barty never wanted to be your hero, some great commander, he couldn't care less now about who else even knew his name anymore. He was older now, and he just wanted to be yours.
So, it pushed Barty to work even harder. Anything to appease The Dark Lord, get this war over with, so he could return to the only true person worthy of his reverence.
Without you, his life went by in simple clips of reality. When Voldemort fell, he was imprisoned in this hellhole, and even now, he found himself unable to let anything else consume his mind.
The dripping of water from the rusting metal doors drove him mad. No other sounds but the miserable screams of inmates and slamming of bodies against pavement. It was a torturous and hopeless place, some people preferred punishment by their own hands. There was suddenly a loud clanging of keys that cut his thoughts.
He looked up from the corner of his cell, putting his thumb in his mouth and sucking on the bleeding torn skin. The marks he had made on the cell walls marked his 354th day in this nightmare. His eyes locked with his father and his mother, furrowing his brow as he stood.
His mother two out two veils of a slug colored potion, his father had another potion in his hand.
Barty didn't stay in that cell to see his 355th.
~~~
{. 1994 POV Shift .}
“It's a bit cold, don't you think?”
Remus Lupin's voice cut through the fog of your mind like a knife through butter. He was right, of course. Even as the year grew warmer with the summer months growing closer, the astronomy tower always gave a pleasant and persistent chill.
You were used to it, by now. Being the Astronomy Professor for almost twelve years. About the same amount of years you managed to avoid coming into contact with Remus himself.
You had to give him credit, Remus Lupin, he was persistent. Doing everything in his power to get you alone. As if one conversation would melt away years of what you had done, the people you deceived, the lives you took, the lies you told… all in the name of a crazed boy long lost to the history of the wizarding world. For the family who was as faded as the family tree you used to tend to with your brothers, painting names and burning faces.
As if speaking to you would somehow bridge a gap. A gap in his heart that still ached for you. It was never something he was able to understand, your persistent and endless love for Crouch had come out of nowhere for him. He couldn't look Sirius in the eye for a long time, learning he had outed your budding relationship.
He took every chance he could, to reach out, to speak to you, it was met with closed doors and a reminder of remaining professional.
“It is. Heading out, Lupin?” You muttered to him. You couldn't lie and say having him here didn't make you feel, in some ways, nostalgic. To the loving, caring, respectful girl you once knew. One with so much patience and kindness you shared it with all kinds of souls. Souls you've watched drop like flies under the man you swore your life to.
“I am.” Remus muttered but didn't turn to leave. You shifted on your heel to look back at him from the entrance of the tower. He had his hand resting on the railing, his palm thudding against the railing as he tried to gather the courage to continue.
“I heard you gave Snape quite the earful.” He hummed, walking deeper into your classroom. You thinned your lips and shook your head, turning away from him. He gave a weak scoff.
“Could you at least look at me?” He pushed, his voice wavering. You closed your eyes and gave a deep sigh. Your hands moved to grab the railing.
“What is it, Lupin?”
“It's not too late.” He whispered and you closed your eyes. His words were exact, aimed to cut deep and retrieve from you the heart he knew was there; it just had grown cold. “You could come back. With me, tonight, we can meet with Padfoot and-”
“And what, Lupin?” You spoke calmly as you turned to face him. He went rigid at your stare. “Live this wonderful life you have weaved out for us? Pretend that everything is okay and the last few years never happened?” You pushed and he closed his eyes.
Anger bubbled in his throat with something familiar, jealousy and bitter melancholy. If he could hear you any clearer you would be cotton in his ears. Your words were empty because he knew you could. Put Hogwarts behind you and come back to him, come with him and Sirius like you should have done back when you wore uniform and not cloaks like proper professors. Nothing was proper about you two aching hearts anyway.
Yet history repeated itself.
It always would.
“You know he's gone.” Remus started slowly and your breath caught in your throat. You felt your eyes grow glossy with grief and you placed your left hand over your heart.
“I never thought I would be someone's second choice. To Bartemius Crouch Jr.” He continued. “I see I never measured up, did I?”
“... I am sorry, Remus.” You whispered, your voice, for the first time in years, was vulnerable. It was careful.
Because of course you loved Remus. You loved him dearly, but no man would own you like Barty had. You were terrified to let yourself be loved with anything less than what he had shown you. Steadfast and faithful love. No one could challenge the status of Barty in your life.
Even in death his ghost reminds you of your place. Next to him.
Once this was over, once Dumbledore had seen and used his worth in you, when you were no longer under his wing like a servant, you would go back to 12 Grimmauld Place. You would retire. And you would wait for Barty to take you back home. Let it be a year, let it be ten, you would return to him as promised.
“... What have you become?” He whispered to you, and your eyes finally raised to meet him. You caught your tears and quickly cleaned your face. Shaking your head you put back on your practiced and perfect pout.
“.. A Black.”
Your exchange ended there.
Remus returned to your brother, you presumed. You forged ignorance when you were questioned by the Ministry of your brother’s whereabouts. It didn't take much for them to let you be, especially with Mr. Crouch Senior’s particular protectiveness of you. Probably a gift from Mrs. Crouch, oh, how you missed her.
When Barty was taken and your mother was far too weak to control you, you visited the Crouchs’ daily. You helped Winky with taking care of his parents, particularly his sick and fragile mother. You grew a weak repore with his father, though you despised him.
As a proper pureblood you just silently reaped the benefits of what the world had gifted you.
Including your wealth. With the house of Black fallen you were left to be the soul heir. Though, the moment you heard of Sirius Black’s escape, you reopened your joint account. Soon, you heard someone was able to access it. It was true; your brother was alive and well.
That was the only olive branch you extended to him.
Once the school year was officially over you returned home. To your modest house down in an old town just a broom ride away from Hogwarts. Feldcroft.
You returned home, it was uneventful. Until you opened your door.
You were greeted by Winky, the Crouch’s house elf. That wouldn't be unusual, Barty had preached to her about how you were both intended. How she should attend to you, how she attended to him. So she would appear at your house from time to time, with gifts and food she had prepared for Crouch Senior that she made just too much of.
“Winky?” You called out to the figure in your hall. The sheepish girl turned to face you with a careful smile.
“Madam Black has returned! How happy Winky is to see you, mistress.” She declared and hurried up to you. Her path was cut short as Creature stepped in front of her, snapping away your bags. He seemed in a foul mood. Fowler then usual.
“Your mother would not approve of your company, Ms. Blaaaack.” He warned and you furrowed your brow. “Nor would she approve of this home-”
“Kreature.” You demanded and he huffed. Winky was always coming in and out, Creature never voiced displeasure with her company and your mother, well, she could care less. “What company?”
“The noisy Crouch, Ma'am.”
Your heart dropped. He apparated away, assumingly to unpack your bags. Your eyes widened as Winky appeared in front of your full view. Showing off the black quill you had most definitely left at home. Your mothers old quill. You took it carefully from the house elf.
“Winky..” You spoke carefully and slowly. Holding up the quill between your fingers. “Who gave this to you?”
“I think you know, Darling.”
Before Winky could answer, a voice lost to time spoke first. You knew it before you even turned around.
Still, you jerked your entire body to face him. Your eyes locked, full of longing and hope.
And there he was. Your Barty.
He was holding a newspaper, licking his bottom lip but his eyes were on you. His eyes were just how you always remembered them. So full of danger and appreciation for your simple presence. He stepped towards you and you took a step back. He tsked at that, reaching out to grab your waist. “Darling..” He whispered.
You were still in shock. Staring up at his brown eyes and waiting. For anything. “Barty?” You whispered.
When he kissed you, alarm bells went off in your head. You didn't listen to any of them, grabbing him just as greedily as he held you. Both of your eyes closed and you held each other like you might perspire.
He was home.
He truly was.
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Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 7 ⇨
Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut
18+ mdni - cw: references to SA - 3.9k words
𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫
The air of your cell is thick and savoury like soup. You choke on it, every breath, drowning in it – filling your lungs with its foul warmth and barely slaking your battered body’s need for oxygen.
The sore minutes following your husband’s execution had blurred into incomprehensible smoke. Fleeting. Suffocating. Obfuscating.
You are lost. Uncertain whether or not you are grieving. And if you’re not, whether you should be.
His words were each a bullet, each meticulously calculated to injure you where it would hurt you most. Almost perfectly crafted to ensure your captors lose any semblance of pity or reverence they held for you – so that they might lose whatever restraint they’ve been attempting to maintain. So that they may do to you whatever they have been itching to do. Their exploitation justified. Because you’re just a whore.
But in your desperation to comfort your own distraught mind, you argue with yourself. Your own devil’s advocate.
Perhaps it was a game. Could have been a bluff.
He must have loved you, right? After years of serving him, of acting your part, of loving him the way he wanted you to.
He had to have loved you. You had always dreamed someone would.
No matter the case, the outcome is the same. There’s no way back. Whatever nightmare you’re stuck in will only, only, get worse. Regardless of which pack of wolves you are left to, your fate remains inescapable. You’ll be used. Consumed. Digested. Shit back out.
The Captain had ferried you to a new cell – the one you now sat in, atop a makeshift bed with a squealing steel frame. He had carried you like a child, an arm under your knees and an arm under your neck, he let your head fall on his chest despite your fading effort to stay skittish and defensive. His charity disingenuous. White knight he is.
But you’re weak. Exhausted. Delirious.
You sit in dead silence, knees tucked up tightly to your chin, body only partially dry after your water torture.
The Captain stands in front of you. Hands magisterially on his hips, he pouts under his beard. Wrestling with how best to interact with you, like you’re an animal in an exhibit. Careful not to scare you off, but frightened you’d bite if he gets too close.
“There were no bullets in the gun, by the way,” he says gruffly, voice hoarse like he’s gargling gravel. “I wasn’t going to kill you. It was a… a bluff.”
You say nothing. Give him nothing. You glower at him from under your brow, hoping he leaves so you can finally lie down and cry like a hurt little girl.
“Can I get you something? Water?”
You say nothing.
“Look. We’re – we’re not going to hurt you. But I need you to answer some questions, alright?” He insists. “We need to know about who your husband worked with. I’m guessing he must have called them his colleagues, eh?”
Give him nothing.
“Do you know a Vladimir? Makarov?”
That name, you know. You know it well. You know it like an apple knows teeth. Like a deer knows an arrow. Like a carcass knows a knife.
Less so a colleague and more a rival. Two lions fighting for the same throne. Vladimir hated your husband so viciously it wouldn’t surprise you if he had orchestrated this entire series of events just to be rid of him.
But the enmity between he and your husband isn’t what strikes icy shards of terror through your chest. Isn’t what churns your stomach and pushes dark bile up your throat.
You swallow.
“Mh. Looks like you do know him,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest, rocking on his boots. “Can you tell me about him?”
He persists in his questioning, despite your sealed lips. You know that talking might help you. That spilling your vague knowledge like water from a faucet might ingratiate you. Might earn your freedom.
But what freedom awaits you?
If these soldiers cast you back to your blood-soaked estate, or your petit trianon – as a traitor of your husband, a scorned widow – you will simply be bait. Raw meat to lure bears. Honey to lure wasps. There is nowhere you could possibly hide to evade them, no scheme to outsmart them.
You’d be better off dead.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Did he come to your estate a lot? Did he travel with your husband?”
“Have you ever spoken to him?”
“Does he know you?”
“Could he help you?”
“Where is he?”
He leans forward, props himself up with his palms on his knees. His blue eyes are piercing, discerning. “Do you know where he is?” He insists, “Mia. I’m trying to help you.”
You say nothing.
He is quick to grow frustrated, grunting like a bear and standing upright, he rubs his temples in exasperation as if you’ve given him a headache.
“You don’t want to talk to me. Okay.”
Give him nothing.
“Who will you talk to? Anyone?” He presses, tapping his boot in impatience. “Do you want to talk to the Lieutenant?”
You say nothing – but some shift in your expression must have said something for you. You’re not sure if it was the widening of your eyes, the softening of your brows, the loosening of your shoulders – but he spotted it. And nodded slowly. Knowingly.
“Alright, love. I’ll go get him. Then you’ll talk to him, eh?”
“Simon,” came the gruff bark of Price’s familiar voice. Irate.
Ghost sat on a bench in the empty mess hall, under a flickering fluorescent bar. Bouncing his knee, leaning his elbows on the table in front of him, he pinches a cheap Russian cigarette and holds it between his teeth.
Tastes like shit. Does the job.
“What,” he grunts, swivelling on the bench so that he faces out towards the approaching Captain. “Did she kick y’in the head, too?”
Price only frowns, confused and plainly irritated, he comes to a stop before him and crosses his arms. “No,” he puzzles. “She kicked you, eh? That’ll learn you.”
Leaning back indolently, Ghost tugs the base of his balaclava back over his mouth, tucking it under his jaw. Squishes the butt into the plastic surface of the table behind him. “Not me.”
“Mh,” the Captain acquiesces. “She does seem to like you.”
Ghost only scoffs, not quite a laugh, but carries the same disbelieving amusement. “Right,” he chuffs, “for killing her husband?”
“Possibly,” Price shrugs derisively, “beats me.”
“Has she said anything?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Like talking to a brick wall,” the Captain complains. “A pretty little brick wall.”
Ghost rolls his eyes, turning his head to look at the open door to the hall. He rubs his brow vexedly with his thumb. And you chide me, you hypocritical prick.
“She’ll talk to you,” Price insists.
“Why the fuck would she talk to me?” Ghost retorts. “I waterboarded her.”
“I asked her.”
“What, and she requested me?”
Price tilts his head, a lazy shrug. “Not in so many words.”
“Right. So you’re full of shit.”
“Jesus, Simon. Don’t make me order you,” Price sneers, “No clue why she’s interested in you, but, you never know with women like that, eh?”
His stomach churns at Price’s insinuation. Must have taken your cunt husband’s ramblings at face value. Rookie error for a captain.
Ghost bounces his knee in annoyance. “Just let her sleep, for fuck’s sake. She’s probably delirious.”
“Exactly,” Price nods. “She’ll be nice and compliant, eh? Open to persuasion.”
He's right. Ghost is playing dumb. He’s very familiar with the game, so fluent in the art of exploitation that he could do it with his eyes closed. Beaten, defeated, worn down to a quivering mess is when you’ll be most susceptible to influence. The most pliable.
Letting you sleep, allowing you to recover your strength as you cocoon yourself in your shell is a surefire way to ensure you never utter another word. He can’t let your fear bubble into spite, into anger, into vengeance. He must kick you when you’re down.
But – he's tired. He’s already fucking sick of it. Sick of being confused by his own repulsion. Sick of his pathetic eyes raking over your body despite his efforts to restrain it. Sick of your eyes looking through him like you know him better than himself.
“Too delirious to give us anything useful,” Ghost clarifies, through teeth.
“I don’t give a shit about whatever vapid rumours she has about Zakhaev. It’s pretty clear she knows nothing about his enterprise.”
“Then why the fuck do you want me to keep interrogating her?”
“I don’t want you to interrogate her, Simon,” Price badgers, “I want you to convince her.”
Ghost frowns, crosses his arms testily.
“Convince her to what?”
~
Ghost hears the squeaking of your shoddy bed as he brutishly unlocks and opens the door to your cell.
You had been lying on your side, curled up like a foetus on the mattress – but the second you are disturbed, you sit yourself upright. Alert. Frightened. Skittish. Stare at him like a cornered cat.
Looks like you’ve been crying. Eyes red and swollen, cheeks glistening with the afterglow of your tears. Your lips part just slightly as your weary eyes land on him, as though a rush of air just escaped your lungs. He shuts the door behind him, stands in the middle of your small cell with crossed arms.
He mines his thoughts for words to say. Finds them turning to ash on his tongue.
“Sorry about your husband,” he says, eventually, tone more facetious than he had intended.
He sees the cinder flickering in those sparkling little eyes, your chest rises as you inhale in preparation for your retort. “How can you – how can you say sorry for killing–”
“Not for killing him,” he clarifies with a grunt. “Sorry that you married him.”
That leaves you quiet. You look sour, because he’s right.
“Was he always like that?” He persists, feels the snake of spite rising to his throat, needlessly adding an air of mocking derision to his words. “Did–”
“Why are you here,” you snap to cut him off. Your cadence needle sharp, so starkly at odds to the sweetness of your earlier pleading. Nothing left to beg for, he supposes.
Ghost draws in an impatient breath. He doesn’t want to be here either. “Boss said you’d talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” you grumble, voice wavering. Pouting at him. Cute.
He sucks his teeth. “Right,” he scoffs. “Yet you’re talkin’ to me, aren’t you?”
You fall quiet again, pulling your knees up to your chest, you clutch your bare feet with agitated fingers. “He’s nicer than you,” you mutter scornfully.
“I bet,” he agrees dully. “But you won’t talk to him.”
“Don’t trust him.”
“Oh?” He queries cynically, “so you trust me?”
You seem to think for a pointed moment before you speak. Wet stare lands on him, scans from boots to head, evaluating.
“You do what you say you will,” you bitterly admit, and he can see it pains you to say so.
Christ.
You trust him? Or, rather, whatever tentative hopeful dependence that you are forced to rely on in a predicament as dire as yours. Still. He squirms at the thought that you’ve decided he’s the best you’ve got. You’ll be sorely disappointed.
Won’t you?
“Have you got more questions for me,” You ask flatly, breaking the off-putting silence.
The defeat in your voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He’d rather you be hysterical, tearful and delirious, overwhelmed with grief but a still riddled with a desperation to survive.
Instead you’re merely hushed and trembling. Perhaps you’re in shock. Perhaps you’ve got a plan. But, what he is most fearful of, is the likelihood you’ve given up. No desire to fight for whatever life might await you now that your husband is out of the picture.
Detrimental to their entire operation, yes. They have no leverage to use against you if you have no interest in staying alive.
More than that, though, he needs you to keep fighting him. To berate and antagonise and kick and scream. All of his adversaries would viciously resist him and that would justify Ghost’s brutality. When his blistering hatred for you was at its peak, not ten hours ago, he could justify hurting you as badly as he wanted to.
Now what?
How can he bring himself brutalise you when you look at him like that? Teary-eyed, shaking in either cold or panic - but giving him no resistance? No talk-back, no threats, no ploys to escape?
How can he hurt you any further?
He can tell you just want to sleep. Your lids are heavy and swollen despite how hard you try to keep your eyes open and vigilant. Poor thing.
Ghost shakes his head, stepping towards a steel chair that sits propped against the wall. He lifts it with ease, twisting it in the air and putting it down in front of your bed – sits in it casually, leans back. Thighs spread and fingers interwoven in his lap, he bounces his knee as he chews on his response.
“If you’ve got information we can use, sure.”
You sigh deeply and slowly, picking at the cherry-red polish on your toenail with a ferocity that appears to him like self-flagellation. “I don’t know what information I have. Let alone whether it’s useful.”
“’Alright,” he huffs, takes a minute to think of the question. “Said you’re from Nottingham, yeah? How’d you meet him?”
A crease forms in your brow as your dubious eyes jump around his face, searching for an intention. You won’t find one. He doesn’t know what it was.
“How is that useful information,” you seethe.
He shrugs indifferently. “Need details.”
You huff as though reluctant, looking at your feet. “I met him in Berlin.”
He stays silent, and when your stare quickly jumps to him for approval, he gestures with his brutish hand to elaborate. Unsatisfactory answer.
Your gaze returns to your toes. Focusing as you scrape the glossy red paint with your fingernails, leaving specks that look like dried blood on the dirty mattress.
“I was a dancer. Um – he came into the club I danced in, with some other men. All in expensive suits. Rich men like that are cheap. Usually never spend a thing. Still want a piece.”
A stripper. Not what Ghost would have guessed. But he can picture it, all the same. And he does. Pictures you spinning on a slippery pole, peeling off a lacy bra, slender little hands stroking over your buttery body as you present yourself to dogs like meat.
He grounds himself with a clearing of his throat. “S’that right.”
“Mhm,” you answer distastefully. “Was always the working boys that spoiled us. Wanted to spend what little money they had just to please. Just because they could. Men in suits, they want what they pay for. And they pay next to nothing because that’s what we’re worth to them.”
“And Zakhaev…?”
You draw in a slow breath. “Victor was different.”
That’s it? C’mon, love. His silence an insistence to continue. And you do.
“I dunno,” you sniff, he sees your eyes swell red. “I guess he saw something valuable in me.”
He chastises himself for his interest. Why the fuck does he care how a whore comes across a man like Zakhaev? Billionaire wants a trophy wife, so he buys one. It should be no surprise at all.
“So he bought you, eh?” Ghost asks harshly, and your wet and angry stare shoots daggers at him in response.
But you relent. Maybe he’s right. Your gaze returns to your toes and wipe your nose with the back of your hand.
“He gave me fifty-thousand euros for a private dance.”
Fucking hell.
Can’t even fathom spending that much money on anything. But when he looks at you… if he had that kind of money, maybe he’d do the same.
Nearly smacks himself at the thought.
“Generous,” he says instead, disdain on his tongue.
“He was sweet,” you continue, voice wavering as you visibly swallow the urge to cry. “He – he said he could save me. Would take me to his nice house and protect me. Said he’d treat me like a goddess.”
Ghost snorts spitefully. “Did he?”
You scowl at him. “Yes, he did.”
A knife of guilt plunges through his sternum, a truly unfamiliar sting.
Did you love him?
He cannot fathom that you could have. Not after that repulsive tirade, so unbearable to hear he felt compelled to execute him just to make it stop. He thought he had done you a favour. Still mostly believes he has.
“Didn’t sound like it,” Ghost remarks derisively.
You chew your lip. “It’s your fault he snapped,” you murmur, under breath. Doesn’t sound like you believe what you’re saying. “He was – he was good to me.”
He sniffs, licks his teeth. “You had bruises.”
“Fucking ‘course I have bruises, you tortured me.” You hiss.
Shakes his head. “Before,” he ripostes. “You had bruises on your collarbone. On your thighs. From him, eh?”
You bite down on your tongue, he sees your eyes well. Must have prodded a sore spot.
“What is this? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you he beat me so you feel better about murdering him?”
That sparks his anger.
“You think that would make me feel better?” He barks, “I feel fucking fantastic. Shooting that cunt is the best thing I’ve done all week.”
“You’re sick,” you breathe.
“I’m sick? Do you know what your fuckin’ husband did? Do you know what he was?”
“He was a businessman,” you utter, unconvincingly.
“He was a mass-fucking-murderer. He started a war. You wanna know what the body count for that is?”
You fall quiet. Shivering and tearful. But you listen.
“Your husband was busy building bombs. Chemical weapons. Busy selling explosives to fucking terrorist militias in the middle east. Paid for the bombings in London last year. I’m fuckin’ proud that I shot him, whether or not he beat you.”
You’re ghostly. Blood drained completely from your apple cheeks. Your mouth opens to sip a trembling breath, and your tears begin their cascade.
“I didn’t know,” you whimper.
“’Course you didn’t,” he chides doubtfully.
You heave in a whining sob, tears dripping off your chin as you plunge your face against your knees. Was that your last straw, little thing?
“I didn’t,” you stutter, snivelling. “I – I knew he… he was an arms dealer. Just an arms dealer.”
He’s nauseated at the sight of you sobbing so sorely. Finds himself wondering you look like when you smile.
“He was a warlord.”
You sob, dropping your knees open so you sit cross-legged, Ghost’s eyes shoot between your legs. Get a fucking grip. Watching you cry and still stealing his glances? Can’t help it. You cry too pretty.
You move the focus of your self-mutilation from your toes to your fingernails, picking off the lacquer. You sniffle quietly for a minute, and he lets you. What else can he say to you? He’s not much interested in comforting you.
But there’s an ache, sharp and yet nebulous. The acknowledgement that you didn’t know the extent of your husband’s evil. That he likely kept it hidden from you. Or you, hidden from it. That your torture was fruitless and extraneous. Cruelty for the sake of it.
“What happens now,” you ask, near-whisper.
Ghost leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, lets his hands hang nonchalantly. “Still got one use for you.”
Your stare lands on him carefully. You breathe as though preparing yourself, a tear lands in the corner of your parted lips. You uncross your legs, hanging them slowly off the edge of the bed, hands turn to fists on your knees.
“I thought you weren’t interested,” you squeak.
Ghost’s jaw clenches inadvertently, biting down on nothing. Knows what you’re implying. Do you think he’s here to rape you? Here to unwrap you, to tear off that tissue that barely conceals the prize?
His glower is probably serving as evidence. Boring into you with a hunger beyond his control. Jesus. Control yourself.
He could do it. Fulfil your suggestion, accept your offers. Play the role of the lecherous hound you believe him to be.
You’d let him.
You’d lie face down on that bed for him. You’d let him hitch up your hips, presenting your soft pussy for him to take. You’d let him rake down those pathetic pink knickers. You’d let him spit on his fingers and push them into you, to prepare you for the incursion of his spiteful cock. He’d curl and drive them deep, he’d make sure your pussy releases a spate of its sweet liquor just for him.
You’d probably whine sweetly – in pain, at first, as he penetrates you, as your cunt stretches to fit him. But those muffled whimpers into the mattress would evolve into cries of shameful rapture, poignantly humiliated by how good it feels when he fucks you. He’d fuck you slowly. Deeply. He’d make sure the blunt head of his cock rams into that aching spot that makes you squeal.
He’d coat his thumb in your syrup, he’d press the pad of it against your puckered hole. He’d listen to your cloying noises as he pushes it, popping past your tight, clenching entrance, easing it in until he’s knuckle deep. He’d feel his cock rutting in and out of you, through the thin fleshy wall between your holes. He’d feel it cinch so tightly around his thumb, pulsing in rhythm with the abashing orgasm that he fucks out of you. He’d threaten to pump you full of his come, and when you only mewl wetly in response, no dispute, fucked drunk; he’d oblige you.
He’d let you think he’s finished. He’d give you a moment to breathe, as he pulls out of you, as his hot come drips from you, coating your thighs. Your pussy would look too pretty drenched in a concoction of your fluids and his, twitching still in the aftershock.
So he’d flip you, hoist up your soft body by the hips as he sucks your cunt into his mouth. He’d eat another orgasm out of you, voracious and messy, he’d swallow it, and continue; just to feel you writhe in dispute of the overstimulation, just to listen to the squeals of contest that squeak from your wet throat.
He’d leave you choking, panting for air, as he allows you to recover. He’d let you sleep, and he’d know that you’d dream of him.
You fucking animal.
Pulled back to reality by a shivering sigh from your chest - he’s repulsed by himself. Reels in self-loathing as his cock jolts behind his trousers, swelling in anticipation of a crime he won’t commit.
His peers have chastised him for being a beast. An uncaring monster. The kind of animal that would fuck you while you cry, that would take pride in making it hurt.
They’re wrong.
You simply look at him, pupils stretched wide and dark, glassy with worry. Your cunt might be pulsing in between the thighs you hold together so tightly, readying itself for him, preparing for the worst.
No, little rabbit, he wouldn’t do that to you. Not unless you beg him for it.
So he leans back in his seat, feigning disinterest, hoping you don’t notice the turgid heat that radiates from him.
“Not that, sweetheart,” he sighs hoarsely. “We’ve got a more important use for you.”
here's your tag bestie: @rafaelacallinybbay
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Not Her
Summary: Reader can't figure out why Spencer doesn't like her, Spencer doesn't know how to tell her it's not her fault.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader
Category: fluff, angst
Warnings/Includes: camping, being stuck, wilderness, swimming in underwear, teasing, talks of bullying, insecurities, mild aggression from a male (not spencer), small injury
Word count: 16.6k
a/n: i want to go camping with spencer sooo bad he would be so nerdy and useful
main masterlist
From the moment you joined the BAU, it was obvious that you were entering a tightly knit group. The closeness between the team members was clear, and while you didn’t expect to be everyone’s best friend right off the bat, you were determined to fit in. You took time to get to know everyone, learning their quirks, their likes, and dislikes, hoping to carve out your place within the team.
With Derek, you found an easy-going rapport. His playful nature and quick wit made it easy to banter back and forth. JJ was kind and welcoming, often making a point to include you in conversations or to check in on how you were adjusting. Penelope was a whirlwind of energy, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself swept up in her vibrant world of tech and color. Rossi felt like a wise uncle who loved everyone on the team as his own. Alex was someone who acted as an older sister to you and whom you looked up to very much, and Hotch, though stern, had a way of making you feel like you were a valuable part of the team.
But Spencer Reid… he was different.
From the start, there was a disconnect. It wasn’t as if he was openly hostile or dismissive—he was far too professional for that. But there was something in the way he avoided your gaze during meetings, or how he seemed to drift to the opposite side of the room whenever you entered. You had caught him, more than once, excusing himself from a conversation as you approached, as if the mere prospect of talking to you was something he couldn’t bear.
At first, you tried to brush it off, convincing yourself that he was just shy or perhaps overwhelmed by the demands of the job. After all, you knew that Spencer wasn’t the most socially adept person in the world. But as time went on, the distance between you and him became more apparent, and it started to gnaw at you.
You didn’t need everyone to like you. You had learned long ago that such a goal was impossible, especially in a high-stakes environment like the BAU. But the way Spencer acted around you—like he could barely stand to be in the same room—was something you couldn’t ignore. You were both professionals, and you could work together when necessary, but it was clear that there was a barrier between you, one that wasn’t present with the rest of the team.
You found yourself replaying your interactions with him over and over in your mind, trying to pinpoint where things had gone wrong. Was it something you had said? Something you had done? Had you offended him without realizing it? Every smile you offered that went unreturned, every attempt at conversation that fizzled out into uncomfortable silence, only deepened the mystery.
—
The whole team could see the ridge between you and Spencer, but no one was any more privy to its cause than you were. Naturally, they had asked, each of them trying to get to the bottom of the tension, but Spencer always brushed it off, insisting he had nothing against you. And technically, he wasn’t lying—it wasn’t you he had a problem with.
The team had noticed the rift between you and Spencer early on. It was impossible to ignore, especially in a group as close-knit as the BAU. And so, they took it upon themselves to try and bridge the gap, often resorting to what they jokingly referred to as “parent trapping” the two of you.
Whenever the team needed to double up on rooms during cases, you and Spencer were always the ones paired together. If there were assignments to be handled in pairs, it was somehow always the two of you that got teamed up. On the jet or at the round table, there would only be one spot left for each of you, forcing you to sit side by side. And then there were the bar nights—group outings where, mysteriously, everyone else would bail out at the last minute, leaving just you and Spencer nursing your drinks awkwardly.
But despite their best efforts, nothing seemed to work. Spencer wasn’t warming up to you, no matter how many times you ended up in forced proximity. The wall between you remained as solid as ever, and eventually, you stopped trying to break through it. You resigned yourself to the fact that whatever issue he had with you, it wasn’t something you could change.
However, Rossi—always the wise, seasoned veteran—was not ready to give up just yet. He had one last trick up his sleeve, one final attempt to get you and Spencer to break through the barrier between you.
A team bonding camping excursion.
It was the perfect setup. Out in the wilderness, away from the usual comforts and distractions of your everyday lives, you would all be forced to rely on each other. And maybe, just maybe, the isolation would do what all the previous attempts had failed to achieve.
But here’s the final kicker—when the day of the camping trip arrived, everyone else conveniently piled into cars together, leaving you and Spencer to drive alone in your car. You noticed the sly looks exchanged between your teammates as they handed out the keys, but before you could protest, Spencer was already sliding into the passenger seat of your vehicle.
Just as you were about to follow the convoy of cars out of the parking lot, Rossi strolled over to your window, an easygoing smile on his face. He handed you a printed sheet of directions, different from the ones the others had received.
"Just in case you get separated," he said with a wink, his tone far too innocent.
You couldn't shake the feeling that Rossi had planned this down to the last detail. Of course, you and Spencer wouldn’t just be separated from the group—you’d be on an entirely different route, one that would give you no choice but to spend even more time together, alone and without the safety net of your other teammates.
As you pulled out of the lot, Spencer sat quietly beside you, his eyes trained on the passing scenery. The silence in the car was heavy, almost suffocating, but there was nothing you could do now. You were in this together, whether either of you liked it or not.
And as the miles stretched out ahead of you, you couldn’t help but wonder what Rossi had in mind, and if this final trick up his sleeve would finally be the one to force Spencer to open up—or if it would just deepen the divide between you.
—
The campsite was a solid three hours away, and while the drive was scenic enough, it didn't change the fact that you had a small bladder and a penchant for drinking a lot of water and coffee. It was inevitable that you'd need to make a pit stop before reaching your destination.
As you glanced at the time on the dashboard and then at the half-empty travel mug in the cupholder, you sighed internally. You’d need to pull over soon. The thought of having to break the silence yet again didn’t exactly thrill you, but the discomfort was starting to outweigh your hesitation.
“Reid,” you said, breaking the quiet that had settled over the car. “I’m going to stop and use the restroom. Want me to grab you anything?”
Spencer, who had been quietly absorbed in the book he was reading, glanced up briefly, his expression neutral. “No, thank you,” he replied politely before returning his attention to the pages in front of him.
You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, and pulled off at the next rest stop. As you parked and unbuckled your seatbelt, you tried not to dwell on the strained exchange. It wasn’t much different from the countless other interactions you’d had with Spencer—brief, polite, and devoid of any real connection.
—
You’d been driving for what felt like ages, the occasional road sign the only indication that you were getting closer to your destination. You were determined to reach the campsite without any further detours, but the unfamiliar roads and winding paths made it easy to second-guess yourself.
“Reid,” you said, breaking the silence again that had settled back over the car like a heavy blanket. “I think we’re getting close. Can you give me directions, please?”
Spencer looked up from his book, blinking a few times as he refocused on the world outside. “Yeah,” he replied simply, his voice still carrying that same detached tone.
He reached for the directions Rossi had given you earlier, unfolding the paper and scanning the instructions. His finger traced the lines of text as he read through the details, his brow furrowing slightly as he calculated the next turn.
“Take the next left,” he instructed, his eyes flicking up to the road ahead. “And then, after about two miles, there should be a right turn onto a dirt road. That should lead us directly to the campsite.”
“Got it,” you said, following his directions carefully, hoping that this final stretch would be as straightforward as he made it sound.
As you turned onto the narrow, winding road Spencer had pointed out, the trees began to close in around you, their dense foliage casting dappled shadows on the path. The silence returned, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird. You glanced over at Spencer, who was once again absorbed in his book, his focus seemingly unshakeable.
You couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind. Did he realize how obvious the team’s attempts at pushing you two together were? Or was he simply indifferent to it all, content to keep you at arm’s length?
—
“Okay…” you mumbled under your breath as you pulled into what looked like a campsite. The trees parted just enough to reveal a small clearing, but the emptiness of it made you hesitate. The gravel crunched under the tires as you rolled to a stop, and you squinted through the windshield, scanning the area. “This should be the place… Do you see anyone else?”
Spencer lifted his gaze from his book, his eyes narrowing as he looked around the deserted clearing. “Uh, no. No, I do not.”
A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. You leaned forward, double-checking the area, but it was clear—you and Spencer were the only ones there. “Did I take a wrong turn?”
“Not according to the directions,” Spencer replied, his voice calm but not particularly reassuring.
You let out a slow breath, trying to push down the rising anxiety. “Maybe we beat them here?”
“That’s unlikely,” Spencer said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Due to the number of times you pulled over for the restroom.”
You couldn’t help the slight flush that crept up your neck at his blunt observation. “Right,” you said, your voice tight as you tried to figure out what to do next. “So… what do we do now? Should we wait for them to show up?”
Spencer hesitated, his eyes flicking back to the directions. “It’s possible they took a different route. But considering how empty this place is, I’d say we’re either very early, or we’re not at the right site.”
You sighed, running a hand through your hair, feeling the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders. “Great. Just great. I’ll give Rossi a call,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Spencer, as you reached for your phone. The screen lit up, but when you glanced at the signal bar, your stomach dropped—no signal. “Uh, do you happen to have a signal on your cellphone?”
Spencer pulled his phone from his pocket and checked, his brow furrowing as he studied the screen. After a moment, he sighed, the sound tinged with resignation. “Nope.”
“Fantastic,” you said, the sarcasm barely masking your frustration. “Should we wait for a bit and see if anyone else shows up?”
Spencer considered the suggestion, his gaze drifting back to the empty clearing. “That seems like the best choice right now,” he agreed, his voice steady but lacking any real optimism.
With nothing else to do, you both settled into the uncomfortable silence, the quiet only broken by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. The minutes stretched on, each one feeling longer than the last as you both kept your eyes on the road, hoping to see the rest of the team’s cars pull in. But the road remained empty, and the only company you had was the uneasy tension that had settled between you.
If this was Rossi’s idea of getting you and Spencer to bond, it was off to a rocky start.
—
The campsite in front of you looked serene and peaceful, bathed in the soft light filtering through the towering trees. The fire pit in the center was surrounded by a few scattered logs, perfect for sitting around and enjoying the warmth of a campfire. Despite its picturesque setting, the site was eerily empty, with no sign of the team anywhere.
Eventually, you heard the sound of Spencer unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car. The soft click of the door opening made you glance over. “What are you doing?” you asked, a hint of curiosity in your voice.
“Getting out,” Spencer replied simply as he stepped onto the gravel. “I want to stretch my legs.”
You nodded, realizing that was a good idea. “Yeah, good idea,” you agreed, your tone a bit lighter now. The tension of being cooped up in the car with nothing but silence between you two was beginning to wear on you.
You both got out of the car, the fresh air a welcome change after the long drive. As you stood there, taking in the surroundings, you couldn’t help but feel a bit more relaxed. The forest around you was alive with the sounds of nature—the rustling of leaves, the distant chirping of birds, and the faint crackle of the fire pit from when it was last used.
Spencer moved toward the center of the campsite, his hands tucked into his pockets as he looked around. “It’s a nice spot,” he commented, his voice carrying a hint of appreciation.
You walked a little closer to him, scanning the area for any signs of the team. “Yeah,” you agreed, though the emptiness still gnawed at you. “But it’s weird that no one else is here yet.”
Spencer nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “Maybe they’re just running late. Or they took a different route like I said before.”
You glanced back at the car, then around the site again. It was hard to shake the feeling that something was off, but there wasn’t much you could do about it now. “Well, at least it’s peaceful,” you said, trying to focus on the positive.
Spencer gave a small nod, seemingly content to stand there in the stillness of the forest. Despite the lingering uncertainty, there was something calming about the solitude, and for a moment, the silence between you felt less strained and more comfortable.
—
As the sun dipped lower behind the trees, casting long shadows across the campsite, you felt a growing sense of unease. The emptiness of the site was now coupled with the approaching darkness, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. You finally voiced your concern, unable to keep it to yourself any longer. “Spencer, they’re obviously not coming. Should we drive around? Look for a fire? Or just head home?”
Spencer, who had been pacing slightly near the car, stopped and looked at you, his expression conflicted. “I don’t—I don’t know what we should do,” he admitted, his voice wavering slightly, a rare display of uncertainty from him.
You bit your lip, weighing the options. None of them seemed particularly appealing, especially as the light continued to fade. “Okay… do you just want to set up here for the night and figure it out in the morning?”
“Umm… yeah,” he agreed after a moment, though his tone was far from confident. “Do you mind if I sleep in the car?”
That caught you off guard. “Sure…” you replied slowly, trying to mask your surprise. Spencer had always been an enigma, but this felt particularly strange. It wasn’t like him to be so unsettled.
Alas, you pushed the oddness aside and decided to focus on the practical. You set about pitching your tent, the familiar motions calming your nerves slightly. Once it was up, you ducked inside to change into your pajamas, eager to get a fire going and start making some food. The pangs of hunger were beginning to make themselves known, and you knew you needed to eat something soon.
When you emerged from the tent, you glanced over at Spencer, who was standing by the car, arms crossed, looking even more out of place than usual. “Spencer, you can use my tent to change if you want,” you offered, trying to bridge the gap between you.
“No thank you, I’m fine,” he replied quickly, almost too quickly. His refusal struck you as odd, adding to the growing list of things that didn’t seem right about this situation.
“Would you mind getting the cooler from the boot then?” you asked, hoping to keep things moving forward, even if everything else felt off.
Spencer nodded and moved to the back of the car, retrieving the cooler with a quiet efficiency. But as you started preparing the food, you couldn’t help but notice how closely he was watching you. His gaze was intense, almost as if he was studying you—or perhaps watching out for something.
It was unsettling, to say the least. You tried to brush it off, focusing on the task at hand, but it was difficult to ignore the prickling sensation of being observed so intently. “Everything okay?” you asked casually as you stirred the food, hoping to ease some of the tension.
Spencer blinked, seeming to snap out of whatever thoughts had been occupying his mind. “Yeah,” he said, though his tone wasn’t entirely convincing.
You paused for a moment, considering his words. While it wasn’t unusual for Spencer to be cautious, the way he was acting now felt different—like he was on edge, anticipating something. “Let’s eat and get some rest. We’ll figure everything out in the morning.”
He nodded, but the unease didn’t leave his eyes. As you finished cooking and began to serve up the food, you couldn’t help but wonder what had Spencer so spooked—and whether you should be more concerned than you already were.
—
That night, Spencer stuck to his word and slept in the car with the doors locked. You couldn’t help but feel a little puzzled by his behavior—he seemed so on edge, far more than you’d ever seen him, and it left you wondering why he had agreed to come camping in the first place. The idea of him spending the night in a locked car instead of enjoying the fresh air and the open sky was odd, to say the least.
But despite the lingering unease, you slept surprisingly well. Camping had always been something you loved—the scent of the pine trees, the sounds of the forest, the cool breeze that swept through the tent—all of it made you feel at peace. The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl, and you drifted off easily, wrapped in your sleeping bag.
When you woke the next morning, the sun was already casting a warm glow over the campsite. You stretched, feeling refreshed, and emerged from your tent to find Spencer already awake. He was crouched by a small fire, a pot of instant coffee brewing over the flames. The sight of him tending to the fire, his movements precise and deliberate, was a little surprising. It was clear that he hadn’t slept much—if at all.
“Good morning,” you mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you walked over to him.
“Morning,” Spencer replied, his voice calm but still carrying that edge of tension.
You sat down on one of the logs near the fire, enjoying the warmth it provided as you shook off the last remnants of sleep. “How’d you sleep?” you asked, trying to gauge his mood.
“Fine,” he answered shortly, though you weren’t convinced. “You?”
“Really good,” you said with a small smile. “I love the fresh air. There’s just something about being out here that makes everything feel better.”
Spencer nodded, his gaze fixed on the pot of coffee as he stirred it. “Yeah, fresh air is good,” he said absently, though his tone lacked the enthusiasm you had.
You watched him for a moment, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the way he seemed to be holding himself together with sheer willpower. Something was definitely off, but you weren’t sure how to address it without making him uncomfortable. “Spencer,” you began cautiously, “is everything okay? You seem… different.”
He paused, the spoon in his hand stilling as he considered your question. After a long moment, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I just… I don’t like the idea of being out here without the rest of the team. It doesn’t feel right.”
His admission caught you off guard. You knew Spencer was meticulous, always needing to have control over the details, but you hadn’t realized just how much this situation was affecting him. “I get that,” you said softly, trying to offer some reassurance. “But we’re safe here, and we’ll figure things out. Maybe we’ll hear from them once we’re back in range.”
Spencer gave a small nod, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. “Yeah, maybe,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
You decided to let the conversation drop, not wanting to push him further. Instead, you focused on the comforting smell of coffee and the crackling of the fire. The warmth of the morning sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden light over the campsite. For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax, taking in the peaceful surroundings.
But as you glanced around the site, something caught your eye—a piece of paper tacked to a tree, fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Hey, did you see that?” you asked, pointing towards it.
Before Spencer could answer, you were already on your feet, walking towards the tree. The paper was pinned to the bark with a small tack, and as you pulled it down, you quickly scanned the handwritten note. Your eyes widened as you read the familiar handwriting, the message becoming clear.
Hey guys!
I know you’ll be mad about this, but please see it from our point of view. We sent you two to a separate site, please talk through your issues, we are a team and we need to be able to trust each other. Obviously, we can’t force you to stay, but if you do come home early, you will each have to take two paid days off. No work.
Please, work it out.
You stared at the note in disbelief for a moment, the words sinking in. This whole thing—Rossi’s directions, the empty campsite, the strange sense of being set up—it had all been orchestrated by the team. They had sent you and Spencer to a completely different site, forcing you into isolation together with the clear intention that you’d hash out whatever had been causing the rift between you.
You turned back to Spencer, holding the note up so he could see it. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, frustration and disbelief coloring your voice.
Spencer stood up and walked over, taking the paper from your hand. His eyes quickly scanned the note, and you could see the tension in his shoulders as he realized what had happened. “They… they set us up,” he said quietly, his voice laced with irritation and something else—maybe betrayal.
“Yeah, looks like it,” you replied, crossing your arms as you processed the situation. “They’re basically holding us hostage until we ‘work it out.’”
Spencer shook his head, clearly struggling with the realization. “They can’t just force us to talk. We’re not children.”
“Apparently, they think we need to be treated like we are,” you replied, the frustration in your voice mirroring his.
He remained silent, his eyes still fixed on the note as if it might offer some sort of solution. The fire crackled behind you, the only sound breaking the heavy tension that had settled between the two of you. The note in his hand felt like a ticking time bomb, and you both knew there was no avoiding the conversation any longer.
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. This wasn’t how you had envisioned things going, but there was no turning back now. “Spencer… should we just talk about it?” you asked, your voice softer, almost pleading.
“About what?” he replied, still not meeting your eyes, his tone flat and defensive.
“Come on… please,” you urged, trying to keep your frustration at bay. You needed to get to the bottom of this, once and for all. “Did I do something to you?”
“No,” he answered quickly, his voice sharp with finality.
“But you don’t like me,” you pressed, feeling the frustration bubbling up. It wasn’t just his short answers that were getting to you; it was the wall he was so clearly putting up, the refusal to even entertain the possibility of a conversation. You were tired of dancing around the issue, of feeling like you were constantly walking on eggshells around him.
“It’s not—” Spencer started, but then he cut himself off, clenching his jaw. His eyes finally met yours, and for a moment, you saw something flash in them—something like pain, or maybe guilt. But just as quickly, he looked away, shaking his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The firmness in his voice left little room for argument, but you weren’t ready to give up. Not after everything. “Spencer, please,” you said, trying to reach him on a level beyond the walls he’d built around himself. “I’m not trying to push you, but this… whatever this is between us… it’s affecting the team. It’s affecting us. We can’t just keep pretending it doesn’t exist.”
Spencer’s shoulders tensed, and you could see the internal struggle he was facing, the way his mind was working through a hundred different thoughts at once. He seemed to be weighing his options, considering whether or not to open up. But in the end, all he did was shake his head again, his expression closing off. “I can’t,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, but I just… I can’t.”
You felt a pang of disappointment, not just for yourself, but for him too. Whatever was going on inside his head, it was clearly something he wasn’t ready—or willing—to share. And that left you at an impasse, standing on opposite sides of a divide neither of you knew how to cross.
“Okay, well,” you said, your voice tinged with frustration as you turned away from him, “I’m just going to go for a walk then.”
Spencer’s head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly in alarm. “No, Y/N, that could be dangerous,” he said, his tone more urgent than you expected. There was a genuine concern in his voice, a sharp contrast to the distance he’d been maintaining.
“I don’t care,” you replied, your words coming out sharper than you intended. You needed to clear your head, to get some space, even if it meant wandering off into the woods. The tension between you and Spencer had reached a breaking point, and staying here, in this stifling atmosphere, felt unbearable.
You turned and started walking away, not really caring which direction you were heading. The forest loomed around you, the trees casting long shadows in the morning light, but you welcomed the solitude. You needed time to think, to process everything that had just happened.
Behind you, you heard Spencer call your name again, but you didn’t stop. The sound of his voice faded as you walked deeper into the trees, the cool air brushing against your skin as you moved further away from the campsite. You didn’t know where you were going or how far you would walk, but right now, that didn’t matter. All you wanted was some distance—from the campsite, from Spencer, from the emotions that had been building up inside you.
You heard the leaves crunch beneath your boots as you continued walking, the forest growing quieter with each step. The anger and frustration that had driven you out here began to ebb, replaced by a heavy feeling of sadness. You didn’t know why Spencer was so intent on keeping you at arm’s length, but whatever it was, it hurt. It hurt more than you wanted to admit.
But for now, you pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the rhythm of your footsteps and the cool, fresh air filling your lungs. The walk might not solve anything, but it was a start. At least out here, you could breathe.
—
When you finally returned to the campsite, the tension in your chest had eased, though the lingering frustration and sadness hadn’t entirely left. As you approached, you noticed Spencer sitting by the fire, a new book in his hands. His fingers flicked through the pages at lightning speed, a blur of motion as he absorbed the text with the kind of intensity that only Spencer Reid could muster.
He didn’t look up right away, but you noticed his ears perk up at the sound of your footsteps crunching over the forest floor. It was a subtle movement, but it was clear he was aware of your presence, even if he wasn’t immediately acknowledging it.
You stood there for a moment, watching him as he continued to read, his focus unwavering despite your return. The sight of him, so deeply engrossed in his book, made you wonder if he’d spent the entire time trying to escape into its pages, to block out the unresolved tension between you both.
“Okay, Spencer,” you began, your voice steady as you walked closer to where he sat. “Here it is. I’ll drive us back tonight. I’ll tell Hotch that I made us leave and I’ll take the two days of paid leave. It’s fine. You don’t have to talk to me, and I’ll take the blame.”
Spencer finally looked up from his book, his eyes widening slightly as he processed your words. There was surprise and confusion in his expression, as if he couldn’t quite believe what you were saying. For a moment, he just stared at you, the book forgotten in his hands.
“You… you’d do that?” he asked, his voice soft, almost uncertain. He had expected you to be angry, maybe even confrontational after the way things had gone earlier, but instead, here you were, offering to take the blame, to make it easier for him.
It was clear that Spencer couldn’t believe how nice you were being, especially after everything. He had spent so long keeping you at a distance, fearing that you might turn out to be like your sister, but your words and actions were proving just how wrong he might have been.
“Yeah,” you said with a small shrug, trying to downplay the gesture even though it meant a lot to you. “I mean, we’re obviously not getting anywhere with this. If leaving early is what’s best, then that’s what we’ll do. And I don’t mind taking the hit for it. I’m not going to force you to talk if you don’t want to.”
Spencer swallowed, still struggling to find the right words. He wasn’t used to this kind of kindness, especially not from someone he had kept at arm’s length for so long. It was disarming, to say the least.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” he finally admitted, his voice tinged with genuine surprise. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a soft, understanding smile. “But I’m offering to because I know this whole situation isn’t easy for either of us. I don’t want you to feel pressured or uncomfortable.”
For a long moment, Spencer just looked at you, trying to reconcile the person standing in front of him with the fears and assumptions he had held onto for so long.
“Thank you,” he finally said, his voice sincere. “I… I really appreciate it. But maybe… maybe we don’t have to leave just yet. We could just… see how things go.”
You nodded, sensing the tentative olive branch he was offering. “Okay,” you said gently, feeling a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something better between the two of you.
Spencer nodded, a small, almost hesitant smile forming on his lips. It was a start—a small one, but a start nonetheless.
“Could I maybe ask you a question?” you ventured, your voice tentative, hoping to bridge the gap between you both just a little more.
“Sure,” Spencer said, closing his book slightly but still keeping his thumb between the pages, as if not entirely ready to let go of his comfort zone.
“Did I… do something?” you asked, the question hanging in the air between you. You had to know, even if it was uncomfortable.
Spencer’s eyes softened as he shook his head. “No,” he replied, his tone gentle, yet firm. “You didn’t do anything.”
There was a brief pause, the silence between you more comfortable now than it had been earlier. You gave a small nod, accepting his answer even if it didn’t give you all the clarity you had hoped for. “Okay, I’ll leave you with your book,” you said, starting to step back, figuring he might want some space.
But to your surprise, Spencer didn’t pick up where he left off in his book. Instead, he looked up at you, his expression more open than it had been since you’d met. “You don’t have to… we can talk a bit,” he offered, and though his voice was cautious, there was a genuine willingness in it.
You smiled slightly, appreciating the gesture. “Alright,” you agreed, trying to think of something simple to start with. “Um, where did you grow up?”
“Las Vegas,” Spencer answered, the familiar name rolling off his tongue with a mix of nostalgia and a hint of something else—perhaps a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted to share yet.
“Seriously?” you asked, your eyes widening with surprise.
“Yeah… is that weird?” Spencer replied, his expression uncertain, as if he was bracing for your reaction.
“No, no, that’s where I grew up too,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief. The coincidence was almost too much to wrap your head around.
“Oh…” Spencer’s voice trailed off, and you could see the wheels turning in his mind. He seemed hesitant, like there was something more he wasn’t saying.
You narrowed your eyes playfully, sensing there was more to the story. “Okay, you know something. Did you see my file or something?”
Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting away for a moment before he answered. “Or something…”
You let out an exaggerated sigh, half-joking, but still curious. “Oh, come on, Spencer. What’s up? What school did you go to?”
“Las Vegas High,” he admitted, finally meeting your gaze again.
Your eyes lit up with recognition. “Me too! Wait… but you’re only two years younger than me. Would I have known you?”
Spencer’s expression shifted slightly, and you could see a mix of emotions flicker across his face—hesitation, discomfort, maybe even a touch of embarrassment. “No… uh, I was a freshman at 8 years old.”
“Woah! That’s insane!” you exclaimed, genuinely amazed. “That must have been so difficult for you.”
“It was,” Spencer admitted quietly, his voice carrying the weight of old memories.
You felt a pang of empathy for him, imagining how tough it must have been to navigate high school as a child. The challenges he faced were beyond anything you could have imagined at that age. “I’m sorry, Spencer. I wish we had been in school at the same time, we could have been friends,” you said, offering him a warm smile.
Spencer’s discomfort was palpable, and you could sense it immediately, like a shift in the air between you. He shifted in his seat, his gaze dropping back to the ground as if he was retreating into himself again. “What did we bring for dinner tonight?” he asked, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to steer the conversation away from where it had been heading.
The sudden change in topic stung, a pang of rejection hitting you square in the chest. You had thought, just for a moment, that you were making progress, that maybe you were getting through to him. But you knew Spencer well enough by now to realize that he wasn’t ready to go there, not yet. And pushing him wouldn’t help.
So, for his sake, you forced yourself to move on. “Uh, hotdogs, I think,” you said, trying to match his casual tone, even though the disappointment lingered in the back of your mind.
You busied yourself with preparing the food, focusing on the simple task of gathering the ingredients and setting them up by the fire. The familiar motions helped ground you, giving you something to concentrate on besides the unease that had crept back into your interactions.
Spencer remained quiet, watching you out of the corner of his eye as you worked. There was a tension in his posture, a subtle but unmistakable sign that he was still grappling with whatever had made him uncomfortable in the first place.
“Hotdogs it is, then,” you said, forcing a small smile as you handed him a stick to skewer the hotdogs. You hoped that by focusing on something as simple as cooking dinner, you could ease some of the tension between you, even if the conversation from earlier still hung heavy in the air.
Spencer took the stick from you, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments. “Thanks,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting yours for just a second before he looked away again.
As the two of you cooked over the fire, the crackling flames and the scent of roasting hotdogs filled the air, creating a more comfortable silence. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start, and for now, that was enough.
—
The conversation over dinner had been light and mostly focused on work—discussing cases, swapping stories about the more mundane aspects of life at the BAU. It was easy, familiar territory, a safe haven for both of you to retreat to after the earlier tension. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the campsite, a quiet settled between you.
After finishing your meal, you excused yourself to change into your pajamas, the cool night air making you eager to get comfortable. When you returned to the fire, Spencer was still sitting by the flames, the orange light flickering over his face as he stared into the fire, lost in thought.
You approached him, sitting back down across from him. The night was still, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the distant rustle of leaves. For a moment, you hesitated, not wanting to break the fragile peace, but curiosity got the better of you.
“Hey, Reid,” you called softly, trying to ease into the question that had been on your mind since the night before.
“Mhm,” he hummed in response, not looking up from the fire but clearly acknowledging you.
You bit your lip, then decided to just go for it. “Why did you sleep in the car?”
The question hung in the air between you, and you saw Spencer’s entire body stiffen. He froze, his eyes widening slightly, the tension in his shoulders returning in an instant. You could tell he didn’t want to answer, and for a second, you regretted asking. But you had to know.
“Just safer, I guess,” he finally mumbled, his voice tight and unconvincing. His eyes remained fixed on the fire, avoiding your gaze entirely.
You could sense there was more to it, something he wasn’t telling you, but you decided not to push. Spencer was clearly uncomfortable, and whatever the real reason was, he wasn’t ready to share it. So you nodded, accepting his explanation even if it didn’t feel entirely truthful.
“Okay,” you said softly, letting the matter drop. You didn’t want to make him feel any more uneasy than he already did.
—
Halfway through the night, you jolted awake, your heart pounding in your chest. There was an eerie, unsettling sound coming from outside your tent—a low, persistent noise that sent chills down your spine. You tried to ignore it, to convince yourself it was just the wind or some animal moving through the underbrush, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t calm down. The noise wasn’t stopping, and the longer it went on, the more your imagination ran wild.
Unable to shake the growing fear, you carefully and quietly unzipped your sleeping bag and slipped out of the tent. The cold night air hit you immediately, but the fear kept you moving. You crept toward the car, every step making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. When you reached the car, you knocked lightly on the window, hoping not to startle Spencer too much.
“Spencer!” you whisper-yelled, trying to keep your voice low but urgent. You could see him stir where he had flattened the back seats into a makeshift bed, his body shifting as he came to.
“Reid!” you whispered again, a little more urgently this time.
His eyes fluttered open, and he looked at you with wide, confused eyes. He sat up quickly, clearly surprised to see you standing there in the middle of the night. He leaned forward and unlocked the door, cracking it open just enough to speak to you. “What??” he asked, his voice still heavy with sleep and a touch of irritation.
“Can I come in, please?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly with fear.
Spencer blinked, clearly not expecting that. “No??” he replied, still half-asleep and unsure of what you were asking.
“Spencer, there’s a really scary noise out here,” you pleaded, your fear becoming more evident as you looked at him with wide, desperate eyes. “Please, please let me in.”
Spencer hesitated, his mind racing. He was still wary, worried that this might be some sort of prank or something worse. But as he looked at you, really looked at you, he saw the genuine fear in your expression. You weren’t trying to mess with him—you were genuinely scared. He’d never seen you like this before.
“Okay, fine,” he finally relented, scooting over to make room for you in the cramped space.
You didn’t waste any time, quickly crawling into the car and pulling the door closed behind you. As soon as you were inside, Spencer locked the doors again, the click of the locks echoing in the silence.
The two of you sat there for a moment, the car suddenly feeling much smaller with both of you inside. The strange noise outside continued, but now that you were with Spencer, the fear didn’t seem as overwhelming. You still couldn’t pinpoint what the noise was, but you felt safer with him there, even if he was still a bit unsure about the whole situation.
Spencer looked at you, his expression softening slightly. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the irritation gone.
You nodded, still trying to calm your racing heart. “Yeah… I just couldn’t stay in the tent with that noise. It was freaking me out.”
He nodded in understanding, though his eyes flicked toward the windows, clearly trying to listen for the noise himself. “It’s probably just an animal,” he said, trying to reassure both you and himself.
“Maybe,” you whispered, though you weren’t entirely convinced. But for now, you were just grateful to be out of the tent and with someone who made you feel a little less alone.
—
Eventually, despite the lingering fear and the cramped quarters, exhaustion took over, and you both drifted off to sleep in the back of the car. The strange noise outside had faded into the background, and the warmth of the enclosed space made it easier to relax.
Sometime in the middle of the night, however, Spencer stirred from his sleep, his body shifting slightly as he became aware of something unexpected. Blinking his eyes open, he realized with a start that your limbs were wrapped around him, your body pressed close as you clung to him in your sleep. Your arm was draped over his chest, your leg tangled with his, and your head was nestled against his shoulder. It was as if you had sought out the warmth and security he provided, even unconsciously.
Spencer froze, his mind racing as he tried to process the situation. He wasn’t used to this—intimacy, even in such an innocent form, was foreign territory for him. His heart started to race, not out of fear but out of sheer confusion. What was he supposed to do? Should he wake you? Should he try to untangle himself without disturbing you?
But as he lay there, feeling the rise and fall of your breathing against him, he couldn’t bring himself to move. There was something oddly comforting about the way you had sought him out, something that made him feel… needed. It was a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to, and it left him at a loss for what to do next.
He glanced down at you, seeing the peaceful expression on your face as you slept. The fear and tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by a calmness that was almost contagious. Spencer’s mind continued to whirl, but he didn’t want to disturb you—not when you seemed so at ease.
So, he stayed still, letting you cling to him, trying to reconcile the strange mix of emotions coursing through him. The awkwardness was still there, but it was tempered by a quiet realization that maybe, just maybe, things between you two were starting to change. And for the first time in a long while, that didn’t seem so terrifying after all.
—
When the morning sun filtered through the trees, casting warm golden rays across the campsite, Spencer was already outside, crouched by the fire as he prepared coffee. The familiar scent of brewing coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the fresh scent of the forest, creating a peaceful start to the day. You emerged from the car, feeling a little stiff from the cramped sleep, but more than that, you were feeling a twinge of embarrassment.
You approached Spencer, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Hey… thanks again for letting me bunk with you,” you said, your voice laced with genuine gratitude.
“No problem,” Spencer replied, his tone flat, distant, as he focused on the coffee. He didn’t look up, his gaze firmly fixed on the task at hand.
The coldness in his voice felt like a sharp contrast to the fleeting moment of connection you thought you’d shared the night before. You sighed, the disappointment settling heavily in your chest. Somehow, it seemed like you’d messed up again, and you couldn’t help but feel the sting of rejection all over again.
“Did that… make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry,” you ventured, hoping to clear the air, even if it meant confronting whatever it was that had made him withdraw.
“It’s fine,” Spencer replied, his voice clipped, as if he was trying to end the conversation before it could really start. He still didn’t meet your eyes, his attention entirely on the coffee pot.
You watched him for a moment, feeling the familiar ache of misunderstanding between you two. It was clear that whatever had happened during the night had unsettled him, but he wasn’t willing to talk about it. The walls were back up, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t seem to break through.
But instead of pressing further, you decided to let it go, at least for now. Pushing Spencer never worked, and you knew that trying to force a conversation would only make things worse. So you offered him a small, resigned smile, even if he wasn’t looking to see it.
“Okay,” you said softly, accepting his response even though it left you feeling hollow.
You sat down by the fire, quietly waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The silence between you felt heavy, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had taken a step backward after all the progress you thought you’d made.
“Um, we can head out whenever you’re ready. We only had to stay until today,” you mumbled, your voice subdued as you stood up and started to take down your tent. You avoided looking directly at Spencer, the awkwardness of the morning still hanging in the air.
“Oh, okay,” Spencer replied, his tone neutral, though you could sense a hint of hesitation in his response.
As you began to disassemble the tent, Spencer watched you for a moment, the silence between you lingering. Despite everything, he found himself reluctant to leave. The tension and awkwardness aside, there had been moments—small, fleeting moments—where he had actually enjoyed your company. The quiet of the campsite, the simplicity of the night, even the unexpected comfort he’d found in your presence last night… it was all something he hadn’t anticipated.
He felt a strange pull, a desire to stay just a little longer, even if he couldn’t quite articulate why. But he was Spencer Reid, and expressing those kinds of feelings wasn’t something that came easily to him. Instead, he stood there, conflicted, as he watched you go about packing up.
“Actually… we don’t have to rush,” Spencer finally said, his voice softer now. “If you want, we could stay for a little while longer. There’s no hurry.”
You paused in your task, surprised by his words. You turned to look at him, searching his face for any sign of what had changed his mind. “Are you sure?” you asked cautiously, not wanting to impose if he really wanted to leave.
Spencer nodded, his expression more open than it had been all morning. “Yeah, I’m sure. It’s… nice out here. Peaceful.”
A small smile tugged at your lips, and for the first time that morning, you felt a bit of the tension ease. Maybe you hadn’t messed up as badly as you thought. “Okay,” you agreed, setting the tent pole back down. “We can stay a little longer.”
Spencer gave a small, almost imperceptible smile in return, and as the two of you stood there in the morning light, it felt like there was a chance to start over—to take the time neither of you had been willing to take before.
—
After a simple breakfast, you looked over at Spencer, feeling a bit more at ease with the morning stretching out before you. “When I went for a walk, I saw a body of water,” you suggested, trying to keep the conversation light and inviting. “Do you want to go check it out?”
Spencer looked up from his coffee, a little surprised by the suggestion. “Oh, sure,” he agreed, his tone more relaxed than it had been earlier.
The two of you set off through the trees, following the path you had taken before. It didn’t take long to find the body of water again, the sunlight reflecting off its surface in shimmering patterns. The sight was even more beautiful now, with the morning light casting a gentle glow over the water.
“It’s gorgeous,” Spencer said softly, his voice filled with genuine appreciation as he took in the scene.
“Yeah,” you agreed, your eyes sweeping over the peaceful setting. The water was so clear, so inviting, that you couldn’t resist the urge to get in. “I’m going to get in,” you announced, already starting to kick off your shoes.
“What?” Spencer’s voice cracked, his surprise evident as he watched you strip down to your undergarments without hesitation. His cheeks flushed a light shade of pink as you waded into the cold, refreshing water, a small shiver running through you as the temperature hit your skin.
The water was invigorating, waking you up in a way that the morning coffee never could. You splashed around a bit, reveling in the feeling of the water against your skin. Turning back to Spencer, who was still standing at the edge, looking unsure of what to do, you grinned. “Do you know how to swim, genius?”
“Yes,” he replied, blushing even deeper as he averted his eyes slightly, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of decorum despite the situation.
“Do you want to join me?” you asked, your voice light and teasing as you floated on your back, letting the water carry you.
Spencer hesitated, clearly torn between his natural inclination to stay dry and the surprising appeal of joining you in the water. After a moment, he looked back at you, the uncertainty in his eyes slowly giving way to something else—curiosity, maybe even a touch of daring.
“Alright,” he finally said, as if making a decision that surprised even himself. With a deep breath, he began to unbutton his shirt, methodically removing his clothes until he was down to a tshirt and briefs. His movements were careful, deliberate, as if he was still a bit unsure about this whole idea.
When he finally stepped into the water, a shiver ran through him as the cold enveloped his body. “It’s… colder than I expected,” he admitted, his voice a bit higher-pitched than usual.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction, watching as he waded in deeper, adjusting to the temperature. “You’ll get used to it,” you assured him, still floating easily on the surface.
Spencer nodded, his movements tentative at first, but as he swam out to where you were, he began to relax. There was a certain lightness to the moment, a freedom that neither of you had felt in a long time. The water, the sun, the simple act of swimming—it was a welcome escape from the tension that had defined your interactions until now.
The two of you spent what felt like hours playing and splashing in the water, the cool waves washing away the tension that had been hanging between you. It was a rare, carefree moment where you both felt free and childlike, laughing without a care in the world. There were no pressures, no responsibilities—just the simple joy of being in the moment.
But as the sun climbed higher in the sky, signaling that it was time to come out, you noticed a shift in Spencer. He seemed hesitant, his earlier playfulness replaced with a familiar tension. He lingered in the water, avoiding your gaze, and you could sense his discomfort.
“Um, Y/N… can you turn around when I get out?” Spencer asked, his voice quiet, almost nervous.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, of course,” you replied, caught a little off guard by his request but willing to do whatever made him comfortable.
“And, um… maybe walk a bit away?” he added, his tone even more tentative.
“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you want,” you said gently, giving him a reassuring smile before turning away and moving up the bank. You grabbed your clothes and began walking a bit further from the water, giving him the privacy he clearly needed.
Spencer waited until you were a safe distance away and preoccupied with getting dressed before he quickly and quietly scrambled out of the water, pulling on his clothes as fast as he could. The vulnerability of being in nothing but water-tight briefs had brought back all his fears, the insecurities that had haunted him for years.
As you both started the walk back to the campsite, you couldn’t help but address the tension that still lingered. “Did you think I would make fun of you?” you asked, your voice soft, but tinged with concern.
Spencer shook his head slightly, though he didn’t look at you. “Oh, no, I don’t know,” he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable.
Your heart ached at his response. “I wouldn’t, for the record,” you said earnestly, hoping to reassure him.
There was a brief silence, heavy with unspoken emotions, before you felt compelled to share something of your own. “I grew up with a really mean sister,” you began, your voice carrying the weight of old wounds. “She would make fun of everyone for anything and everything, including me. It was a torturous way to grow up. I would never want to make anyone feel the way that she made me feel.”
Spencer suddenly stopped walking, his entire body tensing as if he’d hit an invisible wall. You turned to him, alarmed by the sudden change.
“Spencer? Are you okay?” you asked, worry lacing your voice.
He took a deep breath, his voice strained as he spoke. “It’s not you, it’s never been you,” he said, his words confusing you even more. “It was your sister.”
“What?” you whispered, the revelation hitting you like a cold gust of wind.
“Your sister was in my grade in high school,” Spencer explained, his voice trembling with the emotions he’d kept buried for so long.
“Oh…” was all you could manage, the pieces slowly clicking into place.
“She wasn’t nice,” Spencer continued, his voice thick with the memories. His eyes welled up with tears, and he blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. “She bullied me pretty relentlessly. Tied me up naked to a flagpole and took pictures.”
“Spencer… oh my God,” you breathed, horror and guilt crashing over you. You thought your heart had broken earlier, but now it felt shattered, the pieces scattered by the weight of his confession. “I don’t even know what to say. I am so, so sorry. No one ever deserves that. I can’t believe you went through that.”
Spencer nodded, the tears finally spilling over as he stood there, vulnerable in a way you had never seen before. The pain he had carried for so long, the fear that had driven a wedge between you, was now out in the open.
“Can I—can I hug you?” you offered, your voice gentle, filled with the empathy and care that had been building in your heart since Spencer’s revelation.
Spencer hesitated for only a moment before nodding, allowing you to pull him into an embrace. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, feeling the tension in his body gradually melt away as he leaned into the comfort you were offering.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured softly against his shoulder. “I’m going to assume that you were afraid of me being like my sister, and that’s why you didn’t talk to me.”
Spencer nodded again, his silent confirmation making your heart ache even more for him. You could only imagine the fear and pain he must have felt, avoiding you because of a past that had nothing to do with who you truly were.
“I just want you to know, Spencer,” you continued, your voice steady but filled with emotion, “I would never do anything to hurt you in any way. I am nothing like her. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the opposite of her. My family disowned her a long time ago.”
Spencer pulled back slightly then, just enough to look at you, his eyes still wet with tears. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that you hadn’t seen before, a deep, raw emotion that spoke volumes. “I believe you,” he whispered, his voice breaking but filled with sincerity.
Your own eyes stung with unshed tears, the weight of his belief in you meaning more than you could express. “I’m so sorry to have made you feel uncomfortable this whole time,” you said, your voice thick with regret. “I completely understand why you didn’t want to get too close to me.”
Spencer shook his head slightly, about to apologize, but you stopped him before he could. “No, never apologize for protecting yourself,” you insisted, your tone firm but kind. “We’ve solved it now, and that’s what matters. I hope we can be friends?”
There was a moment of silence as Spencer processed your words, and then, slowly, a small but genuine smile formed on his lips. “Of course,” he said softly, his voice filled with a warmth that hadn’t been there before.
You smiled back, feeling a sense of relief and hope wash over you. The wall between you and Spencer had finally come down, and in its place was the beginning of a real connection—one built on understanding, empathy, and the promise of a friendship that could grow from here.
“Thank you,” Spencer added quietly, his voice full of gratitude. And for the first time, you both felt like you were truly starting fresh, free from the shadows of the past.
—
You and Spencer made it back to Quantico with a sense of quiet relief, knowing that the rift between you had finally been addressed. When you reported back to the team, you both kept the details vague, simply letting them know that you had worked things out. Spencer was immensely grateful for your discretion, and you could see it in the small, appreciative smiles he sent your way. During the ride back, the two of you had chatted the entire time, the conversation flowing easily as if the weight of the past had finally been lifted.
The next day at work, you felt a new sense of ease around Spencer. The tension was gone, replaced by the beginnings of what felt like a genuine friendship. As you approached his desk, you felt a little flutter of nerves, but it was a good kind—like you were about to take a step forward into something new.
“Hey, Spencer…” you called softly as you reached his desk.
He looked up from his work, a smile spreading across his face when he saw you. “Hey, Y/N,” he greeted warmly.
“Would you maybe want to come over this weekend? We could watch a movie or something?” you asked, hoping to continue building on the connection you’d started.
“Sure,” he grinned, clearly pleased by the invitation. “That sounds great.”
You returned his smile, feeling a little spark of excitement as you walked away. It felt good to know that things between you and Spencer were on a new path, one that was built on mutual understanding and trust.
Unbeknownst to you, Derek Morgan had been casually eavesdropping from a distance. As soon as you were out of earshot, he sneaked up on Spencer, a mischievous grin on his face. “You got yourself a date, Reid?” Derek teased, leaning on the desk with a playful glint in his eye.
Spencer’s eyes widened, and he shook his head quickly, his cheeks flushing slightly. “What? No, we’re just hanging out,” he insisted, his voice flustered but firm.
“Mhm,” Derek hummed, not buying it for a second, his teasing grin only widening. “Sure, man, just hanging out.”
Spencer shot him a look, trying to maintain his composure, but the slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips gave him away. Despite Derek’s teasing, there was a sense of warmth and excitement bubbling up inside Spencer—because for the first time, “just hanging out” with someone felt like it could lead to something more, even if he wasn’t quite ready to admit it yet.
Derek chuckled and gave Spencer a friendly pat on the shoulder before walking away, leaving Spencer to ponder the possibilities that lay ahead, a small smile still lingering on his face.
—
Friday evening arrived faster than you and Spencer had expected. Both of you were feeling excitement and nervousness, eager for the evening ahead but also unsure of how it would unfold. You had spent the day tidying up and preparing your living room, making sure everything was just right for your night of movie watching and hanging out. You wanted Spencer to feel comfortable, and you hoped the cozy atmosphere you’d created would help set the tone for a relaxing evening.
When Spencer arrived at your place, he was immediately taken aback by the scene before him. Your living room was bathed in the soft glow of string lights, their warm hue giving the room a welcoming, almost magical quality. The sunset outside the window painted the sky in shades of pink and orange, adding to the serene ambiance. The couch was piled with soft blankets, and a few pillows were scattered around, inviting him to sit and get comfortable. On the coffee table, you had set out some snacks, drinks, and everything you might need for a night of watching movies.
As he stepped inside, Spencer couldn’t help but smile, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. He had been half-expecting some sort of trick or prank, but instead, you had gone out of your way to make the evening as enjoyable as possible. It was clear that you genuinely wanted to spend time with him, and the effort you’d put into setting everything up didn’t go unnoticed.
“Wow,” Spencer said softly, his eyes taking in the cozy, well-thought-out setup. “This looks amazing.”
You smiled, pleased that he seemed to like it. “Thanks, I wanted to make sure we could just relax and have a good time,” you replied, motioning for him to come in and make himself comfortable. “No tricks, I promise.”
Spencer chuckled, the tension he’d been feeling all day melting away as he settled onto the couch. “I believe you,” he said, feeling more at ease than he had expected.
As you both sat down, the air was filled with a comfortable anticipation, the kind that comes with knowing you’re about to spend time with someone you genuinely enjoy being around. It was the start of what promised to be a wonderful evening, free from the worries of the past and full of the potential for a growing friendship.
After the first movie ended, the credits rolling across the screen, you and Spencer found yourselves lingering on the couch, the atmosphere between you light and airy, buoyed by the humor of the comedy you’d just watched. The laughter had done its job, breaking down any lingering tension, and now conversation flowed easily between you.
“So, what did you think of the movie?” you asked, turning to Spencer with a smile. You’d both been chuckling throughout, but you were curious to hear his thoughts now that it was over.
“It was great,” Spencer replied, a genuine grin on his face. “I don’t usually watch a lot of comedies, but that one was really funny. The timing, the dialogue… it was all really well done.” He seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, his guard down as he leaned back into the couch.
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites,” you said, pleased that he had enjoyed it. “Sometimes you just need something light to unwind, you know?”
Spencer nodded in agreement. “Definitely. It’s nice to just… laugh, without thinking too much.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “I guess I don’t do that enough.”
You smiled softly at his admission, feeling a warmth in your chest at the idea that tonight was giving him something he didn’t often allow himself. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. We can do this more often if you want. Just hang out and relax.”
Spencer glanced over at you, his eyes softening. “I’d like that,” he said sincerely. “It’s nice to have someone to do this with.”
There was a comfortable silence between you for a moment, the kind that felt natural and unforced. You reached for the remote, ready to start another movie, but found yourself pausing, wanting to keep the conversation going a little longer.
“So, what’s one movie you think I should watch?” you asked, curious to hear his recommendation. “Something you really love.”
Spencer’s eyes lit up with excitement, the prospect of sharing one of his favorite films with you clearly appealing to him. “Oh, there are so many,” he said, his enthusiasm contagious. “But if I had to pick one… Have you ever seen *The Great Dictator* by Charlie Chaplin?”
You shook your head, intrigued by his choice. “No, I haven’t. Is it good?”
“It’s incredible,” Spencer said, his voice full of admiration. “It’s one of Chaplin’s best works—a satire that’s both funny and deeply poignant. It’s also one of the first films where he speaks, and the final speech… it’s just powerful.”
“Wow, sounds like a must-watch,” you said, genuinely interested. “We should definitely put that on our list for next time.”
“Absolutely,” Spencer agreed, smiling. “I think you’d really appreciate it.”
As the night wound down, the conversation between you and Spencer became more intimate, the two of you curled up on the couch, facing each other. The atmosphere was warm and comfortable, the barriers that had once stood between you now gone. The flickering glow of the TV cast soft shadows around the room, but your focus was entirely on each other, the outside world forgotten for the moment.
“So, Reid… are you seeing anyone?” you asked, your tone light but curious.
Spencer chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Hah, no, I’m not,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Are you?”
“I was,” you admitted, feeling a small flush rise to your cheeks. “But they were kind of flaky, not ready to commit.”
“That makes sense,” Spencer said, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you date a lot?”
You blushed a little deeper, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. “Not a lot,” you confessed. “I prefer to wait for a genuine connection.”
“Me too,” Spencer agreed, his voice soft, as if he were relieved to find that you shared the same sentiment.
“Have you dated recently?” you asked, your curiosity piqued. Spencer had always seemed so private, and you couldn’t help but wonder if there was someone special in his life.
“Not really,” he said, a small, almost sad smile crossing his face. “I… am kind of wary of dating.”
“Can I ask why? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you said gently, not wanting to push him but also wanting to understand more about him.
Spencer hesitated for a moment, clearly weighing whether or not to share. “Um… well, in school, girls would ask me on dates, and when I showed up, they’d make fun of me and take pictures,” he finally admitted, his voice quiet, the pain from those memories still lingering.
“Like my sister?” you asked softly, already suspecting the answer.
“Yeah,” he confirmed, his eyes flickering with the old hurt. “That’s how she… yeah.”
“Oh, Spencer…” you breathed, your heart breaking for him all over again. You reached out instinctively, wanting to offer comfort, but you held back, respecting his space.
“Let’s not talk about it,” he said, his voice firmer this time, as if he needed to move past the subject for his own peace of mind.
“Of course,” you agreed immediately, not wanting to cause him any more pain.
There was a brief silence, one that felt heavy with unspoken words, but before you could change the topic, Spencer spoke again, his voice softer, almost hesitant. “You’re prettier than her, you know.”
“What’s that?” you asked, not sure you had heard him correctly.
“Your sister,” Spencer clarified, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re prettier. And nicer, but that’s a given.”
You felt your cheeks flush deeply, not just from his words, but from the way he said them—with such earnestness, as if he’d been holding onto that thought for a while. The compliment caught you off guard, and you weren’t quite sure how to respond.
���Thank you,” you finally managed, your voice soft, touched by his words more than you could express. “That really means a lot. She… did not think so.”
Spencer’s expression softened even further, a mix of empathy and determination in his eyes. “I hope you know that you are,” he said, his voice gentle yet firm, as if he needed you to believe it as much as he did.
“Thank you, Spencer,” you replied, a warm smile spreading across your face. “You’re really pretty too.”
Spencer blinked in surprise, his cheeks tinging pink at the unexpected compliment. “Really?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief and curiosity.
“Mhm,” you nodded, your smile widening. “I’ve always thought so.”
The sincerity in your voice seemed to catch Spencer off guard, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t often that he received compliments like this—especially not from someone he was beginning to care about as much as he cared about you. He felt a warmth spread through him, a sense of validation that he hadn’t realized he needed.
“Thank you,” he finally said, his voice almost a whisper, but the smile that touched his lips was genuine and full of a newfound confidence. There was something deeply reassuring about your words, something that made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t felt before.
As the evening continued, the bond between you only deepened, both of you more relaxed and open with each other than you had been before. The compliments exchanged were just the beginning—a sign that what was growing between you was more than just a simple friendship. It was a connection built on mutual respect, admiration, and a shared understanding of each other’s pasts and insecurities.
—
“How was your date, pretty boy?” Derek teased, his voice carrying across the bullpen as he leaned against Spencer's desk with a wide grin.
“It wasn’t a date,” Spencer mumbled, his eyes firmly fixed on the stack of papers in front of him. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, and he desperately wished Derek would drop the subject.
“Reid had a date?” Rossi’s voice chimed in as he walked by, a look of amused surprise on his face.
“Yep! Friday night,” Derek laughed, clearly enjoying Spencer’s discomfort.
“Would you guys keep it down? I did not have a date,” Spencer hissed, his voice low and urgent as he glanced nervously toward the entrance. The last thing he wanted was for you to walk in and overhear them. The thought of you getting the wrong idea—or worse, feeling awkward about the night—made his stomach twist.
“Aw, come on, Reid,” Derek continued, not ready to let it go just yet. “You’re telling me you spent a whole evening at Y/N’s place, all cozy on the couch, and that wasn’t a date?”
Spencer sighed, his frustration mounting as he tried to formulate a response that would shut down the teasing. “We were just hanging out,” he insisted, though he couldn’t deny the warmth that crept into his voice at the memory of the evening. “We’re friends. That’s all.”
Derek exchanged a knowing look with Rossi, both of them clearly unconvinced but willing to let it slide—for now, at least. “Alright, alright,” Derek said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “If you say so, pretty boy.”
Rossi chuckled, giving Spencer a reassuring pat on the back. “Whatever it was, it’s good to see you two getting along,” he said, his tone more serious now.
Spencer nodded, grateful for the subtle shift in the conversation. “Thanks, Rossi,” he replied quietly, hoping the conversation was finally over.
Just as the tension began to ease, you walked through the door, a bright smile on your face as you entered the bullpen. Spencer’s heart skipped a beat, and he quickly looked down at his work, praying that the others wouldn’t say anything more.
“Morning, everyone,” you greeted cheerfully, oblivious to the earlier exchange.
“Morning, Y/N,” Derek and Rossi replied in unison, their voices notably more innocent than they had been moments before.
Spencer dared a quick glance up at you, relieved to see that you hadn’t picked up on the previous teasing. “Morning,” he mumbled, trying to focus on the files in front of him.
You gave him a warm smile, your eyes meeting his for a brief moment, and he felt a sense of relief wash over him. Whatever Derek and Rossi thought, you knew the truth—and that was all that mattered.
—
“Hey, Y/N,” Alex greeted you with a warm smile as she approached your desk.
“Hey, Alex,” you replied, returning the smile. “How was your weekend?”
“It was relaxing, thanks for asking,” Alex said, her tone light and casual. “How about you? What’s up?”
Before you could answer, Alex’s eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief as she continued, “I heard you had a date this weekend.”
You blinked in surprise, momentarily thrown off by the comment. “Uh, nope. Just hung out with Reid and went to the farmers market,” you clarified, wondering where she had gotten the idea that it was anything more.
Alex raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the teasing. “It wasn’t a date with Reid?”
“No? Did he say it was?” you asked, genuinely curious now. Had Spencer mentioned something to someone that made them think it was a date?
Realizing she might have stirred something up unintentionally, Alex quickly backtracked. “I think I might have misspoke, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any confusion,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you later, honey.”
“Bye, Alex,” you replied, still a bit puzzled by the exchange. As she walked away, you couldn’t help but replay the conversation in your head, wondering how such a simple evening of hanging out with Spencer had turned into a rumor about a date.
Shaking your head, you decided not to dwell on it too much. You knew the truth of the situation, and that was enough. Still, the idea of others seeing you and Spencer as something more than friends lingered in your mind, leaving you with curiosity and uncertainty as you returned to your work.
—
“Reid! You had a date with Y/N and didn’t think to tell me?? I thought we were close!” Penelope’s voice whined from across the breakroom, her tone a mix of hurt and playful exaggeration.
Spencer nearly choked on his coffee, his eyes widening in surprise as he turned to face her. “I did not have a date with Y/N!” he insisted, exasperation clear in his voice. “Did Derek tell you that? I swear, the gossip in this office travels at the speed of light.”
Penelope shook her head, her brightly colored glasses slipping slightly down her nose. “Oh, no, I heard it from JJ.”
“JJ?” Spencer repeated, even more bewildered. “I never told JJ anything about a date because there wasn’t a date!”
Penelope tilted her head, a curious look on her face. “Maybe Y/N did…”
Spencer sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as he processed the situation. “No, Y/N wouldn’t have said it was a date because it wasn’t,” he reiterated, feeling like the whole thing was spiraling out of control.
Penelope’s expression softened as she realized how flustered Spencer was. “Okay, okay, calm down, boy genius,” she said gently, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s just a bit of harmless teasing. But, honestly, with how everyone’s talking, it does kind of sound like a date, you know?”
Spencer groaned inwardly, knowing that trying to convince everyone otherwise was starting to feel like a losing battle. “It was just a casual hangout,” he emphasized, though even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded at this point.
Penelope studied him for a moment, her gaze more thoughtful now. “Okay, I believe you,” she finally said with a small smile. “But just so you know, if it ever turns into more than just a hangout… you can always come to me for advice.”
Spencer’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he offered her a shy smile in return. “Thanks, Penelope. I’ll keep that in mind.”
With that, Penelope gave him a quick hug before heading out of the breakroom, leaving Spencer standing there, still a little dazed by how quickly the rumor mill had turned a simple evening into a full-blown office saga. But as he finished his coffee, he couldn’t help but wonder—if so many people were seeing it as more than just a hangout, was there something there he hadn’t fully acknowledged yet?
—
You were focused on making copies in the copier room when you heard the door creak open behind you. Turning around, you were pleasantly surprised to see Spencer standing there.
“Hey,” you greeted him with a warm smile, happy to see him.
“Hi…” he replied, but his tone was hesitant, his usual shyness creeping back in.
Your smile faltered slightly. “Oh no, I thought we were past the cold shoulder,” you teased lightly, hoping to ease whatever tension he might be feeling.
Spencer’s expression softened, and he quickly shook his head. “Sorry, we are,” he assured you, a hint of a smile forming on his lips.
Before you could say anything else, the door swung open again, and JJ walked in, a playful grin on her face. “Hey, love birds,” she teased, clearly unaware of the moment she was interrupting.
Startled, you jumped, your hand slipping and slamming down on the copier lid. “Ow!” you yelped, pain shooting through your fingers as you quickly pulled your hand back.
JJ’s face immediately filled with concern as she rushed over. “Oh shoot, Y/N, I didn’t mean to scare you!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with guilt.
Spencer was at your side in an instant, his worry evident in his eyes. “Y/N! Are you okay?” he asked, his voice laced with concern as he reached for your injured hand.
You winced, flexing your fingers slightly to test them. “No, I crushed my hand really hard,” you admitted, the throbbing pain making it difficult to think about anything else.
“Let’s go get you some ice,” Spencer said quickly, his hand gently guiding you toward the door.
JJ nodded, clearly feeling bad about what had happened. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity as she followed you both out of the room.
“It’s okay,” you reassured her, though the pain in your hand made it hard to keep the smile on your face. “It was just an accident.”
Spencer didn’t waste any time as he led you down the hall, his worry for you clear in his every movement. Once you reached the breakroom, he quickly grabbed a small bag of ice from the freezer, wrapping it in a towel before gently pressing it against your injured hand.
“Here,” he said softly, his voice full of concern as he held the ice in place. “This should help.”
You nodded gratefully, touched by how attentive he was being. “Thanks, Spencer,” you murmured, the pain starting to dull under the cool pressure of the ice.
In that moment, as Spencer held the ice gently against your hand, you looked up at him and couldn’t help but smile. The concern in his eyes, the tenderness in his touch—it was all so sweet, so genuine. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble of shared warmth. Anyone looking at you both in that moment would have seen it—the soft, unspoken affection that had been quietly growing between you.
Just then, the door to the breakroom swung open, and Aaron Hotchner walked in, his gaze immediately landing on the two of you. He stopped short, raising an eyebrow as he took in the scene. “Whoa, am I interrupting something?” he asked, a hint of teasing in his usually serious tone.
You and Spencer both snapped out of your little world, glancing at each other with wide eyes before quickly looking away, your faces flushing with embarrassment.
“No, uh, Y/N just hurt her hand,” Spencer stammered, his voice a little higher than usual as he struggled to explain. “I was just helping her with some ice.”
Aaron’s lips quirked into a small smile, clearly not entirely convinced by the rushed explanation. “I see,” he said, his tone even but with that subtle hint of amusement. “Well, it’s good to see you’re taking care of each other.”
You nodded, still blushing, but managed to muster a smile. “Thanks, Hotch. It’s nothing serious, just a little bump.”
“Glad to hear it,” Aaron replied, giving you both a knowing look before heading to the coffee machine. He didn’t say anything more, but the slight smirk on his face as he poured his coffee said plenty.
As he left the room, the silence between you and Spencer felt charged, the air thick with the unspoken feelings that neither of you were quite ready to fully acknowledge. But despite the awkwardness, there was also a warmth—an understanding that something was shifting between you, something neither of you could deny.
Finally, Spencer broke the silence, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “You should keep the ice on for a while,” he said, still holding the towel-wrapped bag against your hand.
“Yeah,” you agreed, your voice just as quiet, but your heart was still racing from the earlier moment. “Thanks, Spencer. I really appreciate it.”
He nodded, his eyes meeting yours for just a second before flicking away again. “Anytime,” he murmured, and despite the awkwardness, there was a small, genuine smile on his lips that made your heart flutter just a little more.
—
By the end of the week, the teasing from the team had mostly died down. The playful comments and knowing looks had given way to the usual routines of work, and everyone seemed to move on from the idea that you and Spencer were more than just friends. But despite the outward calm, Spencer couldn’t shake the thoughts that lingered in his mind.
All week, he found himself replaying the moments you had shared—the movie night, the quiet conversations, the way you had looked at him when he held the ice against your hand. It wasn’t just the teasing that had gotten under his skin; it was the way it made him question things he hadn’t fully considered before.
Spencer wasn’t someone who easily delved into matters of the heart. His mind was so often occupied with facts, statistics, and the complexities of human behavior that his own emotions sometimes felt like an unsolvable puzzle. But now, those emotions were harder to ignore. He kept thinking about the way your smile made his heart beat a little faster, or how he found comfort in your presence in a way that was different from anyone else.
He was still trying to wrap his head around what it all meant. Was it just friendship, or was there something more? And if there was more, what did that mean for both of you? Spencer wasn’t sure he had the answers, but he knew he couldn’t just brush it off as easily as he once might have.
As the week came to a close, he found himself wanting to talk to you more, to spend time with you, to explore whatever this was between you both. The thought of asking you out—actually asking you out—crossed his mind more than once, but every time he considered it, a wave of nerves would hit him, and he’d retreat back into his thoughts.
By Friday afternoon, he was still thinking about it as he sat at his desk, his work in front of him but his mind far from focused on the task at hand. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but there was also a flicker of excitement there, a small hope that maybe, just maybe, this could turn into something real.
—
As the workday came to an end, people began to gather around the elevators, eager to start their weekends. Spencer had been keeping an eye out for you, hoping to catch you before you left. He wanted to ask if you’d like to hang out again this weekend, the thought of spending more time with you making him feel both nervous and excited.
But just as he was about to approach you, another agent, Brant Ledgers, beat him to it. Spencer slowed his pace, watching the exchange from a distance, his heart sinking as Brant tried to turn on the charm.
“Hey, Agent,” Brant said, his voice smooth, leaning in a little too close for comfort.
“Um, hello,” you replied, taken aback by his sudden approach.
“You look beautiful today, and I couldn’t help but notice you smell divine. Did you intentionally pick my favorite scent?” Brant continued, his tone dripping with arrogance.
“What?” you asked, clearly uncomfortable with the way he was speaking to you.
Before the situation could escalate, the elevator arrived, and Spencer, feeling a pang of anxiety at the possibility of hearing you agree to another man’s advances, quickly stepped inside, not wanting to witness it.
But just as the doors were closing, he overheard Brant’s next move. “What do you say, baby? You and me, this weekend?” Brant asked, his tone filled with unwelcome confidence.
“Oh, um, no thank you. I appreciate the offer,” you replied, trying to be polite despite your discomfort.
“Why not?” Brant pressed, his voice taking on a sharper edge.
“I don’t have to give you a reason,” you said firmly, attempting to walk away.
But as you turned to leave, Brant grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Uh, yeah, you do,” he said, his grip tight and his tone menacing.
Just then, Derek Morgan, who had been nearby, stepped out of the bullpen and saw what was happening. “Whoa, what’s going on?” Derek’s voice boomed, his protective instincts kicking in immediately.
“We’re having a conversation, butt out,” Brant snapped, clearly irritated by Derek’s interference.
“Y/N, you good?” Derek asked, ignoring Brant entirely as he focused on you.
You shook your head, the fear and discomfort evident in your eyes.
“Let her go, Ledgers,” Derek commanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Brant hesitated for a moment, clearly not wanting to back down, but the look in Derek’s eyes told him this wasn’t a fight he was going to win. With a huff, Brant released your arm, glaring at Derek as he stepped back.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Brant muttered under his breath as he turned and walked away, but Derek paid him no mind.
As soon as Brant was gone, Derek turned to you, concern etched on his face. “You okay?” he asked gently.
You nodded, though your hand instinctively rubbed the spot on your arm where Brant had grabbed you. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks, Derek.”
“Anytime,” Derek said, his tone softening as he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “You need anything, you let me know, alright?”
“Will do,” you replied, giving him a grateful smile.
Derek walked with you toward the elevator, determined to make sure you got to your car safely. The incident with Ledgers had shaken you more than you wanted to admit, but having Derek by your side brought a sense of security.
When you reached the garage, you spotted Spencer standing near Derek’s car, clearly waiting for his ride home. His eyes lit up with concern the moment he saw you, and as Derek explained the situation, his expression shifted from concern to anger.
“Hey, Reid, I’m going to walk Y/N to her car, then I’ll be back, okay?” Derek said, his tone firm as he made sure Spencer understood the seriousness of the situation.
“Oh, sure, what’s going on?” Spencer asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“Ledgers tried to grab at her. I want to make sure she gets out of here safe and sound,” Derek explained, his voice laced with protective determination.
“What?” Spencer’s voice boomed, the anger evident as he looked around, clearly ready to confront Ledgers himself. “Where is he?”
You quickly placed a hand on Spencer’s arm, trying to calm him down. “It’s okay, Spencer. Derek stepped in before he got too far.”
Spencer’s gaze softened as he looked at you, the concern in his eyes clear. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentler now, but still full of worry.
“Yeah,” you nodded, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’m okay.”
Spencer hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours as if trying to determine if you were really alright. “Do you want me to come over tonight? Keep you company?” he offered, his voice sincere and filled with a desire to help.
Your heart warmed at his offer, and you nodded, grateful for his support. “Thank you, Spencer, that sounds really nice. Do you just want to ride with me?” you asked, knowing it would be easier for both of you to go together.
“Yeah, I do,” Spencer replied without hesitation, clearly wanting to be there for you in any way he could.
Derek, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing smirk, couldn’t resist a little teasing. “Have fun on your second date, lovebirds,” he quipped, the smirk growing wider as he saw the blush rise on both your cheeks.
Spencer gave Derek a half-hearted glare, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed his true feelings. “It’s not a date,” he mumbled, though there was a hint of a smile on his lips.
Derek just chuckled, patting Spencer on the back. “Whatever you say, pretty boy. Just take care of her.”
With that, Spencer stayed close by your side, the silent protector you hadn’t known you needed until now. As you both got into your car, the earlier tension faded away, replaced by the comforting knowledge that, no matter what, you had each other’s backs.
—
As you and Spencer sat across from each other at your dining table, enjoying the simple comfort of dinner together, Spencer’s thoughts kept circling back to what had happened earlier. The guilt gnawed at him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have done something—anything—to protect you from Ledgers. He had been so close, yet he had let the situation unfold without intervening.
Finally, he couldn’t keep it in any longer. Setting his fork down, he looked at you with a seriousness that made you pause. “Y/N, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to help,” he said, his voice laced with regret.
You looked up from your plate, surprised by the sudden apology. “What? Oh, Spencer, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”
He shook his head, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “I should have waited for you,” he insisted, his guilt deepening. The thought of you being in a situation like that without him there to support you weighed heavily on his mind.
“You’re not required to wait for me,” you replied softly, trying to ease his worries. “It’s okay, really.”
Spencer hesitated, his eyes dropping to his plate as he wrestled with what he wanted to say next. He knew he had to be honest, even if it made him vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, he decided to take the plunge. “No, I know. I just…” He paused, gathering his courage before continuing. “I heard him asking you out, and I guess I didn’t want to stick around to hear you say yes.”
Your breath caught slightly at his admission, the pieces falling into place. It wasn’t just guilt driving Spencer’s apology—it was something deeper, something more personal. You could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he was trying to gauge your reaction.
“Spencer,” you began gently, reaching across the table to take his hand, “I would never have said yes to him. I’m not interested in Brant, and I’m certainly not interested in anyone who would treat me like that.”
He looked up at you then, the worry in his eyes softening as your words sank in. “I know, I just… I didn’t want to hear it, you know?” he admitted, his voice quiet but honest.
You squeezed his hand, offering him a reassuring smile. “I understand,” you said softly. “But I want you to know that you don’t have to worry about that. I can take care of myself.”
Spencer felt a pang of frustration as he realized his initial explanation hadn’t fully conveyed what he meant. He took a deep breath, deciding it was time to be as clear as possible, even if it made him nervous. “I know that, Y/N,” he began, his voice steady but filled with a new kind of vulnerability. “You’re more than capable of handling yourself—that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?” you replied, your curiosity piqued. “What did you mean?”
Spencer hesitated for a brief moment, but then the words came out in a rush, fueled by the need to be honest with you. “I don’t want you to go out with someone else.”
You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. “Someone else?”
“I want you to go out with me,” Spencer said, the vulnerability in his eyes now unmistakable. He had put everything out on the table, his feelings laid bare for you to see.
The realization hit you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “Oh,” you managed, your voice soft as you absorbed what he was saying.
There was a moment of silence, and you could see the anxiety flickering in Spencer’s eyes as he waited for your response. His whole posture was tense, as if he was bracing himself for whatever came next.
“Do you… want that too?” Spencer asked, his voice quieter now, but filled with hope.
You bit your lip, feeling a smile spread across your face as your heart swelled with warmth. “I do,” you replied, the sincerity in your voice clear. The smile on your face widened as you saw the relief and joy that washed over Spencer’s features.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, the atmosphere between you thick with unspoken feelings and the excitement of what was to come. Then, Spencer’s lips curled into a shy, genuine smile that mirrored your own.
“So, when should we have our third date?” Spencer asked, a playful grin tugging at his lips.
You laughed, delighted by this lighter, more confident side of him. “Hmm. Tomorrow?” you suggested, your heart fluttering at the thought of spending more time with him.
“Sounds perfect,” Spencer agreed, his smile widening.
“Spencer?” you asked softly, your tone turning more serious as you looked into his eyes.
“Yeah?” he responded, his voice gentle but filled with anticipation.
“Can I kiss you before our third date?” you asked, your heart pounding as the words left your lips.
Spencer’s smile turned even softer, his eyes lighting up with warmth and affection. “I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he replied, his voice a tender mix of humor and sincerity.
With that, you leaned in, closing the small distance between you. Spencer met you halfway, his eyes fluttering shut as your lips touched in a soft, sweet kiss. It was gentle at first, both of you savoring the moment, the culmination of everything that had been building between you.
When you finally pulled back, your faces still close, you both wore matching smiles, the connection between you now unmistakable and full of promise.
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