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thebsunit · 5 years ago

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Spencer Reid x Reader | Rockford Turn

(A/N: When I’ve tried to go to sleep for the past few weeks, the little scenario that’s played in my head has basically been what this story is. Before going into writing it, I wanted to make it a series but it turns out I’m not very good at writing anything soft or dialogue heavy so I doubt it will garner that much interest. That being said, I didn’t want to waste the effort I put into making it so here it is…the car story)

(Summary: Much to her chagrin, the Mechanic!Reader finds herself becoming a bit smitten by her new patron who might just drive the worst car she’s ever seen, 3.8k+ word count, no warnings other than the fact that I know literally nothing about cars.)

There’s something about a man with a nice car that I’ve always found irresistible. Maybe it’s because I’m a mechanic, or perhaps in spite of it, but it’s always been my weakness. Put any average Joe behind the wheel of a 1968 Chevrolet Camarro and I would be putty in his hands.

You can tell a lot about a guy based on the kind of car that he drives. Men who drive overly flashy cars like Lamborginis or Ferrari’s are definitely overcompensating for something, trying to flash his money to distract you from his underlying insecurities. Guys who drive pickup trucks are laid back at best, condescending at worst. Dudes who pulled up in sedans were usually family men, stable and dependable but secretly missing the wild days of their youth.

I’ve seen a lot of different guys in a lot of different cars over the years. All of that research has made me an expert at profiling the men who came to have their cars serviced before they even got out of their rides. I could usually predict whether or not a guy would be polite or an ass before he even opened his mouth, and a quick glance at his car usually let me instinctually deduce what would be wrong with his vehicle.

All of this to say that years of experience told me that whoever had just rolled up to my garage in a busted up Volvo was probably a psychopath.

I got up from where I had been sitting on the steps outside of the office and approached the car as the driver got out. Up close, the car was worse than I had originally assumed. The paint job was awful, a quick once over of the tires made it obvious that there was some uneven tread wear, and based on the way the car squealed when it turned into the lot it had a misaligned front end.

“Where did you get this thing?” I asked as I circled the vehicle.

Ignoring me, the guy cleared his throat, “Uh, I’m looking for the mechanic?”

“You’re looking at her,” I said, still examining the body of the car.

“Oh,” the guy said, “I thought..”

“Nope,” I interrupted him, “I’m the mechanic.”

Now that I had finally satisfied my urge to gawk at his car, I was able to look at the owner. He was cuter than I would have expected him to be, with long brown hair and even longer legs. Even from a few feet away he towered over me, which would have been intimidating if he didn’t look like he would snap in half if the wind blew a little too hard.

“I know the title can be deceiving,” I laughed.

He put his hand over his face to shade his eyes from the sun as he examined the sign hanging over the lot that read, “Leibowitz & Sons.” When he looked back at me, his eyes were sad which was really disconcerting because I couldn’t think of anything about the sign that could stir up that level of profound negative emotion. Even though he was a stranger and had inadvertently insulted me, I still found myself wanting to push all of the sadness out of his eyes where it couldn’t hurt him anymore.

“As are the tits,” I said with a small smile, gesturing towards my chest.

What had been a cheap attempt at making him laugh ended up making him choke on the air and light up his face with a blush.

Nice one, I thought to myself, great customer service.

“There,” he coughed, “there’s something wrong with my engine, it’s making a weird noise.”

“Uh, right,” I said, appreciating the out, “Mind if I take a look?”

He shook his head and I tried to hide my flushed face by busying myself with examining the car. As I rooted around inside, I watched him pace out of the corner of my eye. I appreciated that he was trying to look everywhere but my ass, something that most of my patrons were not so inclined to do. His display of basic human decency inspired me to make another attempt to speak to him.

“So, you didn’t answer my question,” I said in an attempt to break the awkward tension.

“Auction,” he said simply.

“Oh,” I teased, “so you did hear me?”

“Yes,” he replied, “but your voice raised four octaves from its perceived natural state and I predicted that you were about to make fun of me so I didn’t answer.”

Laughing, I righted myself so that I could take another look at the guy. He was right, I had been planning to make fun of him (I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t still end up making fun of him). I wasn’t surprised that he had caught on to that, but I was surprised he had remembered my question enough to provide such a quick answer to it.

“Well,” I said, wiping my hands with the towel I kept on my belt, “you would be right. This thing is awful, no offense.”

“This thing,” he scoffed, “is a classic.”

“Oh, come on,” I laughed, “I would hardly call an Amazon P130 a classic.”

Even though I had been teasing him, I was happy to see that he was smiling at me. I didn’t usually flirt with my customers, in fact it was a bit of a problem that my customers usually attempted to flirt with me. It was difficult being a woman in this field, both because people tended to underestimate me and my capabilities due to my gender and because I was often left susceptible to sexual harassment. On top of that, always being at the shop made it difficult for me to meet many men, so if a cute guy came my way I should probably enjoy it while it lasted. Even if he drove a junker.

“A classic car is any car that has significant historical significance. If it entered production in 1956, was introduced as a 121 four-door with a 1.6 litre inline-four engine with the P120 body code, and became the first car to offer three-point front seat belts as standard with its following introduction to the United States in 1959, then I’m thinking that it’s a classic car.”

I snorted, “So you can know all of that but still can’t recognize that this is an objectively terrible vehicle?”

“Do you always harass your customers?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

“Only if they’re cute,” I replied.

Instant regret. Whatever burst of confidence had allowed this guy to flirt with me immediately evaporated at my words. He tucked his long hair behind his ears as yet another blush spread across his face (which was also very cute).

“Sorry,” I cringed, “um, you need new spark plugs and your front end is misaligned. I can fix the tires today, but I would have to order the spark plugs and I could probably have that fixed by the weekend.”

His shoulders drooped into an expression I was very familiar with, disappointment. I hated not being able to fix the problems that my customers brought to me. When it was feasible, I always attempted to make sure my patrons left happy by doing what I could to rectify whatever situation they presented me with. In this case, I was once again struck by how much I wanted to make sure nothing ever inconvenienced this man for as long as he lived.

“Uh, is something wrong?” I asked tentatively.

“I just,” he sighed, “I really needed it by tonight. I’m supposed to take my godson out but I don’t want to do that if it’s not totally safe for him so I guess I can-”

“Wait,” I interrupted, “I have a friend with a shop in Alexandria. He could probably bring them over if you have an hour or so free. I can work on your tires while you wait.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” I insisted.

“Well, okay then. I guess that’s fine. Thank you…”

“(Y/N),” I offered.

“Spencer.”

“I would shake your hand but,” I gestured to my hands which were covered in grease and oil.

“Right,” he said, smiling.

We stood there, staring at each other for a few seconds. He really was cute. And kind of shy based on the way he seemed almost embarrassed to be looking at me. It was difficult not to look at him, though, and I definitely wasn’t ashamed to be doing it.

“So should I drive my car into the garage?” he asked, diffusing the tension.

“Oh,” I said, “yeah. Just pull it in there and I’ll go in and call my friend.”

As cute as Spencer was, whenever I am working I’m totally in the zone which meant that nothing could distract me. When presented with the opportunity to choose between a man and a finicky car engine, I would pick the engine every time which probably contributed to my bad luck with dating.

“Did you know that the surname Leibowitz emerged in the land that forms the modern state of Lower Saxony, which is presently bordered by the North Sea, the Hartz mountains and the Elbe and Ems rivers?”

“Yeah?” I asked, half listening as I used my wrench to tighten the overbar.

“Yes, it’s actually quite interesting. Back then, people adopted surnames based on their feudal occupation. However, an occupational name did not become a hereditary surname until the office or type of employment became hereditary. The surname Leibowitz was an occupational name for a baker. The root being the word laib, which in the Middle Ages referred to a baker.”

I rolled out from under the car, having finished with his wheels. He was sitting on a bench a few feet away from where I had been working, peering down at me while he spoke.

“Is that your way of asking how I ended up here if I don’t look like a German serf and I’m clearly not an ‘and son’?” I asked.

“Well, actually a baker wouldn’t be considered a serf. Serfs typically tended to the land, but yes. I suppose that’s what I’m asking.”

“Leibowitz was my godfather. I worked here a lot during high school and when I came back from college he didn’t actually have any sons so I ended up with the place,” I answered.

“Oh, so you went to..?”

“College?” you asked.

He blushed and said, “I didn’t mean to sound surprised, it’s just that seventy two percent of mechanics don’t pursue a degree.”

“Well,” I said, taking off my gloves, “I guess I’m just a statistical anomaly.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer sighed, “I didn’t mean to offend you earlier. I’m just not very good with new people.”

“It’s okay, I don’t know that many female mechanics either.”

“How did you get into this, if you don’t mind me asking? I’ve always been interested in behavior and motivation,” he said.

I thought about it. There was a long answer and a short answer to that question. Usually, I would give a complete stranger the short answer (if I gave them an answer at all) but for some reason, I wanted to tell Spencer. I felt like he would understand where I was coming from. More importantly than that, he would want to understand.

“Well,” I began, “when I was in high school whenever I needed extra money I would come out here and help out my godfather. What started out as an after school job just turned into me genuinely loving what I did. Other girls in school felt pretty in dresses and jewelry, but I felt the best covered in layers of grease and grime.”

“So why did you go to college if you knew this was what you wanted to do?” he asked.

“I didn’t know for sure, so I went to school and graduated with a degree in comptrolling. I started working right out of college in an office and immediately realized that as much as I was okay with that, I loved this even more. I couldn’t picture anything else feeling right for me. So, here I am.”

He nodded sagely, running his hand through his hair as he watched me. If he kept watching me like that, I was pretty sure it would be me blushing next which would probably be a welcome change of pace.

“Yes,” he said with a smile, “here you are.”

I could tell that I was beaming at him, so I got up from where I was sitting against the car to try and make myself look busy. Sometimes there were moments in life where I wanted to pause everything and keep it forever. As sappy and girly as it sounded, sitting here with this almost-stranger was one of those moments.

“So what do you do, Spencer?” I asked, turning on the faucet to clean my hands.

“I’m a guest lecturer at different universities,” he said vaguely.

“Well, I guess that makes sense.”

“What does?” he asked.

“The shitty car and the crazy statistics, you’re a teacher.”

I was facing the sink so I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him rolling his eyes over my shoulder. He didn’t really seem like the kind of person who would be a teacher. Though he obviously had a wealth of knowledge, there was an awkwardness to him that I couldn’t place. His vagueness made me want to know more, but I wouldn’t push it. If I knew one thing for certain, though, it was that if he were my teacher: I would be coming to class ready to learn every single day.

After I finished washing my hands, I unzipped my coveralls and folded them on the small shelf next to the jack. When I turned around and saw Spencer’s confused look, I gestured to the clock.

“It’s a half day today and you’re my last customer,” I said.

“Oh, if I’m keeping you I can just go,” he said, quickly standing up.

“Calm down,” I said, coming to sit next to him on the bench, “I don’t mind waiting. Plus, my godfather would totally do something like this for me so I wouldn’t want to deprive a fellow god child.”

If he noticed my awkward word choice, he didn’t show it because he shot me a (very cute) grin. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could last without asking for his number, but I knew that as cute as he was, I wasn’t going to cross that line with a customer. That didn’t mean I couldn’t use the remaining time we had together to flirt with him enough to get him to ask me for mine, though.

“I’m not sure how much I’m depriving him if he has to travel around in this thing though,” I teased.

“If you must know,” he huffed, “Henry loves this car.”

“Is Henry an automotive expert?”

“Well no, he’s six.”

“Okay,” I said, leaning toward him on the bench, “then I think we’ll trust my opinion that Volvos are the Devil’s means of transportation.”

“Oh,” he mused, “so this isn’t specifically about my car? It’s a general vendetta against Volvos?”

I didn’t have a general vendetta against Volvos. In fact, other than a mediocre paint job and some issues with the wheels, Spencer’s car wasn’t that terrible. In anything, he had taken pretty good care of the thing (and in the back of my mind I’m willing to admit that is incredibly sexy to me). I wasn’t going to admit any of that though because I wanted to keep the banter we had established going.

“Volvos are ugly and they collect grime and rust quicker than a lot of other brands of cars. I mean sure, they work okay, but eventually it’s like, at what cost?”

Spender suddenly turned all of the way to face me, looking into my eyes. Prolonged eye contact is a particular kind of torture, but with Spencer it almost seemed like it was harder for him to administer it than it was for me to take it.

“I don’t know,” he said so quietly I almost didn’t hear him, “I think some people just overlook it. If you looked harder at it, under all the dirt and grime I think you would find something beautiful.”

And Lord Almighty, I am so stupid because for a second I think that he is talking about me. I become super conscious of the two messy braids hanging down my back, the grease smudges that are no doubt still on my face, and the ratty old t-shirt I wear under my coveralls, and yet I still think he is talking about me. I still think he is calling me beautiful.

I had meant it when I said I felt my best when I was fixing cars, I guess I just never thought that anyone else would see that as my best as well.

“So,” I squeaked, “why the Amazon?”

“Ah,” he said, tucking his hair behind his ear, “my dad had one when I was little.”

“Oh, Spencer,” I said, my face softening, “I’m so sorry. I guess the only way I could foresee someone getting a car like this is in memoriam. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“What?” Spencer said with a laugh, “My dad isn’t dead.”

“Oh.”

“He, uh, left. When I was ten.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” he backtracked, “that was probably too much information.”

I searched his face to buy myself some time because my first thought when he had said that was, I would never leave you.

The sadness in his eyes took on a new shape in my mind. It was no longer unbased, but it also wasn’t full. I wasn’t sure of what haunted him, but I think I want to know. I wanted to be let into the house of his heart to cast out all of the demons that lay siege to such a sacred place.

Instead, I opted to reach across the bench and put my hand over his.

“Spencer,” I intoned, “you’re not someone who deserves to be left.”

His eyes soften and part of me feels super childish about it but I still catch myself thinking, yes, I’ve got him.

He opens his mouth to say something and I lean forward in anticipation because I know that this is going to be the moment. He was finally going to ask me out after nearly two hours of flirting with one another.

Unfortunately, the next sound I heard was not the sweet saccharine prelude to me possibly getting laid for the first time in forever, it was my phone ringing.

“Your parts are here,” I said, my face still flush from my confession.

“Oh,” he whispered.

“I’m, uh, going to go get them,” I said, standing up from the bench to head to the front of the garage.

“Okay,” he said, his eyes following me as I walked away.

“Okay,” I whispered, a small smile lighting up my face as I closed the door behind me.

“You’re good to go,” I said, pushing the hood of the Volvo down.

“Thanks again for doing this,” he said, crossing over to me so that he could take the keys out of my hand.

“Of course, I hope you and Henry have a really great day together.”

His face broke into a full on smile, presumably because I remembered the name of his godson but hopefully it was also because he thought I was worth smiling at. I had been secretly willing him to ask for my number or ask me out on a date or show any sign that he wanted to see me again after this, and I was taking this as a sign that he had noticed.

Unfortunately, all he’s done is smile at me when he thinks that I’m not paying attention, which is very adorable but also not very helpful in the present situation because now that I was done fixing his car, our time together was coming to a close.

“Did you know that women only account for about 9.7% of all people employed in the automotive industry? There are sixty seven auto-repair shops in DC which means that the statistical probability of me meeting you today was actually very low.”

“Yeah?” I asked, “Well, I’m glad I met you.”

He fiddled with his hands awkwardly, looking back up at the sign in front of the shop. I can tell that he’s very nervous but I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to be, I want what’s happening right now. I want him to want to keep stalling so he can talk to me more.

“Well,” he says, taking a step back, “I should go, I guess.”

Ask me out, I mentally scream at him, I want you to ask me out!

“I suppose you should, thanks for checking us out.”

“Of course,” he said, giving me an awkward salute.

He starts to walk towards his car, only getting a few meters away before tripping over his legs and almost face planting on the gravel. As he rights himself, he looks back (in a way that I assume was supposed to be casual) to see if I had seen him fall. When his eyes meet mine, he quickly faces forward again and picks up the pace to walk to his car (presumably to distance himself from the shame).

It takes everything inside of me not to burst out laughing. All of this time I’ve been so worried about whether or not he likes me when he can barely keep himself upright.

Oh, hell.

“Spencer!” I called.

He turned around, his hand already pulling open the door to his car.

“Here,” I said, fishing through my pockets, “this is my card. For when your car inevitably goes on the fritz again.”

He took the card and stared at it for a second. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that he was attempting to memorize all of my information that was printed on it.

“Okay, thank you,” he said, his voice higher than it had been a few minutes ago.

He put the card in his pocket and then got into his car and started the engine. When the squealing noise didn’t start up, he made eye contact with me through the windshield and flashed me a dorky thumbs up. I gave him a thumbs up back and then waved as he drove out of the lot, laughing to myself about the odd boy behind the wheel.

Men who drive luxury sports cars are overcompensating for their fragile masculinity. Boys who drive sedans are stable but yearn for more adventure. Dudes who drive pickup trucks will always either be really laid back or super irritating.

And guys in busted up blue Volvos will be so awkwardly adorable that they won’t make a move until you do.

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