noonew1lleverask

[noonew1lleverask]

nonexistent rizz

the team is shocked to see that… early seasons!spencer pulls?? and he has pulled???? (aka, the team discovers that early seasons!spence has a girlfriend)

a/n: first cm fic!!! super indulgent, deffo way longer than it had to be but I don’t care, I love love love the dynamic of the s1/s2 team and I NEEDED to write it (look at '#mystery girl!au' on my blog to see more musings about them <3)

cw: alcohol consumption, reader referred to as a woman, reader is around spencer’s age in s1/s2 (23-24), completely inaccurate early 2000s technology i think, cuties being cute, not edited in any way

wc: 2k

part two | part three | mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

“‘O Keefe’s! My wonderful, wonderful sweethearts, we are going out!” The moment the team steps out of the elevator, Penelope is bombarding them, hands moving wildly as words seem to tumble out of her mouth. “And yes, Hotch, I am sure we have no cases lined up yet, and yes, I’m sure JJ can corroborate that the moment she gets to her office and no, you may not stay behind, tonight is compulsory. That stands for you too, Gideon!”

Hotch hasn’t even opened his mouth, shaking his head in defeat as he takes in Garcia’s determined face. Under the watchful eyes of the team, his shoulders slump, a tired hand scrubbing down his face. “Fine. We all have to finish our reports, but if we’re all done in half an hour, we can go. Gideon?” He turns his face, hoping for Gideon to find a way to bunk off, but there’s a glint of amusement in the older man’s eye. “Sounds like there’s no getting out of it.” With that, he walks off, to his office. 

Penelope whoops excitedly, “Okay! That means we’re all going! That’s the first time since Gideon came back,” but her face sets slightly when she meets Spencer’s eye. “No. No, Baby Genius, you will not do this to me,”

“Garcia, I have pl-” “No! You are coming out with us, and we’re going to have a great time, and whatever Russian indie film you were going to watch will still be there for you tomorrow. Okay? No more complaining, baby, you know I won’t listen.” With a pat on his shoulder, she flounces off. Defeated, he doesn’t move from the elevator area, shrugging helplessly when Elle, JJ and Morgan brush past him to the bullpen. 

With a sigh, he takes out his phone, pressing his newly-programmed speed dial and bringing the phone to his ear. From Derek’s vantage point in the bullpen, he can see Spencer, pacing back and forth in front of the elevator doors, and he can see the moment whoever is on the other side picks up. The younger man’s face lights up, like when he’s on the receiving end of a rare Hotch smile out in the field, but more spirited, buoyant. Only snippets of the conversation float in through the slightly-ajar glass doors, but they’re enough to give him pause, and still his fingers above his keyboard.

“...Garcia’s got this plan for us all, and…”

“Yes, I know, I do like going out with them, but that’s not what I wanted to do…”

“...I took the metro tonight, so I think I’ll just… Really? You want to?”

At that point, Spencer turns, his voice muffling, and keeping Derek from his vested interest in his conversation. But what little he heard is more than enough to pique his interest. He flicks a pencil onto Elle’s desk. “Greenaway. You know if pretty boy’s mom is in town or something?” Elle looks up from her monitor, head tilting, “Not that I know of. Besides, doesn’t she not like flying? I don’t think he’d have her come here. Why do you ask?”

Derek doesn’t reply, simply gesturing to the glass doors, where Spencer is walking inside, his mouth twitching to conceal his smile. His steps are measured, like he’s trying to feign calm. He settles at his desk, hunching his back in a way that can’t be comfortable, typing rapidly as his knee jiggles up and down. Elle turns back to Derek, eyes wide with wonder. 

“That is not how you look getting off the phone with your mother.”

The incident is quickly forgotten, however, when the BAU team are crammed into a booth in the back of the low-lit bar. Penelope has roped Hotch into helping her bring drinks back from the bar, and the rest are speaking a little too loudly, arms flinging and bumping into the empty glasses littering the table. 

All except for Gideon, who, despite having had three glasses of whiskey, is still just as calm and observant as he is fully sober. It is this that causes him to zero in on Spencer, sitting across from him, sandwiched between Morgan and the newly-returned Garcia. 

There’s a pink flush across his high cheekbones, and he’s incredibly giggly, all things that are completely expected for him, a few drinks in. However, what the experienced profiler picks up on, are his darting eyes. Spencer can often be found staring into the middle distance, or, since Gideon taught him the importance of building rapport with victims and officers alike, trained steadily on the space between someone’s eyebrows, but this time it’s different.

His eyes flick to whoever’s talking, feigning interest, but every few seconds, it turns back down to his lap, where something is clutched in the hand he keeps under the table. If it were Hotch, Gideon would know with absolute certainty that he was watching his phone, waiting for a text from Haley.

But this is Spencer. The youngest person he knows. The youngest person he knows whose technological knowledge is somehow worse than Gideon’s own. What on earth would have Spencer acting- 

Oh. Gideon nearly gasps at Spencer’s movements. On his fifteenth peek down at his lap, Spencer stiffens, then draws his hand up from his lap to get closer to his face. It is his phone, and Spencer Reid has somehow learned to text as quickly as Morgan does. His thumbs fly over the buttons on his phone, and he can’t hold back the smile that spreads on his face.

Gideon’s eyes furrow, and he can’t hold back from nudging Hotch’s shoulder, pointing in Spencer’s direction. Hotch pulls himself away from his conversation with JJ, and Gideon can see his expression morph from mild interest, to confusion, to complete bewilderment. After a beat, his face turns to meet Gideon’s and his normally stoic demeanor is shaken, eyes wide. 

Spencer, however, doesn’t even notice his mentors’ faces, still tapping away at his phone and craning his neck to look around the bar. 

It’s a while later, when JJ has pulled the team (minus Hotch and Gideon) onto the dance floor, a few drinks past tipsy at this point. She’s laughing out loud, holding Elle’s hand and twirling her under her arm. Penelope and Derek are mock-waltzing, bursting into laughter every few steps, and Spencer… 

JJ pauses for a moment, before Elle pulls her into moving again. Her head whips around, trying to find Spencer, before giving up. He must be back at the table with Hotch and Gideon, he was never very comfortable dancing anyway. 

The four on the dance floor quickly devolve into a mess, swapping partners until they’re all dizzy and laughing. JJ and Penelope are shimmying back and forth together, when Penelope gasps a little, tapping JJ’s arm without ceasing her movements. “Jayj! Look, see that girl at the bar?” She gestures subtly at a younger woman, probably in her early twenties, wearing a purple wrap top that has JJ sighing wistfully. 

“Pen, I think I’ve seen my soulmate. Would it be weird for me to crawl over there and beg her for her shirt?” Penelope giggles, gripping JJ’s forearms so they can sway to the music dramatically. “Just a little, my sweet. How about we go ask her where it’s from, though? I think that would be a little more…” She goes uncharacteristically silent, and it has JJ twisting to see what shut her up. However, Penelope tightens her grip on her arms, keeping her from moving. 

“JJ. My love, my heart. You’ll always be honest with me, won’t you?” Now she’s worried. JJ nods quickly, deciding to just focus on Penelope. “Yeah, Garcia, of course. What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m seeing things, and you are one of the most qualified people in the world to tell me if I’m going crazy. I’m going to turn us around, and you’re going to look at the woman in that gorgeous top, and you are going to either scream, or send me off to Hotch for a psychological evaluation.” Her tone is serious, hushed, and JJ nods solemnly. 

The intricate plan is conducted, and JJ is now facing the bar, her eyes searching for the girl, when she stiffens, sucking in a breath. “Yes! I’m not crazy, you see it right? What is going on!” Penelope smacks her arm repeatedly, but JJ can’t tear her eyes away from it. It being something she couldn’t possibly have prepared herself for, not in her wildest imaginations.

The girl is sitting on a barstool, sipping at a cocktail, and chatting to… Spencer. Spencer, the BAU’s Spencer, child-prodigy-lovable-dork-awkward-mess Spencer Reid, is stood in between her legs, smiling down at Mystery Girl without a hint of fear. It’s devastatingly sweet, his eyes soft in a way she’s never seen before, as he nods along with whatever she’s saying. Penelope jolts her out of her trance with a tap to the arm, JJ whispering, “He’s so… carefree.” 

That’s the only way to describe it. He’s looking down at her, eyes locked onto hers, and he’s still. His hands aren’t tapping, his leg isn’t shaking. He’s just looking at her. 

JJ can feel Morgan and Elle huddle near her, questioning Penelope about what they’re looking at, before shutting up as they see it. She hears them take twin gasps, and huddle even closer. They stand in silence, surely a hindrance to the people dancing, but they can’t tear themselves away. 

It’s only when Spencer shatters their worlds once more that they finally find themselves able to move. Four pairs of eyes follow him, as he leans even further towards Mystery Girl, and they all bulge at once when he raises a hand, carding his fingers through her hair. Penelope whispers, “oh my god”, Elle grips JJ’s arm in a vice grip, and Derek makes an unseemly noise, before gripping their arms, tugging them back to the booth. 

They collapse in the seats, faces pale as they look at each other, next to a very confused Gideon and Hotch. 

“What? What is it?” Hotch questions them, brow furrowed deeply. None of them speak, however. Only Elle lifts a weak hand to point. She directs their attention to the sight at the bar, and they all turn back to it, gasping once again. They’re… “kissing,” Derek breathes, shocked. Hotch and Gideon stiffen, but still crane their heads until their eyes fall on what has rendered their highly trained team speechless. And their reactions are just as silent.

Mystery Girl has stood up, her arms around Spencer’s neck, and he’s leaned down to meet her lips, hands braced on her hips. It’s honestly not that scandalous, a lazy, casual kiss that they part from with twin smiles, but the FBI agents can’t handle it. They don’t say a word, straining their ears to hear whatever she is saying as he holds her hand (Penelope lets out a squeak at that), and walks with her towards the door, not even noticing that his coworkers have returned to the booth. Her voice is low, but Hotch manages to pick up a few of the words. 

“...go home and watch that movie I was telling you about? Metropolis, I think you’ll really…” And they’re off. Spencer Reid has left a bar, holding hands with a girl (that he’s apparently spoken to multiple times? Who refers to a place as home for both of them?), acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

The group sits in silence, unable to muster a comment, when Penelope’s phone buzzes. She checks it, and silently turns the screen over so they can all read it. 

BOY GENIUS: Hey Garcia. I wasn’t feeling well so I decided to go home. See you Monday :-)

“What?”

[noonew1lleverask]

hello!! i admire your writing so much and was wondering if i could make a request? where bau!reader is framed or becomes a suspect for the case they are working and spencer defends her. i think reader would find it so hot and spencer’s just stubbornly dumbfounded by the police officers’ terrible handling of the case by accusing a federal agent. thank you so much for your service 🫶

arrested — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader is arrested , mention of reader being cuffed , mean police officer , a/n: hi hi !! such a great idea <3 hope you like this ! <3

"I didn’t do it. How many times do I have to repeat myself?" Your voice was trembling.

Two hours. Two long, agonizing hours of the same question, the same accusations, the same disbelieving stares. Your eyes burned, partly from fatigue, partly from the sting of frustrated tears you refused to let fall.

You had been working this case for days, running on caffeine and sheer willpower alongside the team. All you had wanted was a moment of rest. A quick nap in your hotel room before diving back in.

But the universe had other plans.

Instead of waking up refreshed, you’d been jolted awake by pounding on your door, handcuffs slapped around your wrists before you could even process what was happening.

And now here you were.

In an interrogation room. In your pajamas.

The officer across from you, a bald, broad-shouldered man with a permanent scowl, leaned forward, his knuckles pressing into the table. "You expect me to believe you just happened to be at the scene right before the victim disappeared?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. "I was sleeping. Check the hotel cameras."

He smirked, as if your answer amused him. "Convenient how they malfunctioned last night, huh?"

Your fingers curled into fists under the table. This was a game to him. Ask the same question in different ways, wear you down until you slipped up. But you had nothing to hide.

The door creaked open, and another officer leaned in, murmuring something to your interrogator. The man’s jaw tightened before he pushed back from the table with a grunt.

"We’re not done," he warned, jabbing a finger in your direction before stepping out.

The second the door clicked shut, your shoulders slumped. You let your head fall forward , squeezing your eyes shut. The room was freezing. You rubbed your arms through the thin fabric of your long-sleeved pajama top, but the fuzzy pants you’d thought would be cozy did little against the chill.

God, you missed your hotel bed. The warmth of the blankets and the heater. More than that, you missed Spencer.

Just a couple of days ago, you had been right next to him on the jet, suppressing a grin when he chose the seat beside you despite the rows of empty chairs. The two of you had shared an iPad, scrolling through case files, his curls brushing against your cheek as he leaned in to point something out. You missed the warmth of his shoulder pressed against yours, the way his voice softened when he explained some obscure fact.

Now, instead of his quiet ramblings, all you had was the relentless sound of the interrogation room’s broken light.

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

This was ridiculous.

You were an FBI agent. You’d been working this case for days. Tracking leads, analyzing evidence, losing sleep alongside the rest of the team.

How could anyone seriously believe you’d be involved in the very crime you were trying to solve?

You clenched your jaw. Hotch better be out there. If anyone could bulldoze through bureaucratic nonsense, it was him. You could practically picture him now. Stone-faced, arms crossed, deploying his prosecutor’s tone against whatever half-baked theory these cops had cooked up.

But until then, you were alone. Shivering. Exhausted.

And so done with this night.

You pressed your lips together, teeth sinking into the soft flesh to keep the tears at bay. Don’t cry. Don’t give them the satisfaction. But exhaustion and frustration clawed at your throat, and just as the first traitorous tear threatened to spill—

The door slammed open.

Not the careful click of a hesitant officer. Not the bored push of routine procedure. This was a sharp, violent sound—metal cracking against the wall like a gunshot.

And there he was.

Spencer Reid, usually all gentle hands and quiet steps, stood rigid in the doorway, his chest rising too fast. His eyes locked onto you before scanning the room like he was memorizing every detail for later dissection.

“Spencer.” His name left your lips in a breath, half-relief, half-disbelief.

He was kneeling in front of you before you could blink, one hand hovering just above your knee like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if you were hurt. “Are you alright?” His eyes darting over your face, your cuffed wrist, the way your shoulders hunched inward.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the bald officer chose that moment to stride back in, arms crossed, his smirk already twisting your stomach into knots.

Spencer didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, his fingers moved to the buttons of his cardigan, shrugging it off before draping it over your shoulders. His hands lingered for a second, adjusting the fabric with care, tucking your hair free so it fell loose around the collar.

You wanted to lean into him. To bury your face in his shoulder and let him shield you from the officer's glare. But the cuff around your wrist kept you in place. A harsh reminder of where you were.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, fingers curling into the cardigan’s sleeves.

Spencer wasn’t saying much. You weren’t sure why, until he turned his head toward the bald officer.

And then he exploded.

“You arrested her on nothing.” His voice was sharp.The officer opened his mouth, but Spencer continued immediately. His hand still on your shoulder, thumb brushing absent, soothing circles against the fabric. “No evidence. No witnesses. No justification beyond a hunch dressed up as police work.”

The officer bristled. “We had probable cause—”

“You had nothing.” Spencer’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough that the man flinched. “She’s an FBI agent. She’s spent the last 72 hours working this case with us, and you—what? Decided to skip due process because it was convenient?”

A stutter fractured his words, anger tangling his usually precise speech. “Th-this isn’t procedure. This is laziness.”

The bald officer stared back, mouth half-open like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find a foothold in the wreckage of Spencer’s logic. And as terrible as the situation was—yes, thank you, being dragged out of bed at 3 AM and cuffed to a table was definitely a personal low—you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

Spencer’s chest rose and fell too fast, his curls in disarray (more than usual, which was saying something). His jaw was set, his eyes burning with something fierce and unyielding, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Because the only coherent thought your sleep-deprived, adrenaline-jittery brain could muster was: Spencer Reid is terribly attractive right now.

You knew it was wrong. Knew you should be focusing on the fact that you were still handcuffed to a table, but the way he stood there, all righteous fury and trembling intensity, made your stomach swoop in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“Uncuff her. Now.”

Yep. There it was again. That voice—usually soft, bookish, all rapid-fire facts and hesitant smiles—had gone dark, and God, it shouldn’t have been as compelling as it was.

The officer hesitated, and Spencer snapped.

“Section 1983 of the Civil Rights Act prohibits false arrest under color of law. Miranda v. Arizona requires probable cause beyond circumstantial conjecture, which, given the lack of physical evidence or witness testimony, you clearly don’t have—”

He was rambling now, a torrent of legal precedent and biting sarcasm, and you should have been paying attention. Should have been cataloging every flaw in the officer’s case.

Instead, you were too busy thinking, I’m in trouble.

It wasn’t helping that Spencer hadn’t stopped touching you—his hand still on your shoulder, fingers now brushing the sensitive dip near your neck.

“Okay, okay!” The officer finally snapped, palms raised in surrender as Spencer’s rapid-fire legal citations chipped away at his resolve. Fumbling with the keys, he unlocked the cuff.

You winced, rubbing your wrist where the metal had bitten into skin. “Ouch.”

Spencer tracked the man’s retreat with a glare, waiting until the door clicked shut before whirling back to you.

But you were already on your feet, crashing into him before he could speak.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—” The words tumbled into the curve of his neck, your arms locked around his waist. A tremor ran through you, violent enough that your teeth nearly chattered—had you been shaking this whole time?

Spencer’s breath hitched. Then his hands were on your back, sweeping slow, firm circles over the fabric of his borrowed cardigan. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here earlier. They wouldn’t let me in, and I’m pretty sure they only caved because I cited Johnson v. Louisiana 1998, but I should’ve—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You muffled the words against his collarbone, clinging tighter. His sweater smelled like cheap station coffee and the faint trace of his shampoo.

His rambling stuttered to a stop. For a heartbeat, he just held you, his cheek resting against the side of your head. Then, softer: “…Are you hurt?”

Yes. No. Mostly just distracted by how unfairly hot you look when you're angry. You bit your lip to stop the completely inappropriate thought from slipping out.

Instead of answering, you clung to him tighter, your fingers pressing crescent moons into his back. "Thank you, Spencer. Again. Seriously." 

The words brushed against his neck, your lips accidentally grazing skin as you spoke. Through the fog of exhaustion, you almost missed the way his breath hitched - almost.

Oh. Interesting.

When you pulled back, his smile was soft but his ears were pink. Double interesting. 

(Maybe you filed this interesting sight away for later, like the way his curls were rebelliously mussed or how his sleeves were rolled up to reveal forearms that had no business being that defined on a man who called crossword puzzles ‘thrilling.’)

His hands stayed at your waist. Then he noticed the lingering tremors in your shoulders.

Without a word, his fingers moved to the front of the cardigan, buttoning it for you. Each slow click of a button felt strangely intimate. His knuckles brushing your stomach.

"You're freezing," he muttered, and you felt his fingers fumble with the cardigan buttons. His usual dexterity abandoned him; the third button took three tries.

You bit your lip. God, even his knuckles were attractive. This was absurd. You’d just been falsely arrested, and yet here you were, mentally composing sonnets about the way his eyelashes cast shadows in the light.

Spencer tilted his head. "You okay?"

No. You’ve ruined me.

"Peachy," you lied, letting him lead you out. His hand warm around yours, your traitorous heart doing somersaults.

[noonew1lleverask]

I’d Kiss You As the Lights Went Out

A drabble. You and Spencer proceeding in the most intimate act two people who love each other a sickening amount can engage in.

WC: 691

Slight smut.

You couldn’t catch your breath. Nothing about this was right, not even close. But the wrongness of it felt so good.

His lips trailed down your neck, pressing, mouthing, gnawing like you’re a dog’s favorite chew toy. He could be quite a nasty dog sometimes. But not tonight. Not these nights, when you both needed each other more than the oxygen filling your lungs, or, in this case, escaping it.

The drag of his hand down your waist had you mewling— sounds you didn’t know you were capable of producing escaped your throat like someone ripped them out of you, tossed into the air and caught by the skin of your teeth. His teeth, actually.

“Do you know— how beautiful you are?” Spencer mumbled into your skin, pressing so close you got the sense he wanted to bury himself there, just under your epidermis for the winter season. The cold weather raged outside, wind whipping against the windows, shaking the glass, snow piling up on the sill; though, none of it registered in your head. Your parietal lobe had shut off, or maybe it was the only lobe of your brain actively working, because all you could do was feel Spencer.

Nothing but Spencer— feel his hands and lips; smell his cologne and sweat; taste his skin and mouth; hear his groans and grunts that drove you wild in the dead of night when you should be asleep.

And then— there.

Right then, when you connected so intimately it was written in thousands of books— so many different ways to describe such a feeling, yet none would quite compare. You couldn’t put it into words, no matter how many times you thought through it and tested different vocabulary.

Good? No. Great? So mild in comparison to the blazing inferno that your body had been swept into.

Nails scratching down his back, leaving marks of pleasure you’d once seen him admire in your bathroom mirror riddled with sticky notes— you moaned, “Spencer! Feels—“

“I know,” he whispered, his mouth pressing to yours, begging this, begging for you so pathetically. As if you were any better. “I know, my darling. I— hah���”

Your bodies moved in a dance as old as time, but so new with each sequence you fell into— each step. It was as wonderful as the first time, when you both were all nerves and wrapped tightly in insecurities. Now, you whimpered and whined your praises to each other; a mess of sweaty, tangled limbs doused in the warm glow of your bedside lamp and the candles Spencer assured “heightened the romantic atmosphere”. He said he’d read it in a study, but you knew he was lying by that little grin he always got.

That little grin.

Gosh, you loved that little—

“I’m close.”

“Me, too,” you gasped.

When you both fell, it was astounding.

Yeah. Yeah! Astounding was a… good word to describe the entwining of your bodies.

His hips stuttered, your heels dug into his lower back, and you both were just piles of sounds of pleasure and delight and, in truth, pain. It pained you how… perfect he was, and how stupid you’d been before him. How stupid you’d been to not see such perfection, even if you didn’t believe in perfection, Spencer was as close as you’d get to something heavenly.

His body slowly sank onto yours, his weight heavy, but comforting. You rubbed his back soothingly as he pecked praises onto your cheeks and lips and eyes and nose and forehead and neck— any part of your body, really.

“Thank you,” he sighed.

Your hand paused, nails light against his nape. He shivered.

“For what?” You whispered.

“For letting me… love you.”

Your heart swelled and your eyes burned. You kissed his temple firmly, with an exaggerated smack that made him giggle on top of you, his curls tickling your chin.

“Please, never thank me for something I don’t deserve.”

He lifted his head, outrage— true outrage— evident in his features. His brows punched, his jaw hanging in disbelief. “That’s—“

You shut him up with a soft kiss, swallowing his protests with the slow, wet slide of your tongue against his. Pulling back, he chased your mouth, capturing two more kisses and a press of your noses together.

You smiled. “You don’t need to thank me for something I’m… far too happy having.”

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned in and kissed you again.

.

Thank you for reading<3

[noonew1lleverask]

Among the Words I’ve Written to You

Backstory/Intro: You left, and you regret it every day. After your kidnapping, your mind was steadily decaying, yet Spencer stayed steady by your side. Well, as steady as he could be. But steady could only keep you afloat for so long. After a case gone so horribly wrong due to your building psychosis, you ran away, left with just a letter on Hotch’s desk. Your apartment sold, your desk cleaned, and no trace of where you were and where you’d be going. It devastated the team, but Spencer? Spencer was ruined. Two years later, you only returned because of Spencer’s imprisonment, and rejoined the team. The aftermath of everything is… awkward.

Warnings: talk of psychosis, but not specified. mediations but not specified. very brief talks of suicidal thoughts and self harm. small little thing about god (but like ethel cain type beat). not very proofread. reader has a button collection :D. i think that’s it, but if i missed anything lmk baby girl.

WC: 2765

You just felt…wrong. You supposed it was normal to feel “wrong” after what happened to you. It’s what your therapist said— a bureau appointed shrink that scribbled down your problems onto a legal pad each session, and wrote you a new prescription by the end of them. You couldn’t be bitter, truly, you had no reason to be when she was meant to be helping you heal. She was working through your trauma with you, assuring that, yes, it’s okay to sometimes hear your abductors voice; it’s okay to fear the bed you were taken from and feel such revulsion when even passing your bedroom door; thoughts of only escaping the dread through death— all so very normal, and ”all part of the healing process,” she’d say, and place her hand on your trembling knee. “That’s why I’m here— to help you out, Y/N.”

Well aren’t you doing fucking fantastical, a part of you wanted to say.

The larger, more desperate to remain— at least sane by appearance— merely shut your mouth and swallows down the next pill giving you brief reprieve from the nightmare consuming your everyday life. Drawing away friends, corrupting your soul, tarnishing your work ethic— oh, you were fine. You’d be fine, right? That’s what happened, that’s how it worked. You’d be fine in a couple months, with the kidnapping and torture and brutality feeling millions of miles away. Thoughts of self-harm? I hardly know her!

But, oh, you knew her. You knew her calling well; her beckoning. Her pained moans sounded pleasurable to you— in a masochistic way, you craved to mimic her sounds and writhe; if only to divert the pain elsewhere, away from your mind and to something far more substantial; your body. You were already falling apart, what more was there to give up? Hygiene, hunger, hydration, sleep. You’d shunned them by now, like a father, you’d turned your back and left without a word, leaving the needs to fend for themselves, arguing which should be taken into consideration today, as the sun rose upon a new morning. You were not in your bed. You hadn’t slept in your bed in weeks; it was still a crime scene. Somewhere, in some file shoved between identical Manila folders, neatly clipped with a paperclip— pictures of your apartment rested, memories of the blood on your pillowcase and sheets, echoes of the struggle that occurred— a battle you’d lost, you’d so foolishly allowed yourself to lose. And now; now; now; there were consequences. Deep, bleeding, throbbing consequences.

Consequences not even the one you loved most could tightly stitch back up.

Though he tried— Spencer had tried— and he was still actively trying.

You had no idea why. Why he stayed. Why he tried. ‘Why’ sang throughout your head, rapping at the door, tapping at the window. Like that raven in that poem

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

… … … …

Looking back through your journal entries, you frown. Gosh, you were really losing it then, weren’t you? Your thumb presses into the corner of the small, leather-bound journal, flicking through the pages until it stops near the middle. Your handwriting is messy, but it was so much worse when you were working through trauma. It’s practically unreadable. Except for one line, pretty curly with its flicks;

i’ve come to realize i fear not god, but if he watched who i became, and did nothing

i fear he left me long before i suspected

“Jeepers,” you wince, shutting the broken down book and shoving it to the bottom of the box. You might… leave that one out. Maybe accidentally toss it.

Dust molecules dance in the air, spotlighted by the setting sun’s rays as they fall through the window panes, dousing the room in this romantic orange that kisses the apples of your cheeks and calls you ‘darling’ as it drapes over the back your grey sweater, and drapes over the filled bookshelves, dragging the shadows of crisp paperbacks and stoic hardcovers and crumbling tomes and worn notebooks across the jutting lip of the shelves they’ve been shoved into and told was their home.

You’ve never had a home office before. You’re very excited to have one now, but a part of you— a realistic portion— knows it will become storage for the books you will continue to purchase, and random scraps of junk you swear will eventually be turned into sustainable art projects. In your old apartment, where those haunting memories are now buried beneath an older woman named Gertrude Billows, you usually just used your coffee table for work. This will likely be the outcome again, but a person can be optimistic, can’t they?

A knuckle gently knocks at the doorframe, and you over your shoulder from your seated position on the scratchy carpet to see Spencer leaning tentatively against it. His eyes are wide, drinking in every inch of you like you’re prone to vanishing like the dust particles swirling by your head. You are; in a way.

“How’s it… hanging?” He asks, attempting a more casual stance. Spencer goes to lean his shoulder against the oak frame, but his sweater is too soft and the wood is too slick. He stumbles to the side, and catches himself on your new desk, knocking his hip into the corner.

“Ow!” He hisses, planting his feet down firmly and rubbing the injury.

Gate control theory, your brain supplies. There used to be a time when you’d spit out the psychological term, and watch with delight as his eyes lit up, and his mouth moved of its own accord; releasing facts like a broken dam. You bite your tongue this time, if only to lessen your laugh.

“Are— are you okay, Reid?” You ask, covering your tilting lips.

Spencer looks up, his eyes softening at your stifled laugh. A heaviness weighs behind them, deep and dragging; remorse dancing along the edges of his hazel gaze. It sobers you quite quickly, but your shoulders still quiver.

“I’m, uh, I’m alright.” He clears his throat, and straightens his spine. “How are you? Need any help in here?” Through the doorway, you can hear laughter. You can tell which team member it is based on the laugh. Tara; curving and pleasant like an alto carrying the harmony. She’s no doubt made a cheesy ‘your mom’ joke to Luke. And you’re sure you’d be laughing, too.

You shake your head, and reply with a shrug. “I’m pretty okay. Excited.” Your fingertips still trail the edge of the box filled with your journals. Recollections of your insanity— all twelve copies. When staying with your father, he suggested publishing them.

“Make a buck off your crazy,” he said, scooping honey bunches of oats onto his spoon. They’re soaked in milk. Yours are less soggy. “ ‘S what your Aunt Quincy did, and now she’s talkin’ at brunches.”

“Dad, those brunches are for nursing homes. For the hard of hearing.”

He’s silent for a moment, crunching on his spoonful of cereal, though you’re not sure where that crunch can even come from. “Well,” he begins, “She can’t hear over the money she’s drownin’ in.”

Maybe you should. Label it a psychological study under a pseudonym so no one investigates whether or not you should be allowed back in the bureau. You’re not entirely sure what Hotch did two years ago to keep the bureau from entirely eradicating your ability to rejoin the team— with the proper qualifications redone— but you’re not one to read too far into it. Maybe it’s because you left of your own accord, cowardly dropping off a letter on Hotch’s desk when he was gone, and leaving the next morning— intentionally unaware of the emotional destruction you could potentially bring. How bad could their pain be compared to yours?

You snap out of your head when Spencer’s shadow falls over you. He’s leaning over, looking into the box you absentmindedly trace the edges of. With his hair longer, it falls over his brows and shrouds his eyes from your view, and you’re unable to make out what he thinks of the twelve notebooks filled with your nervous breakdown. All of it, listed here, are the reasons you left him two years ago.

He sighs deeply, wearily— the weight of two years and a wrongful imprisonment on his drooping shoulders— which gives you some insight into his expansive mind. “I should’ve known.”

Here we go.

“I should’ve seen the signs—“

“You didn’t because you were rationalizing, you were trying to maintain peace, trying to keep us—“ You attempt, but he’s quick, and his voice is firmer than you’d expected it to be.

“No, Y/N, I was stupid.” No, he’s not firm. He’s wavering on a foundation that appears strong. Your heart aches, and the instinctual reaction is to touch him, to pull him down and rest his head in your lap, but you can’t. And it’s whose fault? YOURS! Maybe that should be a gameshow, too— Y/N’s Fault or Not?

You look down to the journals in the shadowy box— the sun does not touch them— their dulled covers and cracked spines, edges worn down by time and delusion. On each, white paint labels their number. Twelve journals. You’re not sure how you recovered. Medicine’s a miracle, as a… you don’t know— doctor? A doctor probably said something like that when medication was in its infancy.

Your fingers leave their nervous perch on the edge of the box, and you reach down into the box. It feels like you’re reaching forever, shoving your arm into a pit of quicksand, destined to be sucked in and suffocated. Spencer told you that’s not actually how quicksand works. The buoyancy of quicksand is denser than water, so your body would partially float, not sink. And there’s no real suction, but it’s the only imagery your mind can draw up as you tug your arm back, a journal in hand.

The fifth journal.

Your chest squeezes tightly as you hold it out to him, constricting and shriveling— forcing out air faster than you can take it in. In the back of your mind, a warning screams— blares, screeches; NO! NO! NO!— over and over again, determined to deafen you to your own stupidity.

He takes it.

The siren in your head stops because the threat gone. Because the crisis wasn’t averted.

“I think you should read this one.”

Spencer observes the journal in his hands, turning it over delicately like it’s the most delicate glass— the slightest pressure, and it will shatter into a million pieces. He used to hold you like that. “W-why?” He asks, whipping his head to you. You can see his eyes now, as he straightens, but you can’t read him. Not anymore. Because you’re not sure who he is anymore, just as you’re unsure who you are.

You shrug, attempting nonchalance in a situation that demands emotion. You’ve learned emotion leads to decay. Like rust— if left out in the elements for too long, it will rust, as you have. You’ve been left in the elements for far too long. “I think…” You pause, hesitating. You don’t want to say this wrong— screw it up, as you’ve done since you’ve been back. You stand up from your position on the floor, your knees and backs of your thighs aching from your position. You both have grown so much, for good and for worse.

“You always wanted to understand… why I did… what I did.” He tenses, very visibly, and holds the journal tighter. He used to hold you tighter like that, too, when you’d bring up sensitive topics. “And I feel that might be more cohesive than others. But, I do start talking about unicorns and an elusive narwhal I swore I saw in a dream once.”

That gets a smile from him, and even a short laugh. Your heart lifts, just slightly, and you smile, too. It’s a genuine smile, because he smiled. How pathetic could you get? Maybe that should be a game-show… Spencer’s eyes fall to that smile, the thing more elusive than your dreamed narwhal, and his features soften into what seems to be content. Or regret. You’re forcing yourself to see the former.

“Y/N I… I can’t read—“

“I want you to.” This time, you cut him off, your voice firm. Or trying to be. You’re both on a very unstable foundation— rocking side to side, both knowing you should reach out, but too scared one wrong movement will send you both crashing to the ground.

“It’s only fair after what I did.”

What you did.

You dislike thinking of it often, but it slaps you in the face every morning when you walk into work, seeing him at his desk. He sits more rigidly now, you’re sure, and he takes his coffee black. He takes his coffee darker than the midnight sky, and sips it quickly without wincing. It slaps you in the face when you sit beside each other in the jet, and his arm brushes yours, but makes no more movement than that. It slaps you in the face when he reaches out and stops, just as you do, and you’re both so aware of it. It slaps you in the face when you’re out for drinks and he doesn’t lean over to make up stories about the frequent bar patrons. It slaps you in the face now, and it’s a hard slap when he looks back down to the notebook like it will answer everything.

It won’t, but it will answer as much as you can’t bring yourself to say.

Spencer opens his mouth— pink lips parting— and you want to know what he’s going to say. Force it back or take it with reluctant gratefulness?

You never find out what he says, because Penelope shrieks from downstairs, calling, “Y/N! Luke’s messing with your button collection!”

Luke responds, as if just replying to Penelope, but his voice is raised, too, so it’s obvious he wants to be heard as well. “I am not! Penelope’s trying to steal your cat buttons!”

The bubbly analyst gasps, horrified at the accusation. “I- I am not! Watch yourself, newbie, or I’ll—“

“Agh!”

Assumedly, she swats Luke with some unassuming weapon. Maybe your toilet brush shaped like a cherry.

A familiar laughter falls over you and Spencer, and you look to each other, the tension diminished just slightly. You’ve missed his smile. You’ve missed him.

You hope your journal will communicate as much.

… … …

When Spencer arrives back at his apartment, it’s far later than he suspected he’d arrive. You always draw him in, somehow. Your orbit is strong, and undeniable. Even while you were gone, his planet followed the circle you’d left behind. He knows that’s not how gravity works, but you have a way of changing the laws of nature. At least his laws.

The journal is tucked in the pocket of his coat, and he has not forgotten it. He’s thought of it all night, even touched his fingers to it when least expected, not even realizing he was seeking it out. Maybe it’s a way to touch you again, after so long. If he just… pushed down his anger, his paranoia— maybe one day he can.

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, he unwinds his coat from his neck, his fingers trailing across the purple fabric you used to tug him close by, and he hangs it up. Then his coat. He draws out the journal from the pocket and goes to sit on his couch, sinking down into the creaking leather and huffing.

He stares at it for a long time.

He doesn’t open it. Well, he does, but only to the first page.

i fear not god—

And he shuts it.

It’s violating, in a way, and you want him to violate you? It’s disturbing, and it must be masochistic. But, that determination in your eyes— the very clear and obvious desperation for him to understand why you left him so suddenly and cruelly…

Spencer shakes his head. Tonight is not the night to crack open your psychosis journal like beer. Maybe one day, when he feels less high from your proximity; less manic from your proximity. Standing up, his knees and lower back ache, and he realizes how much they’ve aged since you’ve left. Far too much, it seems.

He takes the journal to his room and sets it down, his fingers lingering on it, on the white painted number on the front; #5.

Spencer isn’t sure what compels him, but he picks up the book and presses it to his lips. A part of him hopes you feel it. A part of him hopes one day he can kiss you again— feel the warmth of your skin and taste your lipgloss instead of dust. Spencer— feeling just as pathetic as before— sets down the journal down again, settled beside the small collection of buttons he’s procured in the last two years, and slips off to bed to be haunted by you.

THANKS FOR READING! YOU MADE IT! Hope you enjoyed, and have a wonderful morning, afternoon, or night. I love you, and you will be okay I promise, and Jesus loves you <3 Again, THANK YOU! Even if you just skimmed it :P

[noonew1lleverask]

Preview of something I’m writing. TW: mentions of suicide and self-harm.

Sorry, guys, I’ve consumed so much sad media I cannot HELP IT. I’m literally in the trenches I need to read a romance novel ASAP.

You just felt…wrong. You supposed it was normal to feel “wrong” after what happened to you. It’s what your therapist said— a bureau appointed shrink that scribbled down your problems onto a legal pad each session, and wrote you a new prescription by the end of them. You couldn’t be bitter, truly, you had no reason to be when she was meant to be helping you heal. She was working through your trauma with you, assuring that, yes, it’s okay to sometimes hear your abductors voice; it’s okay to fear the bed you were taken from and feel such revulsion when even passing your bedroom door; thoughts of only escaping the dread through death— all so very normal, and ”all part of the healing process,” she’d say, and place her hand on your trembling knee. “That’s why I’m here— to help you out, Y/N.”

Well aren’t you doing fucking fantastical, a part of you wanted to say.

The larger, more desperate to remain— at least sane by appearance— merely shut your mouth and swallows down the next pill giving you brief reprieve from the nightmare consuming your everyday life. Drawing away friends, corrupting your soul, tarnishing your work ethic— oh, you were fine. You’d be fine, right? That’s what happened, that’s how it worked. You’d be fine in a couple months, with the kidnapping and torture and brutality feeling millions of miles away. Thoughts of self-harm? I hardly know her!

But, oh, you knew her. You knew her calling well; her beckoning. Her pained moans sounded pleasurable to you— in a masochistic way, you craved to mimic her sounds and writhe; if only to divert the pain elsewhere, away from your mind and to something far more substantial; your body. You were already falling apart, what more was there to give up? Hygiene, hunger, hydration, sleep. You’d shunned them by now, like a father, you’d turned your back and left without a word, leaving the needs to fend for themselves, arguing which should be taken into consideration today, as the sun rose upon a new morning. You were not in your bed. You hadn’t slept in your bed in weeks; it was still a crime scene. Somewhere, in some file shoved between identical Manila folders, neatly clipped with a paperclip— pictures of your apartment rested, memories of the blood on your pillowcase and sheets, echoes of the struggle that occurred— a battle you’d lost, you’d so foolishly allowed yourself to lose. And now; now; now; there were consequences. Deep, bleeding, throbbing consequences.

Consequences not even the one you loved most could tightly stitch back up.

Though he tried, Spencer had tried, and he was still actively trying.

You had no idea why. Why he stayed. Why he tried. Why sang throughout your head, rapping at the door, tapping at the window.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

[noonew1lleverask]

When They Found a Better Planet, Only the Gentle Survived

GUYS! I’m so sorry I haven’t posted in AGES. APs are killing me, yall😔 anyways, feast upon this baloney and berate me if need be. Love you guys🫶

Spencer Reid x gn!reader (maybe more fem!presenting, though, so I’m so sorry if it is). They’re kinda weird, which is specified in the beginning. Angsty. Kinda fluffy?

Warnings: maybe ooc Spencer? Talk of a case involving children (two of which are dead and it is talked about), so if you don’t like this, just don’t read. Reader can’t cry because I was thinking of Cameron Diaz in the Holiday. Alcohol (not specified). Talk of kidnapping and the word “rapist” is used. Bad, sucky, dookie writing. NOT PROOFREAD. I think that’s it, and if I missed anything PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

WC: 2,409

You know you’re weird. It’s a given, considering your career choice. No sane, right-in-the-head person strives to study the minds of criminals— psychos and the mentally disturbed. You didn’t think, however, when joining the bureau, you’d find people far… odder than you. You noted this with love, as you were surrounded by such weird people on the jet slicing through the sky, quiet as it sailed the air like it was a withdrawn sea.

You. You, with your button collections and mugs stuffed into your cupboard— each withholding a sentimental value in your heart that you knew could merely be attested to anthropomorphism: the natural inclination humans have to personify objects. Truly, human emotion is such a complex pot of stew, with such thick broth, the ingredients were a surprise to each ladled scoop. You with your colorful tops and matching tights, most of which followed the grain of multicolored patterns and funky designs. You, who could not, despite the nature of your job, see any… bad in people. It was your fault— entirely yours— and your silly empathic heart swelling in your chest until it threatened to crack your ribs and burst grotesquely from your body; a splatter of blood, ripped muscle and skin, bone.

This was what you found odd in your colleagues. They didn’t seem to feel as you did. And, for once in your life, you were disturbed. Returning from a case with children— dead children; cold bodies of young boys that were burned into the backs of your eyelids, resting peacefully among the leaves. It was sickening. It was wrong. So why were they okay? Why couldn’t you be okay as they were? Hotch, Rossi, and Emily were sharing drinks, chatting quietly about nothing— nothing but chatter— chattering. Hotch seemed far more withdrawn than the others; you were sure he was thinking of Jack. The loss of Haley was still a fresh wound, sloppily stitched shut by the death of the Reaper. Morgan had slumped down into the soft leather of the jet’s seating, his headphones crooked over his smooth head, his lashes dark and feathery where they rested against his cheeks. JJ had called Will, asking for Henry, if he was okay, sleeping good? Good, JJ had replied with a sigh. Deep, relieved, and guilty that she could rest easily while two mothers mourned the loss of their boys— barely even six. Nausea washed over you, suddenly. You could tell, especially if the case involved children, it weighed even heavier on JJ’s shoulders, reminding her of her own child’s life, and its volatility. Was it grim to think such a thought? You weren’t sure. You felt it was natural— given, considering the sludge you’d recently pulled yourselves from. You shook your head. How could you think that? How could you think of such a terrible situation; such a terrible outcome; as sludge?

Having forgotten about a certain genius, you found yourself startled when he stumbled into the seat beside you, making you jump. You always startled— too deep in your own thoughts to remember there was reality surrounding you. Spencer leaned heavily into his cane as he sat, a short huff escaping his pink lips when his butt finally reached the chair. He lifted his injured leg, elevating it onto the chair in front of him, and groaning deeply and tipping his head back, a long curl dropping over his eye. The sound made you flush, just a little. You looked between he, and the aisle, then the surrounding cabin. Out of every space, he had to choose beside you? You shifted in your seat, uncomfortable, and stuck your hands under your thighs. You knew they were trembling. You knew he would notice. Spencer hadn’t said much, considering things, about the case, to anyone else, anything. You supposed he was as deep in grief as you. You doubted he was as confused, as troubled, as disturbed.

Spencer faced you suddenly, and tucked the curl back. His hazel eyes were wide and open, much like a lake from your childhood— no, a creek. It was behind your house, deeper into the woods that you’d preferred, but your sibling dragged you past the tree line and into the sun-dappled forest. Spencer’s eyes reminded you of that creek, and the surrounding trees glistening under the morning sun, dew drip-dropping from their leaves. A symphony.

“You’ve been quiet,” he noted, his voice a low murmur you couldn’t find yourself disliking, but craving. “And isolating yourself from the others…” He lifted his eyelids, widening them to a slightly knowing degree, his hand over the crook of his elbow as he leaned closer— not in your personal space, but enough to be apparent. You leaned back. “You’ve been subtly glaring, did you know that?”

Sometimes, you didn’t like Spencer, and it was for reasons such as these. He saw too much, and you were sure he disliked it as much as you. Beneath your thighs, your knuckles rubbed against the fabric of your bootcut jeans, twitching to shove him away and hide under the table. “No, I did not,” you replied drily. “Thank you for telling me after the fact. Did… anyone else notice?”

He shook his head, and your shoulders eased with relief, brows softening. “No, no— I just…” He paused, hesitated, actually, his jaw working while his vocal chords didn’t. A breath was softly pushed from the back of his throat. He restarted, softer; whispering, “In non-family abductions, 40% of children are killed, and 4% are never recovered.” You weren’t sure how this was supposed to help you. He obviously saw the issue, saw past your thick shell of armor you liked to think was as strong as steel, but, really, it was just a flimsy aluminum.

Swallowing down the bile in your throat, along with the anger bubbling in your chest, you replied, “I really don’t see how that helps anything, Spencer.” All you could see were those bodies— small, fragile, peaceful in those last moments save for the… the… Bile was rising again, acidic and burning. “Our job is to save people, to deliver justice, not… not to let children die at the hands of sociopathic pedophiles—“ you were getting choked up. You couldn’t stop it. You didn’t like it— you wanted to bury yourself in a pile of your funky tights and Mary-Jane’s, mugs and buttons, kitties and puppies, chunky rings and golden necklaces with shimmering fake gems— you didn’t want to think of dead children and their mothers sobbing in your arms, demanding why, God, why would He let this happen?

Spencer, if he wasn’t already utterly available to your sorrows— in that strange way he seemed to make himself available to anyone— softened further, his hand raising, heisting, before it came upon your shoulder, then to the other. He pulled you against his side, and you collapsed, your face buried into the shoulder of his suit jacket, and tore your hands from the confine of your thighs to grasp his arms, crumpling the nice fabric. Soft, and smelling sharply of fig, with woody notes that reminded you of the decrepit books he buried his nose in, and you wondered how they didn’t collapse under his touch. You didn’t cry. You haven’t cried in years, and, despite everything, you knew you wouldn’t cry now. You simply released small, shaky breaths that rattled you to the core, chipping away at your swelling heart, relinquishing the threat of it breaking your ribs.

He rubbed your shoulder, tenderly, far more tender than you’d assume, but you knew assumptions were bad. A natural, human thing; judging, assumption, assuming. It was a survival instinct. What would we be, if not for our judgements? But you weren’t assuming; you knew Spencer had an… aversion to touch. Not entirely banning the concept, but cautious of it. He touched those he knew well, those he deemed worthy of it. You had no idea how you were worth his touch, but it must be a one time thing, you rationalized when he pulled you in tighter. And you could swear you felt something brush the top of your head. His nose, probably.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His volume had dropped even lower. This was a private conversation— just you two. Just the two of you on the jet; no chatter, no soft sighs, no phone calls, no humming or tapping feet, not even the low hum of the jet as it raced home. Just you and Spencer, hovering mid-air, his body covering yours from the pain tearing you apart. Your own little planet; only for those who felt and who ached as you did.

“What I meant by that was… we can’t save everyone.” He sounded pained saying it, like it had taken serious convincing for him to believe it, too. “Some things are out of our power, and it… sucks. It really sucks.” You snorted. Why Spencer saying ‘sucks’, and working through it like a child with metamorphosis made you laugh, you didn’t know. It just did. He held you looser, comforted by the sound, trusting you wouldn’t shatter on impact if he released you. “But… we have to focus on what’s in our power. Who we saved. Who we will save. Those boys, they— no child deserves what they went through. And the guilt never gets easier. But we can use that guilt. Become better, grow smarter, grow faster…”

You pulled back then (not from his arms ,you weren’t stable enough to leave his protection yet), and met his eyes. There was something else in them now— the creek had become a river; rapid and racing, crashing over rocks, currents that pulled you under and refused to let go. Something shifted in your chest, your heartbeat quickened. He lowered his head, and— oh, you knew your title of oddest hadn’t been lost— thought for a moment he may kiss you. You didn’t want him to, but you weren’t sure you’d mind it. The realization was confusing, and not the primary focus at the time, so you shoved it away when he merely leaned in closer to emphasize his point. “We don’t forget them,” he said. “We never do. But…” his eyes flicked away then, and returned. The fire was brighter now, an inferno behind his eyes. “We save the next child, and the next, and the ones after that, and we put away every single maniac who dares to lay a hand on them.”

It wasn’t really the answer you wanted, but it held the conviction you were craving. You wanted something solid— “we do this until none remain”— but they’d always remain. No matter how many rapists, serial killers, child abductors; the deranged were put away… more would appear, more would hurt and kill. But it was your job to stop them. To think of cases like these, and not see them as failures, but as a victory. You apprehended the UNSUB, and he wouldn’t hurt any boys again. There’d be no more mourning mothers at his hands, nor small bodies pillowed on beds of leaves like that solved everything. There would be more— you just had to stop them. Preferably before they struck, but that was merely a wish occasionally granted. Occasionally didn’t even fit, actually. Once in a blue moon. That was much better. Once every eclipse, sadly.

You sniffled, though there was no real reason, and pulled away. You had been stitched back together by Spencer’s careful hand; the hand that never crumbled books, never broke pencils, but spilled a few too many coffees. The calloused hand that had held guns, and now held you. “Thank you, Spencer,” you smiled. “I’m sorry—“

“Don’t,” he cut you off, holding up a hand. “There’s no reason to feel sorry when your feelings were justified.”

There it was again.

That little kickstart to your heart.

You nodded, but you didn’t really believe there was no reason to apologize. You’d been glaring at your innocent colleagues for God’s sakes, when they’d done nothing but push themselves to the brink, just as you. The inadequacy, however, was deeply felt in moments like these, when Spencer gently called out your behavior and directed you away from a path of spiraling and self-destruction. You wondered who had guided his path. It was a question for another day, when your relationship was stronger, and you didn’t feel physically ill at the prospect of having your request be rejected.

“Stil.” You shrugged. “I needed a shoulder to…” you couldn’t say “cry on”, because you didn’t cry. You think for a moment, and Spencer patiently waits with a slight smile pulling on the corners of his mouth. You want to take your fingers and pull them into a wider one, if only to see those dimples. “I needed someone to help keep me together,” you land on.

Spencer’s eyes widen, and an adorable blush coats his cheeks. “Oh, well, uh, yeah— that… that’s not— ahem— a-anytime… anytime.” He repeats the last word twice, the second time coming out softer, more sincere. Like a promise. Your smile widens, but is stretched by a yawn. Without the stress and anger keeping you awake, exhaustion settles heavy on your bones. Spencer notices, of course, but he doesn’t even need to be a profiler to note your tiredness. He slumps back a little in his chair, his elevated leg shifting, and seems almost to tilt your way. Your stare, confused, until you realize what he’s doing. Offering his shoulder. Maybe that touch wasn’t…a one time thing. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you drop your head to his shoulder. It’s bony, not entirely comfortable, but soothing. Because it’s him, a small, quiet part of your mind answers, and you internally shush it. Your eyes dropped to the buttons of his coat. They were nice buttons. “I like your buttons,” you murmured, and he huffed a soft laugh.

“Thanks. They’re yours when this decomposes,” he promised, tugging on the hem of his coat. You’d hold him to that promise when the time came.

Quicker than you imagined, sleep overtakes you, and, as you drift into the first stages of unconscious, you feel that brush again, at the top of your head. From afar, you think you hear a soft chuckle, and a teasing, “my man,” but you’re quite positive it’s only in your head. It must be, because Spencer’s little laugh sounded too good to be true.

THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING THIS BAD FIC. Or skimming, whatever floats your boat. I really hope you enjoyed, and SO SORRY about not writing for so long. I’m attempting to create a schedule of posting almost every Friday. So be PREPARED! Love you, be safe, and know that you are loved deeply by me, God, and someone out there. Whether that be a cat, dog, or platypus— YOURE LOVED♥️♥️♥️

Thanks again, lovelies<3

[noonew1lleverask]

is reading angst a way of self harm

[noonew1lleverask]

the virgin reid going full hermit over a girl he talked on the phone with for a few months vs. the chad hotch coming right back to work after his wife was murdered in front of his son

[noonew1lleverask]

called you again | s.r.

in which you make a late night phone call to your ex-boyfriend because you're convinced he's the only thing that can lull you to sleep

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (h/c) content warnings: exes but they're still in love so... a lot of yearning, briefly mentions a bau case, inspired by a mattress and a tiktok. word count: 1.84k a/n: shout out to whichever anon from yesterday told me to post this!! you're a real one

Rolling over on your bed again, you tugged the comforter over your shoulder, hoping the fabric would form a cocoon around you. Mimicking the feeling of someone behind you, warm arms wrapped around you. You begged for the comfort that you needed in order to fall asleep, but sleep never came. 

Your exhaustion had come and gone, any hint of sleepiness wiped away when you moved from your couch to your bed. Insomnia had come to find you, a face so familiar that you had begun to greet sleepless nights with open arms. 

On your nightstand, your phone buzzed. Likely a social media notification or a news email telling you the end was near, but you rolled over anyway on the off chance that it was a text. Every night, you remind yourself that you should turn on do not disturb, but you’d spent years waiting for your phone to buzz at all hours, hoping for the opportunity to tell Spencer how your day was. That’s why you had to check your phone, hoping to see the contact with the heart next to it, remaining unchanged since you broke up with him two months ago. 

Cringing at the blue light on your sensitive eyes, you squinted at the notification. It was an email, holding the weekly advertisement for the grocery store. You tried to resist the disappointment that roiled in your brain, but it took over anyways. Disappointment that it wasn’t Spencer and shame that you’d thought he’d reach out to you after everything that happened between you. 

You clicked on your messages, looking at the short exchange from the day he came by to drop off a box of your things. He’d brought you coffee. You’d broken his heart two days before, and he brought you coffee from your favorite kiosk near his apartment. That kind of love was the epitome of Spencer Reid, and that was why it had killed you to let him go. 

As if your thumb had developed a mind of its own, you tapped on his contact and initiated a phone call, quickly sitting up in bed and ending the call, tossing your phone in the depths of your down comforter and glaring at it in horror. 

It must’ve been less than a minute before your phone started to buzz again, you rifled through the bedding to look at your phone, and there it was. The purple heart that you’d placed next to his name the night of your first date. It seemed cruel to take away his heart when you knew very well there was no love lost between the two of you. Swiping at the screen, you lifted the phone to your ear and took a nervous breath, “Hey.” 

“Are you okay?” He asked immediately, not responding to your greeting and instantly trying to get to the root cause of why you had called. 

You tried not to read into it, staring at your lap and fiddling with a loose thread on your pajama shorts. “Spence,” you said meekly, your voice hovering over a whisper as his question echoed in your head.

He was silent for a moment. You imagined he was considering hanging up on you until he spoke again, “Hang on.” 

You heeded his instruction, shifting awkwardly on your mattress and listening to the shuffling on the other end. It was almost two in the morning, and he didn’t sound like you had woken him up, so he must be out on a case. Something akin to deja vu came over you then, imagining him in some city that he’d never be able to explore while you waited in your apartment for the slightest bit of contact. 

“Y/N?” Spencer said your name, and every bit of embarrassment you felt related to this call faded away. You could deal with the humiliation if it meant you got to hear him say your name just one more time. “What’s wrong?”

Because it couldn’t just be that you wanted to hear his voice, the only reason you could possibly be calling him in the middle of the night was because something was wrong. You were stranded when the metro stopped running or someone had stolen your wallet. No, the pounding of your broken heart was keeping you up at night. Even now, it slammed into your ribcage, ricocheting with the reminder that this was all your fault. “Where are you?” You asked, sniffling through the question and wiping you face with your sleeve. 

He sighed on the other end of the call and you told yourself it was in relief that nothing was wrong. “Bismarck,” he responded softly, matching your tone of voice in only the way he could. “We got here this morning for a family annihilator,” he explained in more detail. 

You felt yourself falling into a familiar pattern, settling your body back in bed with your phone pressed to the side of your face. Family annihilators were hard on the whole team, but Spencer was someone who held family dynamics with the highest regard. It always broke him to see that destroyed. “How was the flight?” 

“It was alright,” he answered, entering a similar pattern as you. “We had to fly over tornado alley. It’s storm season, you know?” 

Humming, you nodded despite the fact that he can’t see you. “And I’m sure no one appreciated your facts about turbulence,” you said, a teasing lilt finding its way to your tone. 

He chuckled through the phone and your heart soared, “They never do. No one ever gets them like you, lo—” 

Your body stiffened as he caught himself. It would’ve been so easy for you to move past the initial comment if his instinct was to follow it up with a pet name. Lovey. He liked to call you lovey as a term of endearment. Your previously floating heart came back down to earth, “So it’s a bad case, huh? I should probably let you get back to work.” 

“Between you and me, I’m supposed to be at the hotel right now, so this would count as my break,” he told you, managing to coax you into staying on the phone. 

It was hard to be broken up with someone who hadn’t strictly done anything wrong, and it was hard to deny him conversation when he was wrapped up in such a dark case. “What’s the weather like?” You asked, choosing to talk about things that don’t truly matter. 

He sighed, “Cold, but I’m sure you could’ve guessed that. JJ whines about it every time she steps outside. We’re inside most of the time anyway, so I’m not really bothered.”

Weather was never an issue for Spencer, you used to think he’d be miserable in the winter, seeing as he grew up in Las Vegas, but it would seem that his time in Boston had completely changed him. 

“It’s finally getting warm here,” you mentioned. Though, of course he knew that already. Spencer hadn’t taken up residence in Bismarck, but sometimes it felt like he was 1,500 miles away, even when he was just across the river from you. It reminded you of all the times you’d disagreed on the temperature you should leave the thermostat at, and it brought a pit back to your chest. You used to insist that 68 degrees in the winter wasn’t the same as 68 degrees in the summer, and he’d tell you that it was the same temperature, it just felt different because of changing variables. 

Laying in your bed, you wished he was there to explain how the tilt of the earth’s axis affects the temperature, but instead, you could only talk to him about the weather. The cherry blossoms would bloom soon, and you wished he was here to take you to see them. “What’s wrong?” He asked you again, his voice was so gentle that it nearly crushed you. 

Looking at the other side of your bed, the side he used to sleep on, you sighed helplessly, “I can’t sleep.” It felt infantile to say it out loud, the average person would’ve taken something by now, but you could barely get yourself to stand up, let alone go to the medicine cabinet. 

“Have you taken anything?” He asked, reading your mind just like old times. 

You hummed, keeping your eyes on the other side of your mattress, “No. It’s too late anyway, I wouldn’t wake up for work.” 

“Maybe you should take something and take the day off, you sound exhausted,” he told you, a familiar worry crawling into his voice. 

The reminder of why you had left overwhelmed you. Spencer could give you all of the advice in the world, but he’d never be there to help you. Yours wasn’t the first relationship to fall victim to the BAUs hours, but it hurt nonetheless. You loved him so ardently that you’d forgotten to love yourself, and when you couldn’t take the distance anymore, you’d called the whole thing off. It was hard to love someone who wasn’t there, but it turns out distance does make the heart grow fonder. “Maybe,” you mumbled, looking at the divot on his side of the bed. 

It hurt you to acknowledge that the inanimate object you slept on had its own memory of Spencer. The impression of his body across the cushion reminded you of the space left by people in Pompeii, their suffering had been immortalized for people to gawk at 2,000 years later, but in 2,000 years, your romance with Spencer wouldn’t even qualify as a blip in the universe’s timeline. There would be no lasting impression of two lovers holding hands because he wasn’t yours and you were no longer his. 

“Spence?” You breathed into the receiver, looking at the memory foam imprint with tears in your eyes. 

He waited for a beat to respond, “Yeah?” 

Your chest ached to tell him that you loved him—that you had made a mistake, but that wasn’t fair to him. That wasn’t fair to you. “Stay safe, okay?” You whispered, hoping that one day things might be different, and if that day ever came along, you’d want him to at least consider the possibility of coming back to you. 

“Okay, sleep well,” he murmured back to you before the phone clicked off. 

At a sloth’s pace, you crawled onto the other side of your bed and curled yourself into a ball. When trees had objects left around their roots, they simply grew around the invasion, but your mattress was an inanimate object with no way of moving or growing or adapting to a life without him while you had no choice but to do so. Closing your eyes, silent tears streamed to the pillow that smelled faintly of his shampoo—no matter how many times you washed the pillowcase. Finally, you let your body relax into the memory of him. 

You supposed you could always buy a new mattress, but that would mean fully letting him go.

[noonew1lleverask]

There’s a lot of reasons why you love Spencer.

word count: 917

Men. Men, the vile creatures, were so filled with… with hatred, and rage, and bitterness— just an overall unpleasant species with a horrible history tied to it. But, there was one exception to this.

“Spencer,” you called, and he answered;

“Yes, love?” Indeed, Spencer Reid was the exception, and these were the many reasons why…

He had a very lovely smile. Even the slight curve of it in private moments— when he tried to suppress it; shoving it down to a measly little smirk— could send your heart racing. But, the brilliance of his full, elated grin sent you into an overdrive— dopamine flooding your brain, an overwhelming wave of need crashing over you like the most violent of waves in the most violent of storms. You were unsure if you should hit him or kiss him— both hard enough to leave him dazed, both likely having similar effects on the genius. Once, you voiced your adoration of his smile over coffee, watched as he hid it selfishly behind the rim of his designated mug; name labeled on the side; and said, I don’t see it. Well, you’d replied, half tempted to lean across the table that suddenly felt too long, even if your feet were touching— the toe of his loafers brushing your ankle. “It’s not for you, then,” you’d said, a smile caught from his contagious beaming. “It’s just for the rest of the world to envy.

He had good hair. Good, thick hair of the softest texture, and the most rich brown. No matter the cut and, it remained appealing, at least to you. In the days past when Spencer’s hair lacked its curl, its fluff, and remained plastered to his head, even then you adored it. Its many forms had intrigued you throughout the years, so much so you began to think of it as a separate entity from Spencer entirely. “It’s a wig,” you’d tease when playing with it, and tug, leading to Spencer’s groans and moans, and he’d tug yours in return. He’d grown so much, not just his hair, but him. Once, there was a time when his hair was flat and quiet; he wouldn’t have pulled your hair in return then. Now, it was wild and wind-blown. Loud and proud— he’d pull your hair gently, for fear he’d hurt you, and when you both fell back with stomach-aching laughs at your childish antics, he’d gaze at you through the curtain of rich brown, and wait for you to push it back from his eyes, so you could see his adoring eyes, staring upon you in your “seraphic glory��.

His eyes were ever-shifting. They were hazel, so they were magical, you’d said. He’d laughed and asked what exactly led you to that conclusion. “You’re a magician, are you not?” You had him there.

“It’s science,” he’d replied, looking, oh, so lovely on these early Sundays when he insisted they play an early morning card game. The focus in his eyes, determination blazing, as if his life were on the line, amused you to no end. Especially when you won, which you rarely did. Not just for the blaze of competition to flare into the inferno of triumph, but for the kiss he’d smack against your cheek as a good-natured, thank you for feeding my ego.

You watched his eyes flit over his cards, and he betrayed nothing. What rests behind those calloused hands that traced your body so lovingly, that held you together when you shattered, that picked up your broken pieces even when his hands bled from the jagged edges of your broken soul? What did those eyes hide from you; those cheeky eyes, lively with green in the sunlight, deep black in the dark of your bedroom— soft and wholly swallowed by his pupils— so consumed by nothing but you, you, and you— when he wasn’t thinking of anything he was thinking of everything? “Full house,” apparently.

He was a handsome man. As you’ve so abhorrently declared to anyone who dared to listen to the dancing fool he’d unknowingly turned you into, constantly vying for his smile, for his laughter, for his eyes to soften, for his attention, for his love and care— for all of the things he readily delivered to you on a velvet pillow and bended knee, so firm in his belief you deserved it; the gift of him. You didn’t.

You knew you didn’t, yet you cherished him as he cherished you.

You didn’t love Spencer for his looks. You didn’t love him for his smile, his hair, or his eyes. You loved him. You loved how he held you as no man ever had. You loved his imperfections, you loved your fights, you loved his clumsiness, you loved his facts that he rambled on about for just a few minutes too long, you loved his hand in yours. You loved him so deeply it was now ingrained in your soul, and you sometimes wondered if there was an underlying dependency on him, and you’d worry, and he’d ask if you felt alone when he was in the room with you, not touching, not acknowledging, but merely existing beside you— breathing in precious oxygen he’d rather deliver directly from his mouth to yours. He never said that, but you’d know it went unsaid.

And you’d say no.

And he’d kiss your nose, and say, “Good. I think you should start worrying about dependency on me when you start letting me into the kitchen.”

.

Thanks for reading, lovelies! Hope you liked this, and have an awesome evening, day, or morning. You’re so loved (BY ME), and keep on being you no matter what. Love y’all, and thanks again<3<3

[noonew1lleverask]

How we feelin about this ladies?

👇

Men. Men, the vile creatures, were so filled with… with hatred, and rage, and bitterness— just an overall unpleasant species with a horrible history tied to it. But, there was one exception to this.

“Spencer,” you called, and he answered;

“Yes, love?” Indeed, Spencer Reid was the exception, and these were the many reasons why…

Do I know where it’s gonna go from here? No. No, I don’t. Give me a sleepless night and a monster, and it may be developed by Monday Eve.

[noonew1lleverask]

can I pls request: dad!spencer and his baby boy getting antsy and weepy but spencer not knowing what’s wrong until you come back from a long case and then he’s fine straight away

—Spencer and his baby miss you like crazy for 3k, fem

Things have been hot garbage since Monday. Saturday night and all Spencer wants is one good day, where Jude doesn’t cry, and Spencer doesn’t feel sick. Saturday morning it went on for hours —Jude started crying because his bottle was prematurely empty and he didn’t stop, the sobs petering into weeps, sniffly wet nose pressed to Spencer’s neck, then his chest, then his forehead. Poor boy can’t stay still. 

Spencer hasn’t eaten properly since you left. He can’t get more than a couple of mouthfuls in before Jude is protesting his own meal or snack and flopping sadly into a Jude-puddle. 

Spencer has suggested dinner again, because not eating makes you sad, but Jude doesn’t care what it does and Spencer puts electrolytes in his juice. He offers extra time at the swimming pool and the library, and he plays soccer outside despite terrible coordination because Jude loves to score. Nothing lasts long enough. Jude spends half of his waking time morose and clingy, the other hiding under beds or in the kitchen cabinet under the sink. Spencer makes him an appointment with the pediatrician for Wednesday morning. 

The waiting is agony. 

“I don’t think you should worry about it until you go,” you say down the phone, “you know that worrying twice is pointless. Not that you shouldn’t worry at all, I know it’s scary, but there’s nothing you can’t handle, Spence.” 

“If Jude is sick I definitely can’t handle that.” 

“Yes, you can. Don’t be stupid.” 

Stupid said very softly. Spencer misses your voice. He tries to go on cases but if they look too long, he stays home, ‘cos who does he trust enough to take care of Jude besides himself? There was one time where you stayed with Jude for a two-nighter just because you wanted to and Spencer missed being with the BAU, but he missed Jude more while he was there than he missed the work. He’s a professional consultant now, and it’s fine. He loves his life. He still goes to the office and sees his friends for coffee, and he gets to be with Jude all the time. If something happened to him… 

“He’s just not himself, it’s–” breaking my heart. 

“Emily said we’re a half hour from touching down in Quantico, I’ll come over?” 

Spencer didn’t consider you going home to your own place, but he should’ve. “Please. Maybe you can get through to him, or figure out what it is that’s making him so sad.” 

“What's he been eating?” 

“Nothing.” Spencer rubs his eyebrow and the headache there roughly. “Uh, he can’t stop himself from eating those carrot puffs. If you get a couple of those on the way in I’ll pay you back.” 

“Honey, I can buy the baby some snacks. What about you, are you eating?” 

“Not really,” he confesses quietly. 

“Anything you fancy?” 

He grins at your phrasing and your light tones. Maybe when Jude is a little older, a lot older, Spencer could go with you again. 

“Can you get me those chilli tortilla chips, please?” 

“And salsa?” 

“Please, if you don’t mind.” 

“I love all the snacks you love,” you laugh, “did you want something sweet, too? I really crave a three musketeers.” 

“That’s the worst candy bar you could’ve picked.” 

“It is not. And for that you aren’t getting one.”

Spencer laughs and sways Jude’s attention from the movie. He frowns at Spencer as if to say, What’s so funny? I’m miserable. And Spencer feels more sorry for him than anyone in the whole wide world. “What’s the matter, baby?” he murmurs. 

“Is that my boy?” 

Spencer tries to pretend you saying such a thing doesn’t inspire extreme attraction. “That’s your boy,” he says, flustered beyond sense, “he’s not feeling the best.” 

Jude shuffles to Spencer’s seat. “I know, poor boy,” you murmur, “aw, I can’t wait to be home, I missed him so much more than I can say, this case felt like an age.” 

Doesn’t Spencer know it? He pinches the phone between his ear and shoulder, holding out his hands for Jude, slipping them into his armpits as Jude struggles up into his lap. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asks again. 

Jude pouts up at Spencer through long eyelashes. “Daddy, who’s on’a phone?” 

“Y/N. Do you want to talk?” 

Jude is rigid, his eyebrows pinched tightly, but he nods and holds his hand out for the phone. Spencer guides it gently to his ear. “Tell me if it’s too loud, okay?” 

“Hello?” Spencer hears you say. “Jude, lovely, are you there? Can you hear me?” 

“I hear you,” Jude says. 

“Hello. I miss you very much, I’m excited to come home. Daddy says you’re not feeling well, I’m very sorry to hear it. If you can think of anything I can get you or I can bring you to make you feel better, can you tell me now?” 

“Um…” Jude gives Spencer a betrayed glare that makes no sense.  “Dad?” 

“She said she misses you,” Spencer says softly. “She’s sorry you’re not happy. And she wants to know if you want a present, or a special dinner.” 

“No.” Jude straightens up, a little hand tight on the phone. “I miss you,” he says loudly. 

“I miss you too. I’ll see you soon, just a couple more hours. Can you be good for dad and have something to eat? Have some apple stars or a bowl of chips or a boppy?” 

Jude nods. 

Spencer huffs a laugh. “Say out loud,” he whispers. 

“Say what?” Jude asks. 

“He’s saying yes,” Spencer says loudly. 

“You’re gonna go have a boppy now?” you check. 

“Yeah,” Jude says. 

Your laugh is hard to hear, but Spencer knows it well, filling in the gaps in his head. “Okay, babe. You go have your boppy and I’ll see you real soon.” 

Jude perks up a little. He thanks you in his mind for being a miracle worker. Jude says, “Okay,” and you say, “Okay, bye-bye,” and Jude says, “Bye-bye, I love you,” which makes you backtrack to say, “I love you too! Okay? Go have your boppy. Bye, sweet boy.” 

Jude gives Spencer the phone nicely. 

Spencer can see you’ve hung up, so he puts the phone on the arm and takes Jude’s cheek into his palm. “Okay?” he asks. 

“I’m gonna have boppy now,” Jude informs him. 

“Yeah, let’s go make it.” 

It’s skim milk now Jude’s old enough, but he likes it all the same, and he drinks it held against Spencer’s chest where Spencer stands in the kitchen. Jude doesn’t fuss as Spencer starts writing a list on the fridge-pad. Milk, laundry detergent, carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, bread, cheese and broccoli pasta mix, cheese, noodles. “What do you want for your dinner tomorrow?” Spencer asks, unsurprised to go unanswered. He adds rice, hand soap, and crayons. 

Jude doesn’t fall asleep after the bottle. He stretches and cards a hand through his dad’s hair, clumsy but quiet without sulking for the first time in days. “Thank you, that feels nice,” Spencer whispers. 

Jude presses his nose up against Spencer’s jaw, bringing his other hand to double the stroking. “I love you very much, you know,” Spencer says. 

“Yeah.” 

“And things are going to be okay, I promise.” 

“Promise,” he repeats. 

“Want another boppy?” 

“Maybe I can have soup?” 

“Is that what your tummy wants?” Spencer opens the cabinet above the counter before Jude can say yes or no. “What soup do you want? Dad has tomato, chicken, mushroom, parsnip, I have all the best ones. Baby, let’s have soup and sandwiches.” 

“Mayo-yaise?” 

“Is that what you want? Like, a grilled cheese, or just toast and mayo?” He grins at his little weirdo. “You don’t even want the cheese, do you?” 

“No, I don‘ even wan’ the cheese,” Jude grins back. 

They make soup together. Spencer sits Jude next to the stove, positioning him between legs so he can’t fall or touch the saucepan. He opens two cans of tomato soup and adds fresh cream from the fridge to reduce the sourness, letting Jude pull basil from the window plant to sprinkle in after he’s brought it to a boil and then cooked it back down to a simmer. He gives it time to cool for at least ten minutes, stirring, and pressing the bread spread with mayonnaise into a sizzling frying pan, Jude mumbling at his side the whole time. Some stuff he understands, and some is jumbled nothing. “I think we can,” he says as Spencer pours the soup into two bowls. He leaves more than enough for you in the pot. 

“What do you think we can do?” Spencer asks. 

Jude only smiles. 

Jude takes a long, long time to eat his soup. Spencer heats it up again once, but Jude doesn’t mind it cold. Spencer finishes his in about five minutes and spends the next thirty waiting for you to come home. Over. Not home. 

“Have some more?” Jude asks. 

“You want more?” Spencer nearly chokes on his breath. 

“You and me.” 

“Sure,” Spencer says, standing, “babe,” —he kisses Jude’s head— “you can have,” —he gives another kiss while he's there— “as much as you want.” 

“Thanks thank you thanks.” 

“More sandwich, too?” 

“Can I have–” Jude struggles. “Dad, can we have bread without mayo-yaise?” 

“Just bread, not toasted? Still soft?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Sure, baby. Whatever you want.” 

Spencer likes that having a baby has made affection easier in every part of his life, he’s kinder to every child he meets because it’s easier now to call them lovely or beautiful or ask where their mom is, probably as a side effect of being loved resolutely. Jude loves Spencer so Spencer loves the world. It’s not exactly new rhetoric. 

Jude has managed a second piece of bread sans crust when you slip the door open across the house. Spencer grabs a paper towel to wipe Jude’s face and hands quickly.

“Hello?” you call gently, melodic in your cadence. 

Jude sits ramrod straight, batting Spencer’s hands away. “Hello?” he calls back. 

“Is that my Jude?” you ask, footsteps drawing nearer, your shoes clipping the wooden slat flooring, and then suddenly there in the kitchen doorway. “Hi, angel. I can’t believe you’re not feeling good, you look just the same as the last time I saw you!” You don’t take your bag off your shoulder, but you let the tote in your hand fall to the floor by the fridge. 

“Hi,” he says, like he’s in awe. 

Your expression softens further. “Hi.” 

Jude slides off of his chair and you go on one knee to reach for him, laughing softly as he digs his face into your neck, throwing his arms around you, too short to close. You hold his back in one arm. The other —Spencer’s heart feels squeezed in your palm— rests in the waves of his hair where they kiss Jude’s nape. 

“I’ve been so worried about you,” you confess, your hand turning to a fist on his back. You drag your knuckles up and down. 

“I miss you.” 

“Sorry, handsome, I didn’t mean to be away that long.” 

“I miss you.” 

“I missed you too.” 

Jude takes a breath somewhere near sobbing and startles both you and Spencer. “I miss you,” he insists. 

“Bud, it’s okay.” 

Jude takes in another horrible straggly breath that nearly forces Spencer onto his knees. 

“Miss you,” Jude says, clinging to you with white-knuckled hands, “miss you, don’t go.” 

“Baby, I’m not going.” 

“Miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” you say, locking eyes with Spencer over his head, your lashes like willow, wide in confusion. 

Jude swallows harshly but nods like you’ve said something he can agree too. 

You shift Jude against your chest and stand. In your winter peacoat, your scarf and your silky black tights, you aren’t shy about squeezing poor rumpled Jude to your chest, ignoring his frizzed hair and his soup-stained t-shirt, all love as you rub his shuddering back. “Jude, you okay?” you ask quietly. 

“You was gone for too long.” 

Spencer can hardly hear him. 

“I was, huh?” 

“Too much.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d miss me this much. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” 

“You’ll be in the bed with me?” 

“Is that what you want me to do?” you ask patiently. 

“Yeah.” 

“If dad says it’s okay, we’ll sleep in the big bed.”

Jude spins in your arms, imploring Spencer desperately, “Please, daddy? Please?”

Of course you can stay in the big bed. It’s not unusual for you to spend the night, and you stopped suffering the couch a long time ago. 

The moment Jude knows you aren’t going home, he starts to act like himself again. He stops the shuddery breath that makes Spencer hot behind the eyes. His mumbling turns to a more curious probing —Why were you gone so long? Did you miss him? Can I come with you nex’ time? 

You don’t baulk. When Jude knocks the door while you’re changing and again while you’re freshening up, you don’t mind. You open the door with water running down your arms and chin and sit him on the sink basin while you brush your teeth. Spencer isn’t offended that you’ve taken over, it’s love. Like, his stomach aches with fondness watching you with Jude. You’ve been gentle from the beginning, loved Jude since he was a furious little baby crying himself sick in Spencer’s lap, and now you’re somehow more than that. You answer Jude’s why’s and when’s with the best you have. You pretend you aren’t tired, waiting for the three of you to sardine together in the dimly lit bed before you let out your first yawn. 

“Are you tired?” Jude asks you knowingly.  

“Not too much. How about you, are you tired?” 

“Not too much,” he echoes. Jude turns to Spencer, looking his age again. “Are you tired?” 

“I’m the most tired I’ve ever been,” he says. 

He doesn’t have his schoolboy heart attacks seeing you in your pajamas anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still find it special and secret when you rub your bare face and settle on your pillow, one eye hidden, the other sluggish. “Maybe we can rest our eyes with dad,” you suggest in a whisper, “he can sleep, and you can give him a cuddle.” 

Jude reaches for your hand. 

You hum softly. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

Slowly, Jude reaches for Spencer with his other hand. 

“Me neither,” he says. 

They ‘rest their eyes’ until Jude falls asleep, snoring in snuffs by your head. Spencer takes his glasses and folds them up for the nightstand, before curling into him. 

Cautious not to disturb Jude, you reach over to hold Spencer’s arm, locking Jude in, and giving Spencer some much needed reassurance. You don’t talk. Your thumb rubs into a ridge, a sore spot, and after a moment it’s sore in a new way. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t realise it was you,” he says. 

“Realise what?” 

“Jude missed you. It was you.” 

Your smile is gaussian. Happy and smudged. You pull Spencer closer to you, which in turn brings Jude right up on your chest. Spencer isn’t too cowardly to curve the arm you're holding right up over you in turn. His fingertips flirt with the dip in your spine, but stay. 

“You’re not saying all this fuss was about me being away.” 

“I’m wondering if it was.” 

You don’t respond. 

“You know how he gets when he can’t see me for the day,” Spencer says, afraid of waking Jude and of saying something too obviously adoring, “I should’ve guessed he missed you.” 

“He doesn’t love me like he loves you, Spencer. Jude loves you like you’re… it’s… I wish you could see him when he’s with you, it’s like you’re the same person…” You smile apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t know how to say it.”

Spencer doesn’t know how to answer. He stares at Jude’s neck. “I know how he loves me, ‘cos it’s how much I love him. I just think after seeing him tonight, it’s obvious what was going on with him.” 

“Don’t speak too soon, okay?” you say. “Let’s wait until tomorrow to decide he’s alright again.” 

Spencer draws a line down Jude’s nose. What a kid. Exhausting, beautiful Jude. 

“I missed you,” he says under his breath, not looking at you. “Don’t think I realised how much, either.” 

“I missed you, too,” you say. When you laugh, it’s like your voice has split and feathered into softness he can’t touch. “I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone like I missed you both. I kept thinking about Jude, when he used to do all that gibberish babble between real words and you’d ask him to repeat himself and he’d be too shy to do it. And his eyes, and his curls, I… I really love him. I’m so lucky that you let me.” 

I love you, Spencer thinks. From the day we met, and again when you called yourself my friend. Again, when you spent the first week of Jude’s homecoming sleeping on the couch and waking with every cry, soothing tears no matter who they came from, patient and tired, endlessly pretty. 

“I didn’t let you,” Spencer says. “You’re ferocious.” 

“Ha!” you whisper. “Ferocious. I like it.” 

“I like you,” he says. It’s all he’s brave enough to confess. 

“I’m a little sweet on you, Spencer Reid,” you say, turning your head up with a yawn. “I’m so tired.”

“Then sleep. We should sleep, I’m tired, too,” he says, sure he’d meant to say I love you, I want you to stay, I want to reach over and hold your neck and stay here for days. 

Spencer allows himself the last one. You whisper goodnight, your face tickled by a small head of hair.

[noonew1lleverask]

Guys, I want to write a Spencer x reader thing SO BAD. But like, how do I write for Spencer?? I’m not a certified genius, and I have no clue how to relate anything anyone says back to some statistic, study, or little fact or whatever.

Anyways, I wanna take requests, but I’m not totally sure how considering I’m so new to posting on tumblr.

PLEASE HELP ME OUT HERE LOVELIES😭

[noonew1lleverask]

Cold Morning

This suddenly came to, so it sucks ofc <3 enjoy it tho you pathetic losers. Love y’all.

It’s a cold, brisk fall morning, and your attitude matches the weather. Your snappy attitude dissuades Spencer into a pitiful silence, and guilt consumes you. Do you make up for your curt tone and lack of empathy, or do you let the silence smother your relationship into a state of restlessness?

Warnings: none? You’re slightly mean to Spencer, so angst possibly? Fluff, for sure. Bad writing. Local pet store; kittens displayed in a window, early 2000’s pet movie ts. IT IS FEM READER BTW, which I realized after I finished it. So sorry.

Word count: 846 <3

“Are you cold?” He asks, so attentive. So, so attentive. Gosh, I hate it.

I nod, offering him a quick, tight smile and curt nod. “Mm-mm, I’m all good, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer’s brows furrow, a slight quiver to them, but he doesn’t press any further. He looks forward— then down, focusing on his feet to make sure he doesn’t trip over an invisible string specifically strung to scuff his shiny new loafers.

Silence falls over us, and noise surrounds us. The area we found ourselves in was bustling with activity; cars rushing by, their tires crunching along the gravel roads and kicking up pebbles against the curb. Voices fill the air and rise into the sky, merely conversation but it feels purposeful. Like everyone’s in on a joke we’ll never understand, their quiet giggles not over Linda’s wacky new nighttime routine, but instead over the awkward boy and his fumbling hands, and the aloof girl and her permanently shrugged shoulders.

I risk a look over at Spencer, even though every voice in my head whispers no, no, no— do not do this, you know you’ll just feel bad and give in.

But I don’t listen. When do I ever listen to anyone, especially my own conscious?

My eyes flicker to their furthest corner, and I see it; the hung head, hair shrouding his features from me besides his lips pressed tightly together in resignment.

I sigh and stop. He stops as well, and looks back at me with a tilt of his head, and turns to face me— hands shoved deep into the pockets of his brown coat he offered earlier to me, his purple scarf ruffling against the front of his wrinkled button-down, aggravating his polka-dotted tie I bought him as a birthday gift.

My tongue feels too large in my mouth as I say, “I’m sorry.”

His brows raise, almost expectantly, and he replies, “For what?”

“Being rude. And cold.”

“So you are cold?”

“N-no, I-“ I cut myself off to catch my breath, or lack thereof. My cheeks burn, no doubt flushing due to more than the October chill whipping through the air, rustling the dry leaves and pulling them free from branches. I look down to the sidewalk, watching as a dead, shriveled leaf floats by, skidded along the pavement. “I was being… cold, as in I was being dismissive and purposefully blunt.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I regret lowering my head. I want to see his expression, I want to see if his eyes soften or harden; lighten or darken; meet mine or flick away to the pet store beside us, a batch of calico kittens watching us with rapt attention, their tails flicking. “It’s okay,” he finally says, and I’m quick to argue, lifting my head.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is,” he insists, and I huff, stepping closer.

“Could you, like, be mad at me for once? Say ‘yeah, you were rude and blunt and impolite, and I think I deserve an apology’.”

He was silent, then, “What will that do?”

Now I’m silent, my jaw hanging as I search for an answer.

“It’ll… it’ll give me some insight into how you feel,” I eventually land on, blinking away. Spencer tilts his head, a little smile playing at his lips.

“I thought you were a profiler?” He jokes. Spencer; joking. It stuns me, and I huff a soft, unexpected laugh.

“I… I am, but you…” My voice trails off, and I carefully continue with an unknowing expression. “You’re particularly difficult for me to understand. Your behavior.”

His smile grows now, no longer timid, into something smug that tugs me between wanting to kiss him or slug him. “Then you must be an awful profiler.”

His hands slide out of his pockets, and they twitch at his sides, tapping against his thigh to keep from reaching out to me. I don’t notice it. I pretend I don’t. I shake my head, rolling my eyes high. “I guess I am,” I relent, shrugging my shoulders.

He gives in, and reaches out to take my hand in his. It’s warm from being stuffed in his pocket, and fuels my body with an energy I hadn’t realized I’d lost. His smile is no longer smug, but soft, gentle, private. It’s specially tailored for me. “Next time you’re purposely cruel, I’ll call you out,” he assures me, his voice low, as private as his smile. He leans in, and for a moment I have the impression that he’ll kiss me. He doesn’t, and I’m left unsatisfied. “C’mon. I think some caffeine will perk you right up.”

I don’t have the guts to tell him I am perked up. Who needs caffeine when you have his dazzling smiles and warm hands? Instead, I let him tug me along like a ragdoll, my legs barely working. I have to force myself to lift one foot in front of the other, my footsteps heavy behind his lightly tapping loafers.

The calico kittens watch us go, their yellow eyes following, their patch-work tails swishing back and forth.

[noonew1lleverask]

HEAR ME OUT!

post prison Spencer and shy!reader bonding over being total nerds. Books, shows... you name it

Bookstore Physics - S.R

summary: spencer suggests you should compare moral biases more often. you think he's making a philosophical point. he thinks he just asked you on a date

pairings: post!prison spencer reid x shy!medialiaison!reader

warnings: fluff, second hand embarrassment im sure, philosophical debates that are probably wrong bc i had to google and i know hardly knowing about mr kant, existential crisis but make it romantic, post prison reid, shy reader, prolonged eye contact

wc: 1.6k

a/n: thanks for requesting my lovely! happy superbowl to those who celebrate! go birds!

You were so close. Just one more inch, and your fingertips would finally graze the spine of the book that had been taunting you from its impossibly high perch. 

Rising to your tiptoes, you reached with all the reckless confidence of someone who had severely underestimated basic physics. The shelf wobbled under your grip, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor, and in that split second, you were faced with a terrifying possibility that you were about to take out the entire bookshelf, along with your dignity.

Something grabbed ahold of you, steadying you before you could faceplant directly into a pile of literary fiction. 

You went completely rigid. Because that wasn't just something. That was a Spencer Reid hand, long fingers, warm palm, and a freakishly strong grip for a man who treated physical exertion like a concept rather than a practice.

"Oh. Hi, Dr. Reid," you blurted, the words tumbling out clumsy and unpolished, as if your tongue had forgotten how to function. You winced instantly. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer didn't answer right away. His grip on your arm slackened, but he didn't step away, didn't even give you an inch of space, like he had no intention of letting you breathe properly.

Oh, that's fine. Air is overrated anyway.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated as if he were genuinely considering the question, but you knew better.

His expression hovered somewhere between pity and uncontained glee, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Your lips parted, but your mind refused to cooperate, stuck on an endless loop of oh my god, did you actually just say that?

To Spencer Reid. The same Spencer who had, on multiple occasions, resorted to scribbling entire paragraphs on the back of receipts and once, when truly desperate, his own wrist. Spencer, who physically flinched at the sound of a cracked spine and once spent seventeen uninterrupted minutes explaining the significance of marginalia. Spencer who read like breathing and talked about prose like it was something alive.

And you, a person allegedly with working cognitive abilities, had just asked him what he was doing in a bookstore.

You opened your mouth, whether to correct yourself or just inhale enough oxygen to function again, you weren't sure, but before you could, Spencer, with precisely zero struggle, reached up and plucked the book from the shelf like it had been placed there specifically for him. 

"You should've asked for help," he murmured, and oh, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

"I-I had it under control."

One brow arched, unimpressed.

"Sure you did," he mused, lips twitching like they couldn’t quite decide whether to commit to a smirk. "Although, considering that 20% of bookstore-related injuries stem from ill-advised attempts at reaching high shelves, you were probably just one statistic away from a minor concussion."

You narrowed your eyes. "That's not—there's no way that's a real statistic."

Spencer barely reacted, flipping open the book with the same casual disinterest of someone checking the sky for clouds, except this wasn't a change in barometric pressure, and you were positive your entire nervous system had just gone into meltdown mode.

Your face burned, heat creeping up your spine and flooding through you veins at an alarming speed, and—oh, no—you had officially run out of places to look that weren't him.

And he (unfortunately) made such an easy focal point.

His shirt was rumpled like he'd spent the whole day forgetting to sit properly and a barely-there ink smudge kissed the edge of his palm, the kind only noticeable if you were close. His hair was at war with itself, some strands curling forward rebelliously against the collar of his cardigan, others falling forward, brushing the edge of his cheek.

He didn't glance up as he murmured, "Philosophy?"

The words barely had time to settle before your brain supplied an immediate translation: he was about to analyze you.

You could practically hear the gears turning, the internal mechanisms of his brain whirring at a speed that actually did defy physics. If you concentrated hard enough, you might've been able to hear the faint whir of neurons firing, piecing together a framework of analysis that was surely seconds away from being spoken into existence. He was surely already forming a hypothesis, already constructing some impossibly insightful revelation about what this particular title said about you, your worldview, your subconscious motivations.

"Well—yeah, that one," you said quickly, the words tripping over each other. “I mean, it’s not real philosophy—well, obviously, it is, but not in the way you would define foundational philosophy, but it still presents some really interesting moral dilemmas, and the writing is surprisingly digestible considering the subject matter is so—”

You clamped your mouth shut so fast it was a wonder your teeth didn’t rattle.

What were you even saying?

"Um—yeah. Philosophy. Or... something like that."

Spencer's lips twitched, and then, in a move so profoundly unsettling, he smiled.

Not just any smile, either. A real one. The kind that didn't just curve his mouth but softened him entirely, the corners tugging upward, a barely there dimple surfacing at his cheek. 

It hit you like a perfectly aimed dart—sharp, direct, and entirely crushing. Something fluttered wildly in your chest, light enough to feel stupid, but heavy enough to be a problem.

Then, still smiling, he tilted his head, leaning in just enough to invade your space, his voice dipping like he was handing you something fragile.

"I didn't take you for the existentialist type."

Your first instinct is to argue, to insist that you're far too well-rounded, too multifaceted, too impossible to be pinned down by a single school of thought. But before you can even begin to string words together, Spencer tilts his head just a little more, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that feels dangerously close to that same expression of analyzing once again.

And suddenly, you need to redirect this conversation, desperately, urgently, before your body betrays you, before you start visibly sweating or keel over like a fainting goat. Neither feels like an optimal outcome.

"I—I mean... I could say the same about you."

His lips quirk. "Interesting. And why's that?"

"I don't know. I always assumed you'd be more of a rationalist? Like, Descartes' methodical doubt feels like something you'd respect, and even Kant's categorical imperative, although that's more deontological ethics than strict rationalism, kind of aligns with the way you view morality and decision-making, and—"

You stop. Blink.

Oh no. You’re heavily invested in this man’s philosophical alignment.

You purse your lips, clearing your throat like that’ll erase the absurd level of thought you’ve just admitted to having.

"I mean, I'm probably way off."

Spencer flips the book closed, considering.

"I supposed you could argue I lean toward rationalism," he allows. "But morality is messy. Kant insists on universal law, and let's be real, most people abandon objectivity the second emotions get involved."

He glances at you then, a shift so small it shouldn't feel significant, but somehow, it does.

“For instance, we all make exceptions. We justify things we probably shouldn’t. Sometimes we prioritize people in ways that defy reason.”

His lips twitch. 

"Hypothetically speaking, of course."

“Well, yeah,” you say, caught up in the current of the conversation before you even realize you’ve been swept away. “People make emotional calculations constantly. Even when they claim objectivity, their decisions are shaped by personal attachments.”

The thought unspools too easily, words tumbling forward, carried by momentum.

“And it’s not just morality—it’s cognition in general. Have you read Jonathan Haidt’s work on moral intuitionism? He argues that people make moral judgments first based on instinct, and then rationalize them after the fact.”

You glance up, expecting a rapid-fire counterargument, some impossibly well-structured debate. But Spencer is just watching you.

"So what about you?" he asks suddenly. "Would you say you make exceptions?"

You pause.

"I mean… yeah? I guess I do. Everyone does, right? If someone I care about does something morally questionable, I’d probably be more inclined to defend them than if it were a stranger. I mean, that’s just human nature."

Then shrug. 

"But that doesn’t mean I’m being hypocritical," you add quickly, as if you just realized how that sounded. "I think there’s a difference between conscious favoritism and subconscious moral bias. It’s not like I have a specific person I’d automatically justify no matter what."

Spencer exhales. "I think you're more consistent than you realize."

You blink at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, lifting the book in his hands, fingers drumming idly against the cover. “You try so hard to rationalize your emotions. But I think, if it came down to it, you’d make an exception for someone. Just one.”

Your stomach knots, and it's humiliating how obvious you must be. You can feel your pulse everywhere, in your throat, your wrists, your temples, like your entire body is broadcasting, Hey, Spencer Reid is making you malfunction because he somehow sees right through you, somebody send help.

“I—well, I mean—”

“Relax, it’s just a theory.”

But something about the way he says it makes you not relax at all. And before you can scramble for some kind of coherent response, he nods toward your book.

“You should get that one,” he says lightly, handing you back the book. “I’d love to hear your take on it next time.”

You freeze. Next time?

Oh. Oh no. The words settle over you like an ill-timed realization, and your brain is running the math like you're about to file a report on your own social incompetence. Next time implies... a prior time, a recurring time, a pattern of times. Next time implies he assumes there will be a next time. 

And you assume that he assumes that you are the kind of person who could logically expect another bookstore trip with Spencer Reid as if that's just a thing that happens in your life. Which is absurd.

Your fingers tighten around the book, like holding onto an overpriced paperback will somehow restore balance to your rapidly deteriorating world. Your pulse is a problem and your ability to think critically is a casualty. 

You scramble for something, anything, to say, but before your brain can reboot, Spencer is already moving. 

Then just as he disappears into the next aisle, he tosses one final parting shot of his shoulder—

"See you soon, then."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[noonew1lleverask]

I’m such a fan of this oml

down the neck - spencer reid x sharpshooter!reader

"Stop breathing down my neck." You huff, glancing through the scope at the unsub.

"Well, I have to lay low too, no?" Spencer frowns.

"It doesn't matter." You squint, humming. "Hit the button and ask Hotch if I can shoot. Be fast."

"Hotch, we have a clear shot."

"I have a clear shot."

"Snippy—"

"Fire."

You click your tongue, pulling the trigger once to hit the unsub's hand and a second to snipe the gun out of range as Morgan flies into the place. You watch through the scope as Spencer looks through the binoculars, and you only start to sit up when you see Morgan pull the unsub out. Then, you actually sit up and start packing up.

"Stop breathing down my neck." You huff.

"You weren't complaining when I—"

You hold a finger to your lips, pointing at your earpiece as Spencer blinks, laughing when you hear a cough in your ears from Hotch.

"Sorry."

"Need I remind you both of—"

"Nope." You puff out your cheeks, slinging the gun around to your back as Spencer raises a brow. "Actually, I think Reid needs a quick reminder. He'd love to go through another HR meeting about how we shouldn't be fraternizing with—"

"We're good, Hotch." Spencer cuts you off, rolling his eyes at you. "We'll see you back at the station."

"You're driving." You mumble, turning off your mic. "Two dollars and I'll drive. Four dollars and I'll make a stop at McDonalds."

"And for five?"

"I'll sneak in a kiss plus everything else."

"I think that can be arranged." He hums, pulling out a five as you press your lips to his, tongue swiping over your bottom lips as he chases when you pull away. You stick your tongue out teasingly as you take the five, craning your neck so that his lips would hit your neck instead. "Hey."

"I'll drop a ten if you—"

"Reid."

You laugh as Spencer jolts straight, pinching the bridge of his nose at the sound of Hotch.

"Turn off your mic next time."

"Roger that, sir."

You're too busy laughing the rest of the way back to be able to drive. (but spencer has no complaints when you hand him back the five with a chaste kiss to his lips).

[noonew1lleverask]

Little Talks

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Summary: Spencer's mind play tricks on him. You are there to soothe his fears away. WC: 1.3k A/N: fluffy angst! This is heavily based on 'Little Talks' and it hints at Spencer's fear of mental conditions. Reader is mentioned to be a doctor and they have a kid. I hope you guys like it! <3 | Masterlist

The gentle breeze outside made an equally gentle sound echo through the room. Light comes creeping in, barely illuminating the place, blocked by the big tree outside. The tree could use a swing for our future kids. I'll work on a project for it in the evening. Yes, in the evening, after I have dinner with my wife and my daughter, Harriet. But this sound, this nagging whistle of the air, couldn't let me fall asleep. The stairs seemed to creak as well, all night long, and it didn't give me peace, not like she did—not like anything could, anyway—so I couldn't get any rest. She wasn't laying by my side, something that, on other days, would coat my heart with a thick layer of relief, of happiness. Lately, even my heart feels empty.

I've been losing track and notion of time. It's like the days mash together and they last longer or shorter than they should. It terrifies me. I don't remember where I placed important things. I don't remember some of my life's milestones. I don't remember taking a shower most days. Nevertheless, some days, I do remember her. I remember her laughter and her being angry with me. Some days, I am bold enough to say that I remember everything about her.

The small glances we would exchange when we first met. The tiny freckle on her bottom lip. The way her hair felt against my fingertips. The feeling of our sweaty bodies against each other. The endless happy days, when we would simply hold each other as she read me her favorite books or vice-versa. The sight of her cradling our daughter in her arms, after giving birth to her. The sleepless nights we had spent keeping two pairs of eyes on her, making sure she had everything she needed. The exhausted breakdowns — taking turns to sleep and to watch Harriet. The feeling of feeling distant from her and the feeling of getting her back to my heart, the way it always had been, the way it always should be. The soft pace of our feet as she walked me around the house in the late hours of the night, showing me pictures and the history behind every single furniture in the house. To make me remember it. To make me remember her.

Lazily and a tad bit unwillingly, I get up. I make the bed, I brush my teeth, I take a shower. I change clothes. Today, I did it. I can't forget it. I take notes on what I did so far and it pains me to take minutes to read these ordinary tasks I've performed. Performed... Yes. Sometimes, I don't know how often—which is a pity because I've always wanted to be precise—the most basic tasks feel like carrying a dead body around, all for show and for making amends with my own slowly beating heart, that I did something to help.

Sometimes, said body keeps me up late at night. It takes different shapes, depending on how the day was earlier. Sometimes it turns into a ghost.

The kettle whistles and it reminds me to turn off the stove. As I pour the water over the coffee, I repeat over and over that I have turned off the fire. Then, I made my way out of the kitchen, steaming mugs in my hands. Over her mug, I place a stroopwafel so the caramel melts. I sit by the window and watch kids walking by, talking and giggling. It makes me think of Harry. I light up a candle — it's not cold, but I know she likes scented candles, so I try to make the house as comfortable as I can. She's gonna be home anytime now, and I made our coffee.

The hours go by. Each minute that passes, I lose my mind a little bit, slowly being overpowered by the feeling that something might have happened. Where is she? Where is Harry? I know my wife has long shifts at the hospital she works at, so an emergency must have taken place. She couldn't have just left. And... And, Harry... Harry is possibly spending time at her grandmother's. She loves visiting and having cooking sessions with grandma, so it's not a surprise. But the lack of news, the longing to hear something from them…

The coffee goes cold. The stroopwafel caramel stiffens as it had never been heated.

Is she gone?

Are they gone?

As I will myself to walk around the house, I struggle to recognize things and the ghost of her voice, even if I need to fight myself to keep memory of the sound of her, tells me stories. She tells me our story. Still, the plots of my favorite books are long forgotten. I walk to the bathroom and it catches my eye that only one side of the sink is taken by toiletries. There's also only one toothbrush. It didn't seem to faze me earlier. I don't even think I caught sight of it then.

What happened?

Days go by, blurred together by my loose, fragile, weak grip on reality. I can barely recognize my own expression in the mirror.

It's barely living, whatever this hellhole is. I go to bed early and rise late and feel as if I have hardly slept.¹

—

Spencer feels his body being shaken, softly delicately, lazily. "Spence, darling?”

“Mhmm?” He grumbles in response.

"Wake up, darling. You have a lecture today.”

Suddenly, it's as if a switch had been flipped in his head. He remembers it. He remembers her. He remembers them. The smell of the room makes him feel like he's slept here over the last hundred years. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he engulfs her in a hug, which makes her laugh, and he mutters, "I know. And you have an early shift. And—and we live together, we're happily married. We are parents. Good ones. I take Harry to the library and you give her basically a guided tour everywhere you go together. The kind of parents that take our kid to Disneyland, no matter how stressful and endless the lines are. And it's rewarding by the end of the day because Harry is knocked out on the bed and we finally have some time to ourselves and—and things are perfect."

Her eyes soften. She knows what he's been dreaming of. She always adds something that grounds him even further to reality. "You learned how to make braids when I was still pregnant so that Harry would have the prettiest hair. And tonight we'll go to a parent-teacher meeting.”

He chuckles and she grins at him, knowing they'll be given a lecture about how Harry is brilliant, but she can't shut up to save her life. Spencer hears the sounds in the bedroom next door and he is flooded with pure love. And relief. And gratefulness, to have built and now to share a home with you. She knows, his wife, that no matter how difficult life gets, she will always be the happiest person in the world to have met him, to have loved him. She tells him so everyday, whether through words or actions. Or simply existing — small snippets of her being there always brings a smile to his face. An overpriced coffee, the black tea she likes to drink before bed, the school notes Harry sticks to the fridge because they are hell-bent on giving her a sense of responsibility and participating in her life.

As Spencer closed his eyes, his arms wrapped around your frame, he pictures your face and its expressions. The way your smile reaches your eyes, making them close in the shape of crescent moons... The way your lip would quiver just slightly before you got emotional. The way your lips get plumper after he kissed you relentlessly.

"The sun has risen again, darling. And we will make the most out of today.

He smiles. She knows what it means.

If we're together, we're well.

divider by @cafekitsune <3

¹: a quote from lemony snicket's beatrice letters <3<3