#injured reid

[ebullientheart]

the nice guy. spencer reid x reader

content — fluff. humour. fem!bau!reader. casual mention of sex. loosely based on season four episode nine. case talk. nondescript injury to reader.

you explain to spence the difference between a nice guy and a ‘nice guy’.

“i don’t understand this.”

morgan spun on his chair, “what’s that, wonder boy?”

the files he was flicking through were baffling him. each of the interview transcripts read the same sort of thing. ‘oh, he was a textbook ‘nice guy’ you know’, or something to that effect.

you were the one conducting that set of witness interviews, and the text before him showed no confusion on your part as you continued your original line of questioning. concluding this meant you understood, spencer ignored derek’s response and instead got up to find you. predictably, in garcia’s office, watching unreleased films, seeing as your paperwork was long completed.

“can i ask you something?” he interjected, causing penelope to throw popcorn at him as a consequence of her surprise.

“can you knock?” she quipped back, but he wasn’t really listening to her. spencer could become pretty single minded when he set his focus on something, especially if it was something he didn’t understand.

you excused yourself and followed him into the hall. the simple window on your right showed nothing but the clouded night sky, meaning only a few people lingered in the office now. spencer turned the light on by reaching past your head to the switch, while you tried to ignore the way your stomach felt upon having him lean over you.

clearing your throat, you addressed him, “what did ya need, spence?”

he showed you what he’d been preoccupied with, “what does this mean? we profiled our unsub as desperate, creepy, and we were right. why did they all describe him as a nice guy?”

you pondered for a moment on how best to explain it to him before you answered.

“they’re kind of being sarcastic. a textbook ‘nice guy’ is a guy who really pities himself, quotes ‘nice guys finish last’, that sort of thing. he thinks he’s so kind, and for that women owe him sex, so when they don’t meet that standard, he just believes women only like jerks. he sees himself as good, but he doesn’t comprehend why women would take offence to his sexual reward system for human decency.”

spencer frowned, “there are enough of them that women have a collective name for this?”

you nodded, “trademarked and everything.”

“really?”

“no, kidding.”

he smiled at you and you returned it, his curiosity fulfilled and his faith in humanity slightly lessened, as it was case by case.

a few days later, you were all jetting off to another police department, examining files and bouncing theories. spencer sat on your left, the only one close enough to hear the low rumble of your stomach. chuckling to himself, he produced a breakfast bar from his satchel and slid it over to you. the overjoyed expression on your face at food, and food in your favourite flavour, prompted him to remember your ‘nice guy’ conversation.

you offered him your thanks and he answered, “you’re welcome. no sex required.”

even though he was half kidding, half sincere, you gave him a whole laugh, easy and unabashed. the smile he donned was satisfied at initiating such glee from you.

as the investigation progressed, the danger became more and more apparent. the team knew someone was going to end up hurt, but it didn’t stop them from flinching as they saw you swinging your legs in the back of an ambulance, taking emergency blood supply. you rolled your eyes at their concern, “really, i’m fine guys. just a scratch.”

they weren’t so quick to dismiss your injury, but they didn’t hover. they had protocol to follow, local cops to brief, and press to alert. the only one who lingered was spencer, awkwardly sitting next to you at your invitation. he thought about wrapping an arm around your bare shoulder as a chill set in the air, but was too afraid to dislodge the tube. you bit the bullet of his worrying and leaned until he was prompted to support you.

“are you alright?” he knew it wasn’t the right thing to ask you, but he wasn’t sure what else to say in that moment, not when you were pressed against him so the warmth from your body bled through his vest to his own skin.

you gave a light shrug, but didn’t comment further, instead saying, “you’re nice, spencer. the real way.”

he hummed, “how’d you know?”

“nice guy trademark would’ve tried to kiss me by now. you’re just holding me.”

he knew what he was about to admit was a risk, but the question burned in his throat, “what if i wanted to? kiss you?”

you looked up at him and his heart skipped a beat. if he tried, he could count every one of your eyelashes, even though a few were clumped together by smudges of mascara that had congealed in your initial reaction to the wound. there was a brightness in your irises that sparked something in his chest. the hand you could move freely came up to his face, which had become flushed. you could feel the heat beneath your palm, but couldn’t make it out visually with his back to the ambulance light.

“i’d think you’re even nicer.”

he didn’t seem all that surprised, “can i?”

“please.”

[alastxrs]

hiiiiii

spencer x male!reader where reader gets injured on a case !!

love your work :)

I Can Take Care of You!

Spencer Reid x Male!Reader

Oh no! Reader got hurt on a case because he didn't wait for backup, how will Dr Spencer Reid react to his 'unofficial' boyfriend going to the hospital?

Hearing those words set alarms in his brain.

Y/N was usually careful so hearing from Hotch that the unsub had injured his 'unofficial' boyfriend had him pause.

"Will he be okay? How bad is the injury?" Penelope asked as she looked at Hotch with a worried expression on his face. "He didn't get stabbed did he?"

The BAU Section Chief shook his head. "No, he got shot in the arm so he'll be taking a leave until he's cleared to work." Hotch turned his head towards Spencer. "After the case, make sure to drop by the hospital to check on L/N."

Spencer Reid nodded as he checked his phone to see if his partner had messaged him at all before he went back to looking at the evidence they had.

He was worried but he needed to stay calm for the time being.

There was a case to finish and they needed to find out who the unsub was.

It was still unsettling knowing that the unsub had gotten Y/N who was usually careful, the unsub was probably masked when Hotch asked him if he saw the face.

He was going to find out who this unsub was.

After awhile, the team managed to finally track down the unsub which had put him to ease a little bit.

"Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?" Derek asked the other man, Spencer was surprised by that as he looked up from his phone. "I know you are worried about L/N so I'll take you over."

The brown-haired man was a little surprised at the question yet he nodded and he smiled at the slightly smaller man. "yeah- yeah, I'll take that ride."

Y/N had been texting him since he got out of surgery and was allowed to have his phone.

Derek smiled as they got back in the car. "Has he been blowing up your phone?"

"Yeah, he's been telling me how much he hates being at the hospital." Spencer answered, he got another text as he spoke. "He is letting me know what room he is in now."

The slightly smaller man chuckled while keeping his attention on the road.

"He's doing alright for someone that got shot, I would try to leave the hospital to get back on the case if I was alright."

A chuckle escaped him as he looked out the window. "Funny enough, he did start a fight with the nurses." He explained. "Said he wanted to fight the person that shot him because it's the unsubs fault that he's stuck in the hospital bed." He turned his head back to Derek. "They have to have someone watching him."

Morgan nodded. "Well, those nurses are going to get a break when you show up."

The hospital wasn't that far away and Spencer left the car once they arrived in front of the building. "I'll pick up the rest of the team to bring here when I get to the station."

Spencer made his way into the building as he looked at the nurse that was behind the counter. "Hey! Could you uh tell me where room-" he was cut off immediately.

"Finally- he's been a pain in the ass to deal with." The nurse slowly moved him with her as she took him to the room. "Please! He's your issue, call us if he does something stupid."

'What did he..' The brown-haired took a turn and there Y/N was with the shoulder sling keeping his arm across his chest.

"Spence!" Y/N smiled brightly as he pulled the taller/shorter man in for a kiss. "Did you catch the unsub?"

He had been so caught off guard by the sudden kiss. "yeah-"

The (H/C) haired man sighed in relief as he laid his head on his shoulder. "Thank goodness, I am keeping you for the rest of the day!" he hummed.

The two men weren't paying attention to the nurses that were looking through the door to see how calm their patient had gotten. "It was that easy...?" One nurse muttered to the others, another nurse wrote down something. "we just need to call this guy everytime his boyfriend is in the hospital..."

"The others...should be on their way over." The brown-haired man spoke as the two of them sat down on the bed. "Morgan said he was going to pick them up."

Y/N nodded as he used his unharmed arm to gently caress his cheek.

"Are you okay?"

The brown-haired man couldn't help himself when he chuckled. "Me? I should be asking you if you are okay!" he had a soft smile on his lips as he tilted his head. "You WERE the one that got shot."

The taller/shorter man shrugged. "I don't know, I worried I guess cause I know how you get when you think." Y/N explained. "I know you think that I am careful and that I might've found something."

"You just know what I think."

"Well, you are my boyfriend? I know how you think after years of working with you."

A blush had formed on Spencer's cheeks when he heard those words. He hadn't thought that they were official, did everyone else think so when they were together?

"I'm okay, N/N." Spencer answered as he kissed him on the cheek. "Now, what's this I'm hearing about you being an issue for the nurses?"

Y/N went onto a whole rant that he didn't cause trouble for the nurses and doctors but there wasn't a single thought that believed the other man, he was just happy to be listening to him talk about something.

He had a boyfriend...

Who wasn't actually careful.

This made him glad.

He didn't pay attention to the other members of the BAU as he listened to everyone talk, Penelope had walked in with a bouquet of flowers.

This was nice.

[arabellavernierwrites]

hiiii i love your work so far and you have such an easy to read and chill writing style i love itttt

idk how to do requests lol but ok:

would you do a super fluffy spencer reid x reader during season 5 when he’d been shot in the knee (or maybe he’s injured in another way i don’t mind) but he’s having trouble showering bc it hurts and it’s difficult and the reader basically washes his hair for him? and idk if you want to extend it maybe they could cuddle up and watch a movie or something? idk i thought it was cute hehe

nothing nsfw just a lil angst and mostly fluff

thank you so much !! :)

wash day. s.r.

summary : after being shot in the knee , spencer had been struggling to take a shower. in a moment of desperation , he lets you help him.

word count : 1669

warnings : mentions of injury , mentions of pain , mentions of fighting unconsciousness , descriptions of self-loathing , suggestions to nudity (bath)

a/n : hi guys ! thank you so much for sending in another request , it really brightens my day knowing you guys want to read my writing , and like it enough to want to send requests ! so thank you for being so good to me and offering so much kindness. i want to thank @c-m-stuff for being supportive of literally everything i post , so go celebrate maya’s 100 followers for mood boards , promoting your own fics , and headcannons (ends july 10) ! and thank you so much to @kaitlynpcallmebeepme for sending me such sweet and encouraging words the other day , she has so much amazing works that you have to check out. i cannot thank you all enough for being so wonderful to me. my requests are still open , so please send more ! and thank you to all that send requests in ! hope you have an amazing incredible wonderful day. love you guys !

you returned from work to a fairly quiet household. not much of your usual setting was disrupted, aside from a few of spencer’s things lying around.

a few weeks ago, he had been shot in the knee, causing him to hang around at home a lot more than he typically would. partially because hotch told him off every time he spent even 5 minutes exerting more energy than he needed, and partially because he loved spending every second with you. even though it was something you were sure he wouldn’t ever admit, his heart swelled every time you looked after him.

aside from a few misplaced items, spencer was nowhere to be found. a cause for concern, you decided to check the bedroom to see if he had hit the hay early that day, only to be met with an empty bed.

you jumped as a loud clatter of metal rang out in the bathroom behind you, “spencer? are you alright, sweetheart?”

the shower timidly turned on, the water pattering off the tile below, muffling the sound of his voice, “i’m alright”.

spencer didn’t often lie, he didn’t have to. he knew that whatever fib he told wouldn’t stand a chance against his truthful tone. which is why you knew he wasn’t alright.

“can i come in?” you asked sweetly, placing your hand on the door knob.

“of course,” he muttered quietly, defeat evident in his voice.

you opened the bathroom door to spencer seated on the edge of the tub, his crutches fallen to the ground, his shirt drenched, and his hair partially wet. he looked up at you through his lashes, a hint of sadness and a plea for help swirled within his gaze.

“what happened?” you asked, sincerely, taking a seat next to him.

his lower lip threatened to quiver as his head turned to the floor, embarrassment not allowing him to meet your eyes, “i feel gross”.

you rubbed a hand up and down his back, the wet fabric clinging to his skin, “what do you mean?”

“my hair feels gross, my body feels gross,” he shook his head softly, “i just wanted to shower. but i can’t”.

“it’s difficult with the leg, isn’t it?” you questioned, he nodded his head.

“i tried earlier when you were at work, but this happened,” he pushed his hair off of his forehead, showing a small, red welt near his temple, “the movement is painful too”.

“my sweet thing,” you tutted, “did you clean it?”

he shook his head, the shame and frustration of not being able to care for himself returning. insecurity building with each day of failed attempts at getting clean. feeling uncomfortable, gross, and unattractive made his mind hazy with self-repulsion.

“it just hurts,” he whispered, “it’s too painful to do by myself”.

he thought back to the first time he tried to shower on his own. he bumped his knee while trying to take his clothes off. the pain was so excruciating he spent several minutes fighting unconsciousness, gripping the bathroom countertop to keep himself from collapsing on the floor, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he breathed deeply. he spent the rest of the day in bed, his head buried into the pillow, desperate to dull the ache that seemed to consume his entire body.

“well, i’ll help,” you stood, turning to face spencer, “let’s get you a nice bath”.

you reached out, assisting him in getting up from the bathtub to sit on the lid of the toilet seat.

“is it alright if i undress you?” you asked, holding onto the bottom of his sopping shirt. he nodded, allowing you to take full control.

you gently peeled his shirt over his head, tossing it into the laundry basket next to you. his shoulders were hunched over, clearly experiencing some discomfort with being shirtless when he felt so self-conscious about his current, un-showered state.

you knelt down in front of him, helping unclip and remove the mechanical brace that had been keeping his leg at a slight angle. it was placed on the bathroom counter as you took your time removing all of his remaining clothing, needing to maneuver a few times to rid him of his pants and undergarments.

despite being as careful as possible, he was full of whines, groans, and pained whimpers.

“i need a second,” he quietly panted, discomfort firing off throughout his body.

when he was ready, you braced each other’s arms, taking your time as he struggled with his balance getting into the bath. wobbling, nervous, and gripping you tightly, spencer had finally been able to get in there for the first time in days.

“look at you,” you cheered, celebrating his victory as he failed to hide a smile, “i’m gonna have your back face the faucet”.

he grimaced as you helped lower him to sit in the tub, his pain evident in the white-knuckled grip he had on your hands.

“i’ll be back in just a second, okay?” you hurried into the kitchen, grabbing a cup from the cabinet, and a small towel from the hall closet.

you placed the cloth over his bandaged knee, being as cautious as you could to not touch it, “i don’t want this to get wet”.

spencer looked up at you with appreciation for your kind heart. his sweet brown eyes with his long lashes, you couldn’t help yourself from leaning in for a kiss.

“i love your hair,” you smiled, filling the cup with water from the running faucet behind spencer, “you have the softest boy hair ever”.

spencer chuckled, “what does that mean?”

you leaned him back slightly, pouring the contents of cup on his head, angling it to not get any water in his eyes, “i feel like guys always have really coarse hair. sure, it might be healthy, but it isn’t soft like girl hair”.

“you have much experience with guy hair?” he asked, humor evident in his tone.

“not necessarily,” you squeezed yourself a handful of shampoo, “girl hair on the other hand”.

spencer laughed, for the first time in days it wasn’t feigned or forced, “i know. you can’t keep your hands off penelope, emily, or jj when they visit”.

“part of girlhood, i guess,” you shrugged, “we spend our recesses in elementary school braiding each other’s hair, help each other curl our hair for middle school dances, and eventually completely fry it together in high school”.

“the only two people that touched my hair before you were my mom and that one guy at supercuts,” spencer closed his eyes as you emulsified the shampoo at his roots, massaging in the frothy suds.

“i kinda miss the elevated bowl cut,” you teased.

spencer groaned, trying hard not to roll his eyes, “i don’t”.

you rinsed his head clean of the soap.

“when you used to gel it back for work? super hot,” you reached for your pricey conditioner, an expense you liked treating yourself to every once in a while.

“when we watched all of those black and white films together,” he reminisced, “that was my homage to gregory peck. or at least my attempt at it”.

“it was cute,” you nodded, “i really liked the glasses with it too”.

you rubbed the conditioner together in your hands, fingering through his long locks to free them from any knots that may have tangled themselves together from the shampoo.

his body relaxed itself, no longer so tense from the awkwardness of trying to get into the bathtub.

you appreciated this moment of silence. just you and the man you love more than anything. something as simple as washing his hair being the highlight of your day, solely because it’s time spent with him. a simple conversation between the two of you enough to make your heart swell the way it did when you first met.

“we’re almost done,” you rinsed the remaining conditioner from his ends.

as the last cup of water rid his hair of any product, you prepared yourself to help him up.

“we did it!” you cheered squeezing out any excess water from his dripping hair.

the thought of getting him back on the floor safely was daunting. it was difficult before, but now everything was sopping too.

you were slow and careful, assisting him in getting back on his feet. you gripped him harder than necessary, worried he was gonna come crashing to the ground and split his knee back open. your brows furrowed in concentration, both of his feet coming to rest on the bath mat.

you grabbed a towel from the rack as he caught his breath, unable to hide the pain from his face.

gently, you dried him off, wrapping the cloth around his waist as you ordered him to sit back down on the lid of the toilet seat. he panted in victory, his first shower in nearly a week had been completed successfully, all thanks to you.

“you did a great job,” you grabbed the other towel, draping it over his head.

placing both hands down, you rubbed in circles. drying his hair fairly quickly, you tossed the towel off to this side, landing in a crumpled bunch at the bottom of the laundry basket.

spencer smiled up at you through the hair that hung in front of his face, “thank you”.

“of course,” you swept it out of his eyes, “let’s get you into some comfy clothes”.

as spencer sat on the edge of the bed in his plaid pants, you were planted cross-legged behind him, hair brush in hand. you took your time, tender strokes through his nearly shoulder-length hair. brushing and brushing again, he progressively slumped over, tiredness trying to take over.

“how about we call it a night?” you asked, turning him to lay down next to you.

“okay,” he answered quietly, pulling you into his arms as you turned off the bedside lamp, “thank you for your help today”.

you grinned, giving him a quick kiss, “anything for you”.

[artsybi]

y'know despite the murder, i am jealous of the criminal minds universe, in which young cane users are not questioned, stared at, invalidated, or even overly acknowledged

like i understand that it was just an extension of the fact that the actor was ACTUALLY injured and ACTUALLY using a cane and probably would not have enjoyed added acted scrutiny because he probably dealt enough with it in his personal life (based on personal experience he probably dealt with a fair bit bc people irl are garbage about young cane users existing) but still, the fact that not a SINGLE PERSON ever questions spencer, ever questions the legitimacy of his need for an aid, ever questions why he's using it, god i'm so jealous

no one ever raises an eyebrow when he enters a room, no local detective ever makes a mean joke, no medical examiner ever stares at him for just a second too long, even when he does interviews, no family member or event planner EVER gives him a second look, they all just seamless accept that this member of the fbi is using a cane and never treat him any differently for it

no one mocks him! no one makes any snide remarks, no one side-eyes him when he enters a room, no one ever presses into his space and offers (read: demands) they do something for him since he's "not capable", no one questions his credentials, or his ability to do his job. everyone just accepts it as normal and continues as such. the literal ONLY DIFFERENCE in ANYONE'S treatment of him is that he doesn't go with the team when they head to the final location to grab the unsub with their guns out, which is a perfectly reasonable accommodation! and no one mocks him for that either! no one ever implies he's "missing out" and everyone keeps him in the loop during the investigation when they're doing things of that nature, so he can help put the last pieces together

just, as a young cane user myself, not only is spencer the literal first time i've ever seen someone on tv using a cane correctly (not an exaggeration, actors seem incapable of using canes correctly), and thus the first person i've ever TRULY seen that part of me in, but i just LOVE the way the show and narrative treat him in general, mostly because the way they treat him straight up DOESN'T CHANGE!! dude i fucking WISH that was my reality!!! i WISH people straight up DIDN'T CHANGE the way they treated me after i started using a cane, i fucking WISH everyone just accepted at face value the fact that i use one and then moved on and didn't mention it again

[reiderwriter]

7k word long Kink Bingo fic coming in 24 hours because I can not write a drabble to save my life

[skysearring]

On my 3rd Saving Hope rewatch and well, its always the Reids/Reeds for some reason.

[snailsandpuppy-dogtails]

Oops

A year ago, Oops was posted to Ao3. It's my only 4+1 things. 5,932 words of Garvez, humor, feelings denial, the whole cast, all while accidentally injuring Kevin Lynch, it's easy to see why this was a much enjoyed fic.

ONE

"I’m sorry, he did what? He said what? After she was shot by a date he broke into her apartment, shut off the breaker, lurked in the dark, and then told her she was overreacting?! And you all didn’t murder him? Morgan didn’t break his face pushing him down the stairs?”

Luke's feeling on Battle's fate was undeniable when told, but hearing what she was made to put up with after, from someone who purported to love her, awashed him with new bitterness.

“She didn’t tell us until a lot later. I think she knew some of us would have come close to losing our jobs.”

Throw.

Catch.

Throw.

Catch.

“...the way she’s THEE soundbite for work-place sexual harassment.”

Luke laughed, ducking his head. Catch. Throw.

“It cooled off after you left, and I was definitely never a recipient.”

Catch. Morgan’s eyebrows raised. “Huh.” Throw.

They were in the empty gym tossing a baseball back and forth. Morgan was in town doing some consulting work for the FBI. They had started the game up in the BAU office, but were quickly pushed down to “a more appropriate place” as Prentiss put it. One close call too many and “other people trying to work”. The two men had some familiarity before Morgan left and Luke joined, but grew closer through the group chat Garcia resistantly added Luke to and refused to take Morgan from.

“She slipped up once though, and started to” a lopsided smile appearing at the memory.

Catch.

“then caught herself and told me: That sounded like flirting. I don’t do that with you. It’s in my mission statement.”

Throw.

Catch. Morgan shook his head. “Baby Giiiiirl”

Throw.

They were moving back and forth, throws alternating from hard to soft. Conversation had gone from family life, to the job, to reminiscing. It was an easy flow of comparison, no pissing contest, neither needing to prove anything to the other. They respected each other, liked one another, understood the stresses of the job they each faced, loved the same people...

“I told her to try being a little more friendly with you.”

Catch.

“Yeah, maybe remind her. Daily.” More laughing.

Throw.

Morgan caught the ball with one hand and twisted his wrist looking at his watch. “It’s Friday night and almost quitting’ time. You think those pencil pushers are gone yet?”

Throw.

“Only one way to find out.” Luke grinned, "Head up?”

They hadn’t bothered to stop the game, toss, catch, toss, catch. Through the hall and up the elevator, seeing the room all clear they continued in throwing.

“Eaaay, Pretty Boy, wanna join in? Jayge?” Rossi and Prentiss watched from the catwalk as the team spread out across the room, ball flying and fumbling.

“So we all goin’ out tonight? Or is it just me and my girl?”

Penelope appeared, all packed up, from around the corner joining Rossi and Emily in watching. “Aww, Sugar, it’s your last night. I thought we were gonna stay in bed and watch a movie.” she simpered.

Throw.

Catch. The game continued around the room.

“Woman, you can’t keep me there all the time. And anyway, I hear you still need bonding practice with my boy here.”

Throw.

Penelope looked from Derek to Luke, Luke making a mocking “told you so” face in return. Catch.

Her eyes narrowed, “We just went out. Fine. Are you all done? Let’s go!” and swept her hand for emphasis, everyone else making for the door.

Spencer had the ball, so took the opportunity for one last toss. He threw it hard, but off center. Luke lunged sideways to catch it, not noticing the scrunched and wide-eyed faces ranging from shock to amusement, only hearing the words “oh shit” and “oh no” too late, his body colliding forcefully into another as he leapt diagonally tackling something large, and soft, and meaty. Another person. They tumbled to the ground Luke on top of Kevin, hand with ball having clocked him directly on the side of his head. Luke looked down hand still gripping ball. “Oooh.” Sorry?”

“That’s why I said GYM!” Emily threw her hands up, vindicated.

What was Kevin doing here so late?

Kevin huffed a laugh, “Can you get off me, Alvez?”

“Right, yeah.” Luke pushed up, stifled laughter and coughs falling around them.

Instinctually, he grabbed the other man and pulled him to his feet, steadying him. He may not like him, but it was a genuine accident and he felt bad.

Alvez, that pretty boy neanderthal from Fugitives Task Force. Kevin didn't like him on principal, hated him now that he'd punched him and then righted him like some child. Completely embarrassing.

Fucking asshole

Everyone liked him, his smug face, his need to be better than everyone else, prove how much stronger and smarter he was. His constant doubting of the information Kevin had given him. It wasn’t his fault a fugitive moved, that’s what they do, that’s why they’re fugitives! He never had a steady girlfriend, he was definitely one of those guys who used a new girl every weekend. And now he was here working with Penelope. His Penelope. He could only imagine what that was like. He knew how she was with Morgan, he could see how easy it would be for her to slip right into that pattern with this one.

Morgan moved closer, arms folded tight across his chest. “Kevin.”

Morgan never did like Kevin for Penelope, found it unbelievable how quickly he moved in on her, felt he was taking advantage of someone who had just experienced serious trauma. Emotions run high during times like that and people form weird bonds. It was the only explanation he could come up with for why Penelope Garcia, brilliant goddess, would forgive him and put up with his bullshit time and time again. But now that they’d been through for a while, years, he wasn’t about to let him slip back in.

“Hey, Morgan.” the man shied away, but straightened up.

“Kevin,” Penelope rushed, “ we were all just leaving. Whatever it is it’ll have to wait until Monday.”

Rossi stepped off the catwalk, tagging team members as he walked, “You heard the Kitten, team. My house for Morgan’s last night.”

Kevin was left standing alone.

TWO

Luke had run into Kevin in the previous divisions he worked in before settling in with BAU. And though he generally liked everyone, he hated Kevin Lynch. Growing up he was aware that his athletic build could be imposing and that his looks could be alienating, so he really did try to be as friendly and open with everyone as possible, let them know he wasn’t an asshole. But not with Kevin Lynch. The stories just added to his dislike, one more piece of evidence tipping the scale out of Kevin’s favor. One more thing that highlighted how self-centered, manipulative, and incompassionate he really was. But he was a professional, so until Kevin showed up on a list somewhere, he wasn’t going to do anything. Kevin wasn’t really his problem, he just tried to stay clear of him as much as possible. Weirdly, that wasn't working out lately.

He rolled over looking at the clock. Fuck. 10 am. He was in so much shit. He had to go. He was late. Why hadn’t his alarm gone off?! Where was Roxie?! Oh, yeah, still at the sitters. Thank god. Luke tore off the blanket, jumped in the ice cold shower, quickly washing down like he’d learned in the military and hopped out. He grabbed a clean gray shirt and jeans, ripped a navy button-up off the hanger, pulled on his boots, and brushed his teeth at the kitchen sink while a cup of instant coffee heated in the microwave. In 5 minutes he was out the door and attempting to avoid mid-morning traffic and collisions.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Thankfully, Emily was pretty understanding, but he really needed to finish up those reports and get them turned in. Like he had planned on doing this morning.

His phone rang while he was driving. He answered, hands-free. “Alvez? Where are you?” came the clipped voice on the other end.

“Sorry, Prentiss, I’m on the highway now… unexpected late start. I’ll be there in 20.”

“As soon as you can. We’re briefing. New case.”

She sounded pissed.

A sick anxiety flooded him. Of course this would happen the one time he woke up late. The one time his alarm didn’t go off or he hadn’t heard it…No time to inspect what really happened there. And now he had to try and fight his way though this traffic and get to work and he couldn’t finish up his paperwork and he would end up getting even more because of the new case. God damn it. He couldn’t catch a break. He swooped into the FBI parking structure, tires squealing as he took turns around poles and pulled into a spot at the far end of the lot. He grabbed his bag and rushed towards the elevator.

Pushing the button, he bounced on his toes.

Come on, come on, come on. Hurry up.

That’s when he noticed the note, the lack of light at the top. Elevator was down for maintenance. He had to take the stairs and use the lobby entrance. As he darted up the stairs taking steps three at a time he couldn’t help but laugh thinking about Garcia in her platform heels climbing these same stairs this morning, coffee and computer in hand. Struggling. Fussing. If he had been on time he might have been able to offer her help in carrying something. Walked up with her. But here he was darting up the dirty cement blocks alone and late. And holding everyone else up.

Light shone through the walls, ground level. He’d made it. Just a few more steps. Luke burst through the stairwell doors, running across the front of the building, reminding himself to walk when he got to the main lobby entrance. Didn’t want to set off alarm bells. Though he was sure they had lots of irritated agents passing through, frustrated at having been inconvenienced.

Luke opened the large glass door, cool air-conditioning hitting him instantly. “Luke Alvez?”

Shit.

His access badge. “Morning, Gina…I..”

She threw her hands up knowing exactly what he was going to say. “Downed elevator’s bringing in all the old faces this morning. Go through the scanners and come see me.” The elevator was adding more time already, he really didn’t have time for pleasantries, but it would take longer to run back down the stairs and then back up again. And it might offend Gina. He quickly offloaded his weapons into the tray and walked through the scanners. All clear. One thing going his way this morning. He collected his stuff and was putting it all back in place while walking over to the older lady.

“I could see you were in a bit of a rush, BAU now huh?” she handed him something to sign. “I cleared you. Sign it and go. But make sure to bring me a coffee some time, yeah?”

Luke beamed at the woman. “Thank you. “

“Oh, hey, Alvez, elevator inside’s down for the next hour too. Gotta take the stairs.” she gave him a tight lipped frown pointing off to the side.

“Fffffuh-“ he sighed, and took long strides towards the stairs, rubber soles of boots gripping and propelling him along the slick tile floor. Shortly he found himself racing up another set of steps, and another, and another until he’d hit the BAU’s level. At this point he gave up all pretense and ran. God, they were going to give him so much crap. He wouldn’t blame them if they had briefed without him and just made him catch up on the jet. There was the door! Luke grabbed it, but something bright and blonde racing along the catwalk on the other side caught his eye and his breath as he was opening it.

He thrust the door inward watching her disappear around the corner, the door meeting a heavy resistance, a loud thunk, and an even louder “OW! What the FUCK!? Alvez?! ”

And there he was.

Kevin Lynch. Gaslighting asshole.

Laying on the floor of the BAU office.

And there she was, head popping back around the corner to investigate.

Luke leaned over, extending a hand as everyone in the office watched in dead silence. “Oh, Lynch. Sorry about that, I didn’t see you...” He was kind of embarrassed, if he hadn’t been watching Penelope he’d have definitely seen Lynch. And though he had new reasons to leave this monster on the floor and walk over him, he was in a governemnt building with lots of on-lookers. Best to make nice and move on.

Kevin ignored the proffered hand getting up on his own, hands going from forehead to nose rubbing, feeling, checking for the blood that was definitely oozing. “The doors are glass, Alvez." he spat “Clear. How could you not?”

Luke bounced from the injured man to Penelope, still peaking out from the corner covering her mouth, eyes squinted … was she laughing? He made sure that her eyes were on his when he made his apology, “Sorry. Distracted.” and brushed past Kevin.

What was he doing up here any way?

Fuck Lynch.

He had a rainbow to catch.

THREE

Luke wasn’t normally accident prone, so she found it pretty suspicious that he kept accidentally injuring Kevin. After JJ recounted the lows in her relationship to him over drinks one night. She thought he sounded a little jealous, looked a little hostile… like she’d been told Derek had when Kevin announced to the whole team they were dating while stepping up to Rossi…after she told him not to. Whatever. But, she shook it off, no reason Luke should be jealous, they were teammates, nothing more.

"You know, if you had a system of organization, you would be less likely to lose things.”

"Spencer, I love you like a brother, but I will hurt you.”

Luke was franticly shuffling manilla files, gray folders, stacking, restacking, unstacking. Desk. Chair. Floor. Open desk drawer, slam it closed.

“What he means is, if you didn’t keep your desk looking like the under side of your teenage bed, you’d know where you put it.”

Luke ran his fingers through his hair pulling, “TARA- Not. Helping.” he gritted out and broke into a strained laugh thinking about the very neat room he kept as a kid, continuing to grab at files, read and toss, read and toss.

“Even now, you’re mixing up stacks! Do you know what you’ve looked at and what you haven’t at this point?” Spencer continued safely from the other side of the cubicle.

Luke broke down collapsing into the chair, head falling into his hands, reports slipping onto the floor, more stressed laughter floating around them. “No. Guys, help me. Or don’t, but I need to find this file, I have to be in court tomorrow.” He wasn’t normally messy, his house was spotless, everything in it’s place. Efficiency. But work had gotten away from him, case after case, file after file, paperwork mounting and more frequent trips away for longer…Things had gotten a bit out of hand at his station. Normally he liked to have everything cleaned up, finished and put away before he left, but they’d been busy so much lately…and now it was missing. And it should have been near the top, if not on the top. He was JUST looking at it yesterday. In this very building.

Tara frowned sipping her coffee, “Alright, just calm down. Relax, close your eyes. Let’s walk through it. Go back to what you last read.”

"You wanna do a cognitive?" he asked, looking at her incredulously.

“Just, go with it. Think about what it said. What you were thinking about. Notice the feel of it in your hands, the object under you. Where are you?”

Luke leaned back in the chair, trying to focus as much as possible, eyes closed, going back. “I’m in the BAU. I know that. Tara, I had it with me yesterday, here. But now it’s not.” He threw his head back frustrated.

“Ok.” Spencer removed his bag, storing it under his desk, “How about we each take a stack. We’ll go through things together. But after, you really need to figure out a system. In box and out box or something.” he suggested.

Tara took a stack of gray files, Spencer took a stack of manilla, and after he’d read and confirmed each was not the right one, he put all of his in chronological order, earliest to latest. And then the ones Tara had gone through, and then the ones Luke was going through. By the end all of Luke’s reports were tidily together, organized and in a manageable order. But that file was still missing. He slumped into the black leather, defeated. “I don’t understand. It should be here. Fuck.”

Tara leaned against the desk, thinking about possible scenarios. They worked in a secure building, it’s not like someone would come take it off his desk. “-Hey…Alvez, did you, maybe, take it home last night?”

“I-.” He didn’t think so, but anything was possible. “I’ll be back, if anyone asks.” and out he raced down the elevator, into the parking lot, and out to his truck.

“So… is he going home?" asked Spencer. Tara clapped him on the back, “Don’t worry about it.”

He rummaged through the center console, felt around and peeked under all his seats, shoved his hands between the cushions, and checked in the seat pockets. Nothing. Of course. Locking the vehicle, he sighed heading back in.

Where could he have left it?

Backpack. If he did bring it home, maybe it was in his bag.

Nervous energy mounted as the elevator slowly climbed higher. He dodged under his desk frantically grabbing at his backpack. His last hope, it had to be there whether he remembered packing it or not.

Please be there Please be there Please be there

Feeling the weight, he knew the answer before ever unzipping it. He squeezed his eyes shut tight willing it by some magic to Mary Poppins itself into life. He thrust his hand in, dug around the familiar textures and shapes. Opened them, pulled it wide and tossed it to the floor.

“FUUU-“ A loud, warbling yell boomed behind him, he turned to see hands grasping wildly at his desk as a large body fell forward, feet tangled in straps. Lynch. Shit. First he punches him, then he plows him down with a glass door, now he trips him with a backpack.

Why was he up here anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be on level 2?

“Newbie! What are you doing? I mean besides setting up tripping hazards for other employees?” A high, anxious, familiar nagging.

Luke turned his head from the man on the floor to the woman standing feet away, shock and guilt evident on his face. And he couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. It was a little funny, it was kind of like karma. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking I didn’t mean to….I was just… I’m trying to find a file!” He wiped the smile off his face turning back to the man, “Lynch, I’m sorry. Here, let me.” He may hate him, but he could be nice for Garcia’s sake. Just because he didn’t like the guy didn’t mean he couldn’t be civil. He reached for Kevin, now on all fours scowling.

“Don’t touch me. Just be more careful.” He reached stinging hands up to the desk pulling himself upright facing Luke.

Penelope cut in, newly annoyed, “You mean the one you LEFT in my cave yesterday?! Here.” She gave him a pointed look and slammed the report to his chest, walking briskly past the two men into the kitchenette.

They both watched her go, Luke wondering what he’d done to make her so mad all of a sudden, then faced one another again. Luke’s unoccupied hand came out in apology, “Really, Lynch, it was an accident”, a peace-offering shake extended between them. Kevin's jaw flexed looking Luke up and down. “Don’t worry about it.” he grumbled, and walked off.

Penelope’s office. That’s right. He was holding it when he came to say good night.

FOUR

He wasn’t jealous. Really. There was no reason to be jealous. If anything, Kevin should be jealous. After all, he got to work with her every day, have her talk to him, on the rare occasion when she slipped up, flirt with him. He got to hug her, and touch her, and hear her laughter, hangout with her and see her at parties, cook dinner at Rossi's. Kevin would never have that again, had he ever. No, he wasn’t jealous Kevin Lynch, that awful no-bounderies slimy tech analyst he had history with had been with Penelope. Their Penelope. They were accidents…mostly. Really.

It had been a long, bad case. They all needed to decompress before heading to their homes, to their families, to the people around them who simply would never understand. They would not wish for them to understand. Even Matt, who found the greatest comfort in being with his kids and Kristy, couldn’t muster the courage to face them just yet. And Penelope needed her people. Needed to be around them, hear them, see them, feel them, know they were real and ok and uninjured. That they were all safe and home. And so tonight, though they were all exhausted, they were going out after work, going to the bar, going to drink shitty well drinks (not Tara or Rossi) and listen to music on a buzzing sound system. Play pool, play darts, inhale the stale smoke that permeated the plaster walls and booth leather decades ago, and know they had all survived and would continue to.

After a few drinks everyone split off into little groups around the space. Spencer was talking with Emily at the table, JJ and Matt were playing pool, Tara inserted herself into a conversation about the legitimacy of Shelby mod kits (not legitimate, obviously), and Rossi was at the bar keeping tabs on everyone around him.

“You wanna play?” Luke nodded to the vacant dartboard.

“Oh, no, i’m terrible.” Penelope laughed, “JJ, though she’s great, used to hustle guys out of money all the time.”

“JJ’s busy at the pool table. I thought those fingers were magic. Come on Garcia, show me what ya got. Maybe I can give you some pointers…” he grinned.

Luke stood up, leading a smiling, protesting Penelope by the hands to the game space. They were laughing and joking, Penelope fully enjoying herself. Luke showed her where to stand, and stood behind her, hand on hand guiding her movements but quickly found she must have been snowing him. Penelope Garcia was a ringer at darts. She shrugged all coy, “Maybe JJ rubbed off on me…”

Something about tonight, right now, felt different between them. She was opening up, being silly and playful, just the two of them. Maybe it was how awful this case had been that had pushed her towards him, maybe she was just finally accepting him. It was Luke’s turn and Penelope's arm slid around his back trying to tickle him, fingers coming to ribs as he raised his hand to throw.

“Penelope, STOP, you're cheating!” He laughed, resisting the convulsions his body wanted to make at her touch. Her face was pure joy watching his until she glanced past him, stilling.

“-Kevin” It was breathless, and quiet and filled with frustration and if she hadn’t been right next to him he was sure he wouldn't have heard it. But he did…just as his fingers let go and his arm had flown, his body jerked away from her instinctively because of the tickling, and well…

"AHHH!” Kevin Lynch was standing off to the side, dart plunged neatly into the soft, front round of his shoulder joint, staring in disbelief clutching at the top of his chest.

“Luke!” Penelope immediately reprimanded brows knit and mouth dropped open in a wide “O” She let go of his flannel, hands flying to her mouth.

“I didn’t- It was an accident!” He wasn’t really concerned with Kevin, it was superficial, he’d live. Dart tips were like, what? An inch? He was, however, concerned Penelope might start thinking this was intentional…

Penelope found her legs, scurrying over. “Kevin, what are you doing here?!” Her hand hovered back and forth over the injury, unsure of touching it. Tara grabbed a couple of napkins from a table near by and passed them off. Penelope plucked the dart out and replaced it with the napkins “Here, hold it, apply pressure. Hold it!” She shrilly commanded, letting go and stepping back. Her body language said everything, arms folded, high shoulders, hunching forward, foot turned out, and she was tapping. Luke looked to Rossi across the room, to JJ near by, and Emily talking with Spenser who gave a slight shake of her head “no”. Luke stepped back to JJ and Matt at the pool table.

“So what is this, he stalking her now?” he whispered.

“He couldn’t be so stupid. He has to know we’re here…” JJ answered back.

It was at that point Kevin’s pain turned to rage, “I’m gonna fucking kill him!” he lunged forward, snarling face pointed towards where Luke, JJ, and Matt stood, but he found he wasn’t moving. “AHHHH! he yelled again in pain, noticing the finely manicured hands of Tara and Rossi holding him back, Tara’s placed just so, directly over the wound digging in as he pushed away from them.

Penelope didn’t move, didn’t flinch, “Why are you here, Kevin?” she demanded again.

He glanced from her friends back to her, glaring at Luke “… I heard it was a bad case… I tried to catch you at work,” he looked down hissing in pain and jerked, shaking off the hands restraining him. “I wanted to check on you, to see if you…wanted some company. But they said you’d gone, so I don’t know. It was stupid, I just wanted to come see you, that’s all.” he finished, looking back up softly at Penelope, then coldly at Luke, “I know how these things affect you.”

“That’s nice, but you can see i’m with the team, i’m in good hands, and we’re all fine. You’re free to go, have a good night.” She turned away heading to JJ and Matt.

“Penelope, wait.” And there he was again not willing to listen, serving his own needs. She didn’t even bother to face him.

“Kevin, please leave. I want to be with my team tonight.” JJ and Matt wrapped her in a hug. Everyone else stood watching him, daring him to make a move beyond what she’d just requested. He didn’t and walked back out.

Leave it to Kevin Lynch to ruin the night.

FIVE

Luke remembered hearing Kevin whine to various co-workers about his girlfriend turning down his proposal before. He’d say her job was too stressful and he told her she should just quit and move out to the country, relax. Luke didn’t feel especially bad for the guy, something about Kevin always rubbed him the wrong way. Why would you be spreading gossip about your own girlfriend all over the building you both worked in if you supposedly loved her? The big thing Luke remembered though, why he really didn’t like Kevin, was Lynch puffed up around the office one day going on about how his girlfriend asked him not to talk to her boss about them, but he was "gonna show her how much of a man he was, he wasn’t scared of David Rossi” whoever that was...Why would you go against the explicit wishes of your girlfriend and jeopardize her position? Kevin was a dick. You don’t respect someone’s wishes, you don’t respect them. And now knowing Penelope was that girlfriend, he hated him. Knowing that he hurt Penelope, intentionally brought another woman to JJ’s wedding, knowing that he manipulated her and complained about her all over the office, how on and off they were, he wanted to wipe the floor with Kevin Lynch.

Since that night out, she really had been nicer, friendlier towards him. He would bring her coffee from Lunacorn most mornings, and she’d pretend to be surprised, small hand coming up to push at his chest, “For moi?”, or “Luke Alvez, stop making me like you!” grinning and walking away. He wanted to chase after her in those moments. They had turned a corner, and he loved every minute of it, he couldn’t get enough of her. Dancing with her at parties, standing next to her at Rossi’s cooking nights, hip bumping into his, her greetings becoming more flirtatious over the phone, but still just a little bit mean, a tart sweetness. She would never be completely nice to him and truthfully he liked it that way. He didn’t need someone to stroke his ego, he needed someone to keep him on his toes. He needed Penelope Garcia.

And so it was her he was thinking about on this very slow work day. Thankful for the chance to finally finish filling out his reports and get them turned in, but wishing for a technicolor-tech distraction. Prentiss had been very understanding about the paperwork, but the bureau was less so. They were breathing down her neck, so she had passed along the note. The paperwork was always the hardest part for him, recounting events, writing it all down, making sure nothing got left out, that everything was objective and nothing was bias, just the facts and their profile. It was very analytical, monotonous, and tedious work. And under the fluorescent lights it was awful. He sat up stretching, taking in the pile of to-do he’d gotten through and felt he earned himself a coffee break. Plus a walk around the office was good for you, kept your joints lubricated, blood flowing, your mind sharp, and it stopped his ass from going numb. And maybe, if he was lucky, he’d bump into his favorite display of hue. He knew where to find her, but he didn’t want to bother her if she was working on something. He made a lap around the bullpen, and then a lap around the catwalk, crossing near her office, door closed. His smile faltering the slightest bit. Emily’s head popped out of her office.

“Alvez, you need something?”

“Huh, uh, no. Just stretch break.” he pointed to the stack of files his desk, “Almost done. I’ll have um all for you by tonight.”

She gave a tight smile, “Ok” and disappeared again.

Deciding to get back on it, he walked to the break room to make a quick cup of coffee before diving back in. No Penelope distraction, it would seem. He was head deep in the cupboard looking for a clean mug when he felt a familiar soft hip check his.

“Tea, for me Newbie? You shouldn’t have...” she purred.

He closed the door, pulling out the last remaining clean mug and smiled wide, “In your dreams, Chica, there’s only one cup left.”

Penelope pouted, invading his personal space, “I thought you worshiped me”, her fingers closing around the cup.

His cheeks flushed, she was so close, so very close. “Even dutiful servants need their energy. Go get me one of the five I know are in that cave of wonders, and I’ll show you how devoted I am.”

She smirked, turning around, orange and vanilla smacking him in the face, “Come get it yourself.” and left him standing there. He looked from Penelope to his desk, he really did need to finish that stack of work before the day ended, couldn’t let feelings get in the way of work. He finished making the coffee and headed back to his desk, the light blue mug of daisy-cats mocking him and urging him to work faster from where it sat safely on the back of his desk.

He had two more reports left to do, small victories. Coffee drained from the cup, and unable to get her out of his mind, he got up, washed the mug, and brewed her favorite tea stashed in the back of the far drawer. It was only fair, she did a lot, she needed the boost too. Luke walked from the kitchenette, up the stairs across the cat walk and around the corner, head down ignoring the very pointed looks he could feel JJ, Matt, and Tara trading. He could do nice things for people. It didn’t mean anything.

"Kevin you can’t file a complaint. I won’t let you."

"He’s doing it on purpose!"

"No he isn't! What reason would he have? Luke is one of the sweetest people! He’s not some school yard bully!”

Luke stopped short, they were fighting. About him. Kevin wanted to file a complaint? Nice. So much for interoffice relations. Baby.

“Penelope, it’s not up to you, I came here out of courtesy, nothing more.”

“AND I TOLD YOU I won’t let you. I will delete it Kevin. Like it never even existed. I’ll write code that deletes it every time you file just to save me time if i have to. I don’t care.”

"Ooooh! Oh, I see.”

"What does that mean? What do you “see” ?!”

"That face. It was the same with Morgan! Some big, strong, handsome, fatheaded asshole walks in the door and you can’t help but fall all over yourself for them. He’s playing you! He’s using you.”

She was quite. He knew what that meant, there was either a furious Penelope on the other side or a broken one. He worried his lip, unsure what to do. How could he convince her it wasn’t true?

When she spoke again her voice was like steel. “You don’t talk about Derek. You are the only person here who ever thought I was being used.” Furious. Good.

Just because he was awful, didn’t mean everyone else was too. He was sick of this, tired of this guy showing up, tired of hearing him tear her down, hearing about how he belittled her, and tried to make her be less than she was. She deserved so much, so so much. Right now all he had was tea, but he could try for more. Luke took a deep breath, and moved forward, he knocked briefly and opened the door, not waiting for a response. He put on his brightest smile, because truthfully, he couldn’t not when she looked at him, and stepped into the room cup extended.

“Oh, great it’s you.” Was the first sound he was met with,"Get out, Alvez. Or have you come to spill that boiling bog water on me?” Luke kept his eyes on Penelope, but his smile flickered at the thought.

No, Lynch, I have something better in mind.

Luke ignored the man, speaking to her, voice low and soft, filling the space as only he could. "Hey, Garcia. Penelope…. I brought you that tea, but…” He glanced to the deep brown liquid and back to the same brown in her eyes, his head falling to the side, "I’d like to take you out. Can I take you to dinner?”

He could hear Kevin sputter as he watched Penelope’s eyes light up, rapidly nodding her head.

Fuck Kevin lynch, he hoped that hurt.

[allroseshave-their-pricks]

so we’re all in agreement that bit about no life magic coming from Briony’s grave meant she’s not actually dead, right? no matter what the epilogues imply?

[internetaddict104]

Y’all the season 5 premiere was so stressful I completely forgot that was the episode Reid gets shot to cover MGG’s actual injury so I wasn’t expecting so much anxiety between Reid’s story and Hotch’s 😂

[dykesynthezoid]

There’s rumors they’re filming in Scotland for part of season 3 and that’s where I assume they would be doing the earliest Lestat scenes, and I would guess they’d be trying to source animals locally bc that’s what’s easiest, but ohhhh there is still a part of me that wants to see Lestat on a Camargue mare

Given their track record of using real animals where applicable and practical effects elsewhere there’s a significant chance Sam Reid is about to become very attached to several mastiffs and a horse

[ebullientheart]

roomies. spencer reid x reader

content — fem!bau!reader. injured!reader. fluff. anonymous request. brief injury description. reader uses conditioner. making out.

when you no longer need your live-in doctor, you find you desperately want him to stay.

you were absolutely fuming when the unsub shot you. just one, clean through the shoulder, that caused you to fall in a twist down the stairs, spraining your ankle. the chances of both of those events occurring had to be low, and spencer assured you of the statistics to back that theory up. just bad luck. fuming.

unfortunately, it also meant your life was substantially difficult to navigate while healing. you could barely shower, cook food, unlock doors, get changed. in fact it wasn’t ‘barely’, you just couldn’t. so the natural solution was to have your best friend move in with you while you were out of action entirely.

“it’s no big deal.” he shrugged. your best friend that you harboured secret feelings for, shrugged. no big deal.

there were some challenges.

“spencer,” you huffed for the tenth time that morning, “i am not swallowing those gross fish vitamins.”

he tutted at you, “they’re cod, and they’re going to help your sprain recover. valid studies have shown-”

awkwardly, you stood and used your uninjured arm to jab him in the chest, “i don’t care if they would grow me a whole new bone, they’re gross.”

it was weeks like that, when he wasn’t on cases. harmless bickering as he fussed over you like a newborn. but despite your teasing, you were not looking forward to the day he’d be moving back into his own apartment. it was nice, having someone to come home to. it took the sting out of the loneliness you felt, and you weren’t delusional for thinking he felt that way too. as your casts and slings were eased off, the both of you looked rather dejected, confusing the nurse tending to you greatly.

spencer nudged your good shoulder, “now you can help me box up my things.”

you’d gotten used to his things, though. his aftershave in the bathroom, his chess set by the couch. even his supposedly mobile library he’d moved into your apartment. you knew how empty it was going to feel.

in fear of that emptiness, you blurted it out on the car ride home from the hospital, “maybe you should stay a bit longer.”

“yeah?” he briefly took his eyes off the road to raise a brow at you, “you think you still need help?”

“i don’t need it.” you mumbled, picking the skin around your cuticles nervously. spencer noticed, and flicked your hands apart as a silent way of telling you not to do that. still taking care of you.

he didn’t push your declaration, just nodding, “okay. how long were you thinking?”

somewhere between a bated breath and a rush of words, you pushed out, “like, forever?”

this time, both his brows jumped and he had to clear his throat to stop his voice from cracking, “really? like roommates?”

no, like lovers, “yes, like roomies. nevermind, it was a stupid idea.”

“i don’t think so. i’d love to be… roomies.” the word sounded strange, too informal, coming from him, and it made you laugh. which made him smile.

after that very spencer-esque conversation, he moved the rest of his material belongings in, and put his flat up on listings. it sold fast, and you had to wonder why he’d agreed so rapidly, considering his place was notably nicer than yours. you had to wonder why he agreed at all, though it didn’t come as a surprise to anyone else that you hadn’t been able to separate. and the rest unfolded like one of the rom-coms you forced him to watch.

you no longer needed him to wash your hair over the side of the bath, which had at first been annoying because he did not wash the conditioner out properly. but now you missed it; it had become almost a bonding experience. that became true of a lot of things you’d adjusted to in the past months. him helping you into bed, you playing the wounded card to make him watch your shows on tv.

one thing that hadn’t changed was the sheer amount of card games you two played. you knew spencer was always going to win, but you tortured yourself with it anyway. one night, you were splitting the deck as you announced, “i’ve got a new game. it’s called rummy version two.”

before he could explain all the deviations rummy had from its origin over the years, making your game not a second version but at least an eighth, you rushed on to outline the rules. you were completely making it up as you went along, and continued adding to it as you played. it was impossible for you to lose, and spencer quickly figured out that you were bullshitting. for a profiler, you had a terrible poker face.

“you’re making this up.” he stated, putting his cards down.

you leant over the table, now able to rest pressure on your arm, and challenged, “prove it.”

there was a thick tension that had arisen suddenly between the pair of you, though the more you thought, the less sudden it seemed. maybe it had been building for a while. like the blush steadily rising to his cheeks as you got slightly closer to his face.

he smirked, “you’re winning.”

“rude. that doesn’t mean i’m-”

what it didn’t mean, spencer never got to hear, because it was at that moment he surged forward to close the remaining distance between your lips. you almost fell when you two collided, but his grip had attached to your upper arm to steady you. his kiss did not relent, demanding and speaking of all the impatience he’d felt recently. you responded likewise, threading your hands into his curls as soon as you got your balance, barely breaking for breath.

spencer’s skin on yours was something you had thought about more than you cared to admit, and with the fervour he was kissing you with, you thought he might’ve experienced the same. he was almost desperate against you, hands trailing to smooth over any section of exposure he could find, before one rested on the side of your face, and the other on your thigh.

“spencer,” you gasped, pulling away to catch air in your lungs, “need to breathe.”

he nodded as though he’d forgotten that, mimicking your heavy breaths, but not taking his hands off you. you rested your forehead against his and blinked. it was starting to sink in, the line you’d just crossed together.

“do we have to tell hotch about this?” you suddenly asked.

spencer frowned, “why are you thinking about hotch right now?”

you laughed and kissed him again, quickly this time, “you’re right, let’s just…”

“yeah.”

thank god he agreed to be roomies.

[theha1r]

@lookedinfinite liked for back & forth!

"i'm fine. really. and you're not even that kind of doctor anyways, so what would you know?"

[samslestat]

I was worried about the trial. Hopefully it's one of those episodes that you can watch a couple of times and see there's a few different layers to it. There's a performance layer, there's a memory layer, and then there's bits where whoever's remembering it, you're like, well, why was he wobbling? Why couldn't he stand up straight? He is injured, but is the injury physical or is it psychological? I think it's more interesting, and Rolin probably thinks it's more interesting too, that all of the major injury is psychological because when they're so powerful, does it really take you 20 years to recover from a slit throat? So, it is more psychological damage, but [I was] always wanting to make sure there is a level that he is weak.

-Sam Reid. [x]

[januaryembrs]

YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶

Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?

Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)

warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.

authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship

There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted. 

He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck. 

Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?

Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin. 

He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again. 

They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest. 

“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him. 

Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.

They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene. 

She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been. 

Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men. 

They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.

Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to. 

Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions. 

“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,” 

They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently. 

Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face. 

He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet. 

“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”

They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”

“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”

His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry. 

“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.” 

She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage. 

“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,” 

“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him. 

She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them. 

“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”

The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob. 

“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”

Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand. 

“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter. 

Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights. 

Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible. 

His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was. 

Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed. 

“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him. 

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands. 

“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,” 

“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”

She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip. 

“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”

He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. 

He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in. 

Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years. 

“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”

And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

—

She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe. 

She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe. 

It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second. 

“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing. 

But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late. 

“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them. 

She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed. 

“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”

“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new. 

“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”

“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”

But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them. 

Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them. 

He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently. 

“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”

She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands. 

“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt. 

His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building. 

Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him. 

–

She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’

She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use. 

He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard. 

They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign. 

He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?” 

She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,” 

And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes. 

Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested. 

But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again. 

It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible. 

He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything). 

The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright. 

He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet. 

“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance. 

She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock. 

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,” 

“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,” 

 “I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing. 

And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin. 

Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down. 

“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?” 

She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised. 

“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point. 

Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”

 “Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,” 

She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”

His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion. 

She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.

“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”

His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise. 

“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off. 

She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him. 

“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.

“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,” 

She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”

She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again. 

“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his. 

Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,” 

Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all. 

But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him. 

She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”

Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though. 

[luveline]

hi!!! i have a request for roommate!spencer where he's injured during a case and reader show up at the hospital because she's his emergency contact but the team is really confused wondering who's this stranger fussing over spencer. hope you like it, love you!

thank you for requesting honey!! love you<3 fem!reader

“Close your eyes,” you command, voice all blown up and grand, already smiling. “Close your eyes, Spencer.” 

“No.” He squints groggily. “What are you doing?” 

“Close your eyes.” 

“No, Y/N, what are you doing?” he asks. 

You shake your spray bottle at him. He sighs a long-suffering sigh and finally admits defeat, his tired eyes shuttering closed all too easily. You rest your knee on the side of his bed and hear the metal squeaking at your added weight, your hand gentle as you cover his forehead. “You have greasy hair,” you say sympathetically. “This is gonna feel much nicer.” 

You blast him with dry shampoo, his brown hair turning white with powder. You drop the can in his lap and set about rubbing the powder into his hair until the grease is soaked up, and his hair feels less miserably lank. 

“When are they gonna let you shower again?” you ask quietly. 

You’re still touching his hair. More for him than you, you hope he feels comforted, but mostly you just wanna affirm to yourself that he’s all in one bruised piece. Your heart still aches as much as it did when you got the phone call in the first place —Spencer Reid’s next of kin? 

You suppose that’s you. 

“I don’t know.” 

You take his hair back into his current parting. “Well, let’s hope it’s soon. How are you liking the sponge baths? Are they awful?” 

“Humiliating.” 

Just outside of Spencer’s hospital room, Hotch and JJ stand together with a bag of essentials. They’d drawn to a sudden stop when they realised Spencer had company. “Who is that?” she asks. 

Hotch, used to knowing everything, frowns very deeply. He doesn’t know who you are, but from the way you’re touching Spencer’s hair and face, he should. 

JJ sounds a little put out. “She doesn’t work here.” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Hotch says. His frown lightens as you laugh and scratch Spencer’s hair back behind his ears. 

“Is it unkind of me to think he didn’t have any friends?” JJ asks. 

Hotch knows Spencer has friends. He’s summoned Spencer from chess games and fan clubs, picking him up occasionally on the way to the office on cafe sidewalks as he waved goodbye to a glasses-wearing bibliophile, often in coats too big for them or with hair in need of a trim. Spencer attracts the unconventional because he, as anybody in this line of work tends to be, is inordinary. So JJ probably is being unkind, but Hotch knows what she means. 

You look completely regular. You settle on one thigh on his bed while the other keeps you up and put your hand on his chest, chatting breezy words they can’t hear through the glass.

Spencer curls into you slowly. 

“You’ll be home soon,” you say, rubbing his shoulder, “don’t worry.” 

Hotch’s eyebrows rise of their own accord. He and JJ excuse themselves for coffee before they’re spotted, and when they return, you’re gone. “Spence, who was that girl?” JJ asks. Hotch notes the slightest line of jealousy tugging under her curiosity. 

He sounds as though he could use some more pain medication, and a good night's sleep, but he’s proud as he says, “That’s my roommate. I told you about her.” 

“Ah, your roommate,” Hotch says. 

“What’s that mean?” Spencer asks. 

“Nothing, Spencer,” Hotch says, using the young man’s first name in a rare show of affection. “That’s just an irregular word for it. I haven’t heard it in a while.” 

JJ laughs. Spencer hides his face with both hands, a smudge of lip balm on his hand shining under the stark hospital fluorescents. “I’m too tired,” he complains. 

Hotch hadn’t seen you kiss him, but he can imagine how it might have happened, how you’d leaned in for a kiss on the cheek goodbye and Spencer overwhelmed himself thinking about it. Or maybe it’s just an innocuous smudge. Maybe it’s nothing at all. 

“We live together,” Spencer mumbles. “I couldn’t afford to live by myself at first, it’s D.C.” 

“And now?” Hotch asks. He knows Spencer is on good enough money to afford an apartment by himself these days, a big one. He has no dependents. 

“Didn’t seem fair… She’s nice. She’s, like, my best friend.” 

“Don’t let Morgan hear you say that,” JJ laughs. 

Hotch isn’t sure she gets it, but he does. “Well, you can ask her to come back. We have work to do.” 

Spencer pretends he’s hesitant to pick up the phone. Your reply is an immediate beep. Hotch knows a good friend when he sees one. 

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 8

it's the morning after. spencer reid suspects you’re left with some doubts after losing your virginity to him. he has to figure out why—which is hard when you're keeping secrets.

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this series is 18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, blood related to losing virginity (dramatized for the drama duh), super vague allusions to the BAU being hungover, mild blasphemy if anyone even cares, pondering god bc am I really a fanfic writer if I don’t get a little religious w it, emily AND hotch are here and nobody knows why pls don't pay attention to that bc we are imagining like season 11/12 spencer and I'm inconsistent w who is unit chief in this series apparently, spencer slut lore, spencer emotional wounds lore, Spencer is a traumatic situationship survivor a/n: DADDYS HOMEEEEE (me and dybmn not spencer) anyway missed these little guys and am happy to be writing for them again!! idk what my upload schedule will becoming back to this but pls lmk what u think of this part, I have no idea how you will respond but I'm being brave and ily

Friday morning Spencer comes into the office fifteen minutes late (he tried his best), in yesterday’s suit (everything in his go-bag had been too wrinkled), hair messy (no doubt from your fingers), coffee cold (he’s exhausted) and overall, in an excellent mood.

The rest of the team isn’t faring quite as well—Spencer gathers they stayed at the bar celebrating Derek’s birthday a lot later than he had. It shows through sallow skin and dark circles and the grimaces he receives on the way to his desk that are probably supposed to approximate good morning’s. 

Honestly, he doesn’t mind the dull mood—he doesn’t need the teasing and the prying questions that would be sure to come if his co-workers were at peak performance and were able to put together his unusually perky demeanor and disheveled appearance. At least Prentiss doesn’t appear to be paying him any mind. She’s always the one who can read him like an open book and has no shame in doing so aloud. Echoes from years of, ‘so who was the lucky girl, last night, Reid?’ Still ring through his mind and it’s like he can feel her finger prodding at his side. 

The Emily of it all makes him smile, though the rest of the memory leaves a metal tang in his mouth. Back in those days, there were sometimes a lot of girls, but even then he was consciously aware he wasn’t necessarily doing something he enjoyed. He spent a lot of time, actually, staring at his bedroom ceiling, psychoanalyzing himself. Repetition compulsion. The insatiable desire to repeat or reenact emotionally painful experiences. Maybe he thought if he could teach himself to subsist off of emotionless hookups, he could in some way heal from his experience with Elle. Though, he’s hesitant to think of it now as healing—it’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing when a few nights after she said I don’t feel the same I’m sorry he opened up his front door for her. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing every time after that. So, maybe heal isn’t the right word, when one doesn’t have the right to be injured. Or when the injuries are, in a manner of speaking, self-inflicted. At the very least he could tell himself that this time around, meaningless sex was a choice he was making for himself. Spencer hates when things just happen to him. 

But you—you’re different. You were a complete surprise. At first, a cute and unexpected complication. After a few painful and short-lived attempts at real relationships, Spencer decided he was simply not to be trusted with emotional intimacy of any kind, including that which inevitably develops from physical intimacy, and would resign himself to a life of celibacy. He tried not to like you, but you were just so damn likable. Magnetic, to use a trite and perfectly honest turn of phrase. All that to say: he doesn’t regret you at all. There is no filter of putrid shame or anguish over his memories of last night. 

Just you. Perfect. Starlit. Glowing softly around the edges like you’re not even real. 

I love you I love you I love you. A hymn with no melody. You, always reminding him exactly why he is decidedly not a man of faith. At least, not in the typical sense of the word. 

How God became the idol and not Mary is lost on him. That’s why, Spencer supposes, tapping an eraser on his desk, marriage and sex were forbidden for so many ecclesiastics. After all, if they knew what it was to love a woman, specifically to love you, he doubts they’d feel like spending much time in the pulpit. Love. Humans had that long before they had any gods. It’s primeval. It’s the most natural manifestation of devotion and worship. It will always have come first. Isn’t it a better kind of religion when a man realizes he can kneel in front of a woman rather than an altar?

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder jolts him from his theological musings—which are in all practicality useless. What’s that saying about blasphemous thinking on the FBI’s dime? Right. There isn’t one. 

“I’m scared to ask,” Morgan says as Spencer jumps slightly in his chair. 

“What?” He mumbles, looking up from the document he’d only sort of been reading.

Morgan just looks at him, strong brows furrowed and a ditch between them, angles his head and glances to the side as if Spencer is missing the obvious. He almost follows Derek’s eye-line. When that doesn’t work, Derek just says your name. Like your status is somehow in question. 

“Did you two work things out, or not? It looked pretty bad when you guys were leaving last night.”

People often misunderstand an eidetic memory. It’s not like things can’t slip his mind—Spencer can actually be quite forgetful. It’s made worse by the fact that last night at the bar feels like months ago. For a moment, he has no idea what Derek is referring to. 

“Oh. Oh! Right, we—right. Yeah, we, uh—we worked it out.” Before Derek has a chance to read his face, no doubt as incriminating as his fumbled speech and an ill-timed throat clearing, he turns back to his paperwork. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her at the bar. I appreciate that.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Spencer’s lips twist as he can feel the incoming inappropriate comment. 

“Is that the same suit you were wearing last night?” Morgan quips, his wide grin audible. Spencer can practically hear the cartoon gleam of his friend’s bleached teeth. 

“No.”

“You dog.” Derek is still smiling as he claps Spencer’s shoulder again. “What did you say to her that worked so well?”

Spencer clears his throat again and tries to look extremely involved in logging onto his computer, speaking quickly as if he’s beyond disinterested and can’t wait for the exchange to be over. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m actually trying to work so if you wouldn’t mind going back to your desk that would be great.” 

“Uh-huh. I’ll let you work. But I see you, pretty boy.”

Spencer tries not to blush like a teenager as he refuses to look up. 

Naturally the rest of the day is a slow descent into dread and madness as all those good feelings with which Spencer had started his morning begin to harden into something much worse, chilled by your lack of response to the text he sent you earlier. Which was essentially a rehashing of the note he left on your bedside table. 

Maybe it was too much. It should’ve been one or the other, but not both. He’s overwhelmed you. 

Okay, so maybe this is what religion is for. A last ditch effort when you can’t talk to your girlfriend so you have to try talking to God. 

But Spencer knows you, and he knows something is wrong. You wouldn’t just ice him out so blatantly if everything was okay. He catches himself glancing up toward Hotch’s window to see if the blinds are drawn, and considers faking an illness to get out of work early and go check on you. But he powers through the remaining hour and a half that he is obligated to stay at work, he bounces a pencil between his fingers, drums at his desk, and gets nothing else done. As soon as 4:59 rolls around, he’s out. 

Spencer can hear shuffling on the other side of your door as he stands in the hallway. A pot clatters. The walls hum with the rush of water through the pipes to your sink. He knocks, relieved that you’re okay and at the same time struggling with that weight on his chest—something cold that leans over his shoulders and whispers into his ear—so she just didn’t want to talk to you. 

Suddenly all sound from inside your unit ceases. For a few long seconds, Spencer’s confusion only grows exponentially. 

“Who is it?” You finally call, voice wavering. Also odd. Usually you just open the door. 

“Um… Spencer?”

“As in my boyfriend Spencer?”

He frowns, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he tries to decipher your sudden paranoia. “I hope so?”

The click and jingle of several locks precipitates your much-anticipated reveal. 

“Come in,” you say breathlessly, more harried than usual and not giving him the tender greeting he’s selfishly become accustomed to—barely even giving him a second to look at you. But he steps inside, watching on in concern as you do up every single lock—the one on the knob, the deadbolt, even the chain. Is this really all because of his little comment last night about anyone being able to get in? He certainly hopes not. He didn’t mean to terrify you. 

When you finally turn, he takes stock of your appearance. Big hoodie, pajama pants patterned in little hearts. Hair pulled back hastily. Your skin is sort of dull where you normally glow. But you’re beautiful, like always. It always aches just a little bit to look at you. Spencer’s always been like that. Going breathless at a particularly good piece of art or pretty girl. Like yourself. Mostly you. 

You quickly turn to hurry back into the kitchen. “I was trying to make dinner, I—”

“Hold on,” he interrupts, stopping you with a hand on your stomach that is so non-demanding it’s really mostly a suggestion. He tries to clear his head, though you make it hard. “You didn’t talk to me all day. Not that you have to, but… I was worried.”

You glance at the floor and mumble, “I lost my phone,” with so much embarrassment he believes you’re telling the truth. “Did you, um—did you text me?”

Insecurity. Spencer knows well what it looks like on you. He softens. You weren’t ignoring him—but you’d been left in a vulnerable state without any ability to contact him or anyone. That couldn’t have been comfortable. 

“Of course I did.” He pauses to observe you. Still anxious. Still prepared to run at any second. Something, and he’s not sure what, did a number on you today. Maybe it’s sheer exhaustion, maybe it was the anxiety of not having your phone. But he has to figure out what it is so he can undo it. “What? What’s wrong?”

He watches your breathing pause—watches your eyes gloss over with tears and a frown contort your features. Oh, god. He’s done something terribly wrong. It’s been thirty seconds and he’s done something wrong. 

“Can we sit down? I don’t feel very good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can. Whatever you need.”

You cast a baleful look at him and now he has to wonder what that means. Spencer sets his bag on a pulled out dining chair and follows you to the couch where you settle on opposite sides—you’re curled up in the far corner, hugging a pillow to your chest with your legs folded in front of you. Spencer’s heart is beating fast. He doesn’t know what’s going on with you and he can’t figure it out just by looking and you don’t seem eager to tell him. 

He’s exhausted all his typical ways of collecting information, and now he’s at a loss. 

Eventually, the anxiety comes bubbling up. 

“Please talk to me,” he pleads. And you do. Almost instantly, like he stepped on some sort of landmine. 

“I know it’s my own fault for not having my phone on me and not being able to see your texts, but it really sucks that I had to find out from my creepy neighbor that you snuck out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.”

The whiplash is so strong it’s almost a broken neck. Spencer reels, frowning deeply as he tries to process your impromptu speech, the sudden confrontation. What creepy neighbor?

“I… didn’t. I went to grab my stuff from the car around one, but I came right back. I left at 7:30. You don’t remember me saying goodbye?”

Your brow furrows, and your eyes dart over the design on the rug like you’re watching memories go by. He sees it in your eyes when you recall some hazy image of him holding your face, kissing your cheek more times than was necessary and whispering sweet things against your lips before he had to go. You shrink into the couch, clearly struggling under the combined weight of relief and embarrassment. 

“I forgot. I thought… he said…”

A moment passes and it’s clear you’ve abandoned the sentence. Spencer is concerned about this shadowy male figure who put malicious untruths into your head. He slides his hand under yours and twines your fingers together. Finally, finally you meet his gaze. 

“Someone made you believe I left without saying goodbye.”

And he almost wishes you weren’t looking at him as more tears pool before falling down your cheeks. You nod, and don’t make a sound. 

“No, honey. I didn’t do that. I’m sorry that’s what you’ve been thinking all day.”

“I was worried that you… or that I wasn’t…”

His chest aches. You’d woken up alone, no recollection of his goodbye, and without the comfort of even a text. 

“You didn’t see my note?”

The way you look at him then is heartbreaking. Eyes wide and wet and sad, lip trembling. 

“You left a note?”

Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will. 

It must’ve fallen off the bedside table, or maybe he just hadn’t positioned it obviously enough. 

A lost phone, a missed note, and not even a memory of his departure. While none of these things are verifiably Spencer’s fault, he feels so, so guilty. 

“I did,” Spencer says gently, scooting closer and pulling you into him, head pressed to his shoulder as you try not to cry, and he rubs your back slowly. 

Your sulky words are muffled by his shirt. “I didn’t see it. What did it say?”

“A lot of very nice things about you,” he whispers. Spencer thought maybe he could get away with giving you all the sincere compliments you can’t accept face to face through a note you could read while he wasn’t around. That way you couldn’t refute them or stop him. It was a good plan. 

He feels the sigh of relief leaving your body against his neck. 

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. That’s not… I should’ve just stayed. This is my fault.”

You keep your cheek pressed to his shoulder as you speak. 

“It’s not. You have a job. A really important job. You can’t just call out whenever I want you around.”

Logically he knows you’re right, but he doesn’t always think logically around you. 

“I could’ve made it work. I could’ve come in late, or the team could’ve called me if there was a case, which there wasn’t—”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it.”

He pulls back slightly, frowning at your tone. You do look relieved, much less plagued than you’d been when he arrived minutes ago, but something heavy still weighs you down. The burden of it darkens your eyes and dulls your expression. When he cups your cheek, you glance up at him, and then away once more. 

He speaks softly. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” 

Again he earns a moment of your eye contact, but it’s fleeting. He watches the words spin around your head as you try to figure out what to do with them—and then choose to remain silent. 

There is in fact something you’re keeping from him. 

Spencer hates to use work tactics on you, but he doesn’t speak either, hoping that you’ll feel compelled to fill the silence with the truth. Knowing how you’re not entirely comfortable with quiet. 

And you try, lips parting and the sound delayed as you wrestle with something you clearly don’t know how to talk about. 

“I… my neighbor,” you say, frowning like you don’t quite know why you’re speaking. “The one who told me he saw you leaving in the middle of the night. He also—he said…”

Spencer brushes hair away from your cheek with a thumb, stroking the high point in gentle passes as your words taper off. Now that he’s thinking about it, he did encounter a man in a dumpy robe standing in the courtyard and smoking a cigarette when he left you tangled in sheets and dozing contentedly to get his bag from the car. In fact, they rode back up to your floor in the elevator in mostly awkward silence. Spencer was sure his outfit told a story—shirt untucked and hastily buttoned only partway, no belt, shoes barely tied, duffel slung over his shoulder—he wasn’t really expecting to run into anyone at such an hour, to be honest, but he hadn’t particularly cared what this man thought of him, so it didn’t cross his mind again.

Now he remembers. 

Long night, huh? I remember those days. 

It was an inappropriate comment, but given his job he’s used to ignoring those. Mostly his mind had been preoccupied with the idea of returning to you, who gave him such a warm and sleepy welcome when he climbed carefully back into your arms several minutes later that it was like he’d never known anyone else at all. 

Now he resents that he hadn’t said anything, he hates the idea that you spoke to this man and he said something to upset you and Spencer wasn’t there. Usually he tries not a judge a book by its cover (metaphorically, of course) but he’s been around enough bad men to know when he’s looking at one. Last night he hadn’t even been cognizant enough to realize they got off on the same floor. 

“What did he say, angel?” Spencer whispers, incapable of being anything but soft with you at the moment. Even though he senses something a lot like a tide of preemptive anger rising in his chest, painted over with layers of anxiety and guilt. He should’ve found a way to stay with you this morning. 

You sniffle and let your head fall again, forehead resting against his collar. Instinctively his hand slides to the back of your neck and even at the awkward angle he finds a way to press his lips to yours hair. “Can we talk about it later? I don’t feel good.”

If it’s making you this uncomfortable, Spencer really wants to know what passed between you and this neighbor. In fact, he’d be willing to bet a lot of your strange behavior this evening stems from something that occurred which you don’t feel comfortable telling him yet. But he manages to bite back anymore questions. He doesn’t want to make you feel interrogated. 

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” he says eventually, kindly, hand tracing down the length of your back and up again. “Why don’t you feel good?”

He doesn’t miss the way you reach up to discreetly wipe your cheek. But he won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about until you’re ready, and it seems like you’re already having a rough day. Which is not what he wanted. This is so far from what he wanted for you. He’s cursing himself for how he handled this whole situation. 

“Um, I just… I don’t know. I feel… bad. I’m sorry I’m being so weird.”

“You’re not being weird, honey. You had a hard day. You’re having a normal reaction to an abnormal set of circumstances.”

You sit up, sniffing and wiping your tears like you can just make the whole thing go away. 

“No, I am. I am. It’s all okay now, right? So I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He watches helplessly. “Nothing is wrong with you. We’ve… it’s been a big couple of days. Mostly good, but I think you’re probably really tired. Emotionally and physically.” 

You bury your face in your hands and nod silently. He still feels like he’s shooting in the dark, but you’re not entirely comforted yet, and it’s killing him. 

“Whatever you’re feeling is okay. If this is… about last night, or this morning, or something entirely different—regardless of what it’s about, you’re not going to be… in trouble with me if you’re having complicated feelings. And you can talk to me. But it doesn’t have to be right now. We don’t have to figure it out all at once, okay?”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, and for a moment, his words sink into silence. When you do raise your head, nodding, the evidence of your discomfort is all over your face—reddened eyes, cheeks polished with wiped tears. But you take a deep breath and try to project whatever it is you think he wants to see. 

The back of your hand is soft under his thumb as he sweeps it, as if he could draw forth more information that way. People speak when they’re ready.

“Is there anything I can do?” He tries, all ramped brow and soft spoken. 

You’re looking at where he’s tracing swirls on your hand as you swallow and blink the last of your tears away. 

“Um… you can say no, but—do you think it would be okay for you to maybe stay again tonight?”

Spencer sucks in a breath, painfully aware that he’s about to let you down. 

“I… I haven’t been home in a week. I’ve been wearing this suit for two days straight and I don’t think I would want to share a bed with me again until I shower.” He watches you wilt and lifts a hand to stroke your hair. “But I do want to spend time with you… do you maybe want to come stay with me instead? No pressure—”

“Okay. Yes. Is that okay?”

Spencer’s brow knits. You seem even more enthused about the idea of going to his apartment, like now that the opportunity has presented itself you can’t wait to get out. Maybe you have some sort of black mold problem. 

“Of course. Do you wanna grab a few things and then we can go?”

“Um—I also haven’t showered today. Do you mind waiting?”

“Sure. Or you could use mine. With supervision, this time.”

Spencer is attempting to make a joke about your unplanned (and unmoderated) stay at his apartment last week after he left—but looking at your face now he’s wondering if he touched a nerve. 

“Like… one at a time? Or…”

He thought maybe you’d be more comfortable around him after last night—and it’s not like he hadn’t seen you naked before then, either.

“Do you wanna do it one at a time?” He asks gently. 

There’s this sparkly sort of longing in your eyes that he’s seen before, but you tamp it down like always. You’re so cautious. About everything. Even the things you’re curious about. It’s sweet and a little sad. 

“I’ve never… showered with anyone.”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches as he pushes hair over your shoulder. “I know. You don’t have to. We could save like 100 gallons of water depending on how long your showers typically last, but—”

“Spencer—”

“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not trying to pressure you. You absolutely can take your own shower. You can go first so you get the hot water.”

“No,” you laugh, and it’s like a sparkling cloud of gold has settled around you, fractals bouncing off the shine of your cheeks and eyes—the sound of your laughter, the look of it, is such beautiful relief he can’t believe how good it feels, but it fades from you quickly. “It sounds… I think I want to, I just… I don’t wanna, like… do… anything.”

For a split second your veiled language mystifies him and then he realizes what you’re trying to say without saying. Something has changed since yesterday, when you brazenly referred to it as fucking, and today, when you can’t even say sex. He’s gotten as far as it being something your creepy neighbor said. Maybe. He needs to know what. 

But that’s not the topic at hand. 

“We don’t have to. I didn’t mean to imply that we would do anything like that. I don’t expect anything from you.”

You swallow. 

“Okay. I wasn’t sure.”

About what?

He says your name. No response. 

“Can you look at me, please?”

It takes you a moment, and your head raises like you might need some oil in your hinges, but eventually you manage. Spencer hopes the way he’s rubbing your leg is comforting. 

“You know I’m never, ever going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, right?”

To his horror, your answer isn’t an immediate and resounding yes. Instead you look back down and cover his hand with your own, fiddling nervously with his fingers. 

Eventually, you reply, “Yeah… I know. I just thought… I’m not sure. Maybe it’s supposed to be different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Nothing has to be different. We’re still doing everything on your schedule, okay? And as for the next few days, at least—I think it might be a good idea to take sex off the table altogether.”

Your eyes narrow and you hesitate. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you worrying about it. And I don’t think it would feel good for you right now. I think there are things we need to talk about, but… we’ve probably tried enough for a while, hm?”

You give him a shy nod and hum your agreement. For a moment he lets his hand linger on your leg and then pulls it back. 

“Okay. Do you want my help packing a bag, or should I wait out here?”

“You can wait. It should only take a minute.” You pause, halfway up to look pensive. “Um, Spencer—do you think it would be okay if maybe I… if I stayed tonight and tomorrow? I just—I wanna get out of here, for a bit.”

He frowns but doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Can I ask why?”

“It’s just… suffocating sometimes,” you call as you turn and hurry down the hallway to the bedroom. “Feels like my neighbors are on top of me, like they’re… breathing down my neck, half the time.”

Sure, bigger apartments exist—but it’s not like you’re in a studio. And you’ve never mentioned feeling that way before. That bad feeling is starting to come back—like you’re not telling him something he needs to know. But is it worse to let you deal with it yourself until you’re ready to talk or to force it from you?

A few minutes later you return, a duffel of your own over your shoulder and full to bursting. 

“So I’m an idiot. My phone was literally in the pocket of my jeans on the floor.” You drop the bag as you bend down by the door to pull on your favorite slippers. “Oh—I think I forgot my charger, can you grab it? It’s by my bed.”

Spencer of course obliges, and is secretly pleased to be in your room again, in the light this time, so he can see better. It’s sweet. The pictures on the walls, the plants and the knickknacks and the sticky notes scrawled with messy reminders on every surface and the sweater hanging over the back of a chair—the one you’d been wearing at the cafe all those months ago—it all feels so you. He wonders why the two of you don’t spend more time here. 

He lets himself linger for only a minute before remembering his task, but as he reaches down to unplug your charger, whatever dopey smile he’d been wearing evaporates. The sheets have been stripped from your bed, and he can see why—there’s a striking stain of dried blood, and several surrounding dots, soaked into the mattress. Not much, but enough to make him feel horrendously guilty. He cringes, imagining what it must’ve been like to wake up all alone to nothing but your own blood. Poor girl. Of course he’d noticed some, last night when he was doing his best at cleaning you up, but it had been dark, and he was exhausted, and he hadn’t done enough. 

“Where’d your sheets go, baby?” He asks once back by the front door with his own bag on his shoulder, setting a gentle hand on your lower back and holding out your charger for you. You jump slightly, and he makes circles on your back, wishing there was something he could do to settle you. 

“Oh! They—they got ruined. I threw them out. It’s fine. I have others.”

So you didn’t have enough energy this morning to walk a few feet to your shower, but stripping your bed, getting dressed, and walking down to the trash chute at the end of the hall had been top of your priority list. 

You swallow as he undoes the locks and holds the door open for you, and pretend like you’re not doing surveillance to either side as you stand in the hallway, locking your door again like you can’t get out of here fast enough. 

Spencer casts a sidelong glance at you and wonders if you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact. He tries not to think like a profiler. He tries not to assign meaning to your actions, but he can’t help it. He can’t not notice. 

He can’t not worry. 

And he can’t not wonder what you’re not telling him. 

-

part nine