#katcember

[awordsmith]

where you came from 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you receive a letter detailing the death of your grandfather, head back to your hometown, and wonder if you ever should have left.

katcember

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s8 category: angst to fluff (comfort) content warnings: proofed! not much sad angst (more sad angst if that makes any sense), death of a family member/funeral, reader's hometown is in Europe (purely for aesthetic), more plot than spencer (kind of idk) reid with warmth word count: 11.2k a/n: this was my one of my first ideas when first posting on tumblr so i really do hope you enjoy it! there are a few words not in english, but sometimes when writing in english it's easier to say something in another language because english can be really...corny sometimes...anyway ily cari !!

The loops and curves connecting the words in that elegant font you grew up learning stuck in the back of your mind like a non-removable tumor. You could feel it. You had a time limit–but not to live. Two days. In two days you would go back to Europe, back to a continent you had thought you’d left behind years ago, a place you had thought you held no attachment to… no emotion.

Maybe, though, it was the fact that you had been gone so long, had not once gone to visit in all your time in America, and now–now your time had run out–or rather, another, no longer invisible hourglass had lost the last of its sand and someone had flipped it again, setting a new timeline in motion.

Your grandpa, your beloved nonno*–oh how you just couldn’t believe it. 

It had hit you so suddenly, your mother normally sent you letters, you didn’t mind her old ways, she was raised by the man who taught you cursive and calligraphy–with craft you thought ancient, and technology was still rather new, and she wasn’t one to conform to change.

You sighed, shifting in your seat as Hotch and the rest of the team gave the profile. The lights were too bright; you stared at the floor, one leg crossed over the other, and your arms folded. You tried keeping your focus. Yes, you were dealing with your own problems, and yes, you had just gotten the letter yesterday, but these children needed you now–and if you couldn’t be at your best with a personal issue weighing on your shoulders, could you even call yourself an FBI agent?

Emily had just left the team a month ago and her replacement wasn’t bad, but she wasn’t Emily. You desperately needed your friend right now, your soul sister. She could tell you what to do and how to handle things like this, she’s been doing this a lot longer than you, has more experience–and she understood you, at least where family matters were concerned.

“You okay?” Spencer whispered as the officers went back to their desks or collected in groups–some even leaving–probably to talk about the best course of action. This guy was going to strike again, every indication of it was there on the board.

“Yeah,” you sighed, feeling your stomach growl.

He furrowed his brows, “when’s the last time you ate?”

“Uhm,” you stood, rubbing your wrist, “I’m not sure, but I’m fine, really,” you gave him a tight smile walking over to the board, “We know he’s targeting school busses on their drop off, he’s insecure about something, his physical strength? That’s the only reason he’d subdue the bus driver in a blitz attack.”

Spencer called your name–almost as a whine–and you paused. “Look,” he said, “I don’t think the rest of the team’s noticed, so if you eat, I won’t say anything…”

You frowned, rubbing an eye, “fine.”

You’d think a look of triumph came over him, but you’d be wrong. He looked resigned, but not indifferent, it was more of a soft relief. Spencer had no idea what you were going through, you hadn’t told anyone–and you weren’t really planning on it. You liked to keep your personal life separate from work as much as possible, that’s one of the reasons you and Emily had clicked so well–you were nearly identical in that department, and, well, you both could agree Clyde was a little bit of an ass. You’d never worked directly with her during her Interpol days, but when she left, Clyde became your team lead, and–well, actually, that’s, pretty self-explanatory.

A few years in, you were able to transfer to the BAU, you’d performed considerably well and Clyde had recommended and vouched for you and–well, Emily knew Clyde, okay perhaps your connections helped a little, but was it really your connections or your skill because without your skill, you wouldn’t have been recommended now would you have?

Regardless, you had known how massive the opportunity was, which is why you’d said yes without a second thought. You joined the team two years ago, when Emily had shown no sign of leaving. You sighed, rubbing your hands together, they were sweaty and you felt sick, maybe you should try eating something.

“Alright,” you affirmed again, “come on you’re driving.”

You threw the keys that had been lying on the table next to the board at Spencer, he’d been close to Emily too, you assumed they still spoke sometimes when they got the chance as you did with her. Your mutual bond was probably–at least you considered it the most probable–reason for why you grew so close in such a short amount of time.

You were close in age, too, which you assumed added to the comfort.

Spencer took you to the closest fast food and you ate in the car devouring each bite. He asked for coffee and “real” sugar on the side, and then he sat there and watched you eat, and when you were finished he drove you back to the police station. 

The case took you to Santa Monica, California. Penelope had ushered you all into the room as soon as you’d got into the office this morning, honestly, you were expecting it, and with the hurriedness she had, you knew it couldn’t be anywhere near good–though you considered none of the cases you received “good”, this one involved children, and it seemed they were the prime target, but what you couldn’t figure out was why.

He didn’t kill all the children–in fact, in both cases, the unsub only killed three kids; it seemed as if he was targeting specific children, but they all came from relatively different backgrounds, and both schools–when considering the environment and looking at it from a geographical perspective–weren’t at all in near-to-similar neighborhoods. Even the two kids that were killed on the same bus had no connection, they weren’t friends, the witnesses said the boys stayed away from each other unintentionally, they just never seemed to cross paths and it just did not make sense.

You wanted–no needed–to figure this out, for the next potential victims–but the team had no clue as to which school he’d hit next. For this reason, Penelope was emailing schools at the masses to keep them on high alert.

“He’s targeting school buses,” you said, taking a sip of your water. “Not schools…” Spencer nodded and you asked, “Why?”

“Perhaps something happened to him on a school bus?”

“It’s important,” you agreed, “but wouldn’t that make him–like–fifteen?”

“No,” Spencer shook his head, “a fifteen-year-old wouldn’t have this much time, he’d have been caught by now.”

“The survivors say he wore a mask, he called the students by name–”

“But not their name–maybe he’s living in a delusion?” Spencer’s speaking sped up, “maybe he’s not fifteen but he’s reliving his teenage days. Maybe he was bullied and now he wants revenge?”

“Okay, but that doesn’t explain going after high school kids now. Why not just go after the people his anger is directed toward?”

“Because he can’t? Maybe they’re substitutes?”

“We need to tell the others.”

Spencer nodded, you rushed out of the car and into the police station, catching Morgan, Hotch, and JJ leaning over a phone, talking to Penelope. You explained your theory and funnily enough, Penelope had just found school records that supported it. Each victim had been suspended within the past year, accused of bullying or inflicting some type of physical or mental pain on another student.

Complaints about the victims were filed by students, so now you knew your unsub had access to all this information, the question was what title did someone need in order to garner this details.

“That has to be how he’s choosing his victims,” Morgan said.

Hotch thought for a second, then nodded, “All alright, call Rossi and Blake, tell them to get here, Penelope, are you still on?”

“Running and ready, sir,” she confirmed, “All alright, give me a list of the next potential targets, all kids who have been suspended or complained about in the last year due to bullying, narrow the search to males, fifteen older.”

“Sir, do you want me to narrow the search between the two schools?”

“No,” Hotch sighed, looking each of you in your eyes, “I want the entire city–”

“Hotch–” 

Spencer’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but Hotch cut him off, “you really want to sit around waiting for another body?”

Everyone went silent and Spencer’s eyes flitted to you for a moment, almost as in reassurance.

“He’s right, Hotch,” you stepped forward, trying to push away all thoughts of what was to be expected of you in two days.

“You,” Hotch narrowed his eyes as if just now suspecting something was up with you. 

A silent staring contest ensued, though it was quickly broken when an officer burst into your makeshift bullpen. “Another body was discovered.” Your heart sunk and you glanced to Spencer for comfort, his eyes drifting to yours for the same thing.

It always just seemed a little bit more painful when children were involved. Your stomach lurched and you felt sick, wanting to throw up the food you’d just eaten. You just wanted this all to be over so you could focus on your family issues. It might have been selfish, but wasn’t that your right? You couldn’t think about this right now, you needed to find this guy before he murdered another innocent kid.

“Give Garcia the geographical point and have her narrow the search.”

Hotch directed at Spencer, turning to JJ, “Stay here, help him and Rossi figure out what career our unsub might have. Morgan go Blake to check out the new crime scene, and,” he turned to you, “Come with me.”

You turned to Spencer one last time, not wanting to leave him. You were always together, working together, that is. Hotch never split you up so you thought there must be a reason for it now, but why, well, you couldn’t know for certain. You shook your head and followed him out the door. He seemed to wait for you with pause, his expression unreadable, almost like he was analyzing you. You tilted your head in warning and he finally relented.

“Let’s go.”

From that point forward, there wasn’t really much of a struggle, it just sucked you had been called in so late, and that another kid had died before you caught the guy. Four kids in total, three crime scenes. The ride back on the jet was tense.

Everyone seemed to need their own space whenever you dealt with a case like this, you, well, you’d play with Spencer’s hair, if you were really tired, he’d let you lean against his shoulder or use his lap as a pillow and sleep. This time, though, you were restless and you couldn’t find the need to sleep anywhere. You knew you probably should,but…it was just too much.

You couldn’t stay seated, you paced back and forth, your mind fleeting from the case to the letter you’d received yesterday. You’d brought it with you and you hesitated only for a second before pulling it from your bag and sitting in one of the empty rows. You could feel eyes on you, though they were trying to pretend they weren’t looking.

You wanted to say you could see them, say you weren’t in need of monitoring, but you were the youngest on the team, and despite your closeness, with Emily particularly, they all cared for you, which is why when JJ slid into the seat across from you you resisted rolling your eyes.

“Are you okay? You’ve been kind of… not yourself.”

“I’m fine, JJ, thanks.” You returned your eyes to your mother’s letter.

“You sure?” she asked, “is it your mother? Has something happened?”

She motioned toward the letter. They’d gotten accustomed to seeing you read over the renaissance looking artifacts throughout the day. That wasn’t the unusual part, no JJ was talking about how you weren’t attached to Spencer’s hip, how you avoided them all almost the entire day, and how you had been so focused on the case as if you were trying to make something else dissappear.

“We’re all here for you, you know.” She reached her hand out, rubbing her thumb over it.

“Yeah,” Morgan motioned for JJ to scoot over, “we’re a family, you know.”

“Aww, I wish I was there,” Penelope said from the other side of Morgan’s phone. You wanted to scoff, but a sad smile pressed to your mouth instead. They were cornering you as if they’d planned it.

Your eyes flitter over toward Rossi and Hotch who were pretending not to listen and Blake, who was evidently really not, then they landed on Spencer’s who stood suddenly from his normal spot in the front of the jet and began walking toward you. “See, even pretty boy’s upset.”

“I am not upset,” Spencer scoffed, sliding into the seat next to you. But then he held your gaze as if trying to communicate with his eyes, “but we are here for you, you know I’m always here, and…I’m sure if you called, Emily would be too.”

You took a breath, and when it came out it was shuddering, and that was the first time crying had crossed your mind. So, you said–first in general, “My grandfather just passed, I’m supposed to leave in two days for his funeral.” You let them take it in, then, “I need time off, Hotch.”

A snort came from Rossi and the team frowned at him, but you smiled, why was he so unserious all the time? You rolled your eyes, but then Penelope spoke up from the phone in Morgan’s pocket, “if you need someone to go with you, I’d be willing.”

Your eyes swelled at her offer and you opened your mouth to say ‘Really?’ but Spencer said, “I’d go too–you know, if you wanted that is,” before you could open your mouth.

“Thank you,” you nodded, “I’d like that…and you know…it wouldn’t hurt if the rest of you came as well,” your admission scared you, what were you doing? This is the exactly the opposite response Emily would have given, but maybe you weren’t as strong as Emily, and maybe…maybe that was okay.

“When are we leaving again?” Rossi sighed, pulling out his phone, “I’ll have to check my schedule.” And with that you let loose a snort, appreciating the kindness of your team.

“Jack, Will, and Henry are welcome to come as well.” You said, “And that girlfriend of yours, Hotch,” you added, “I think I’d be able to brave my family again if I had the Guardians of the Galaxy with me.”

“What about Strauss?” JJ suddenly asked, “What are we gonna tell her?”

“Oh you let me worry about her,” Blake smiled, though you had been sure she wasn’t even listening.

“You’re from Europe right?”

You huffed a sigh, “Yes, Rossi, I’m sure we’re not cousins.”

A few chuckled as Rossi responded with a nod and a smug grin,  “Just checking.”

You claimed the window seat, forcing Spencer to sit in the middle, though you had to climb over him multiple times to use the bathroom, you didn’t care, and neither did he…much. You thought you’d be able to sleep, but just like on the jet, you found yourself restless, and Spencer, well, he couldn’t help but ask.

The first question was simple, “how do you feel about going home?”

You laughed, a bitter expression framing your face, “I don’t know.” You were lying, though he wasn’t sure if you knew that fact yourself as you seemed genuine. The only way he knew for sure your response wasn’t what your subconscious truly thought was was by the way your lips pressed together right before you spoke, that was your tell.

He didn't know if you knew you did it, but he’d caught on to it pretty quickly when you’d first met, it had been something small, but he remembered it as clearly as if it were playing out right now in front of him. It had to do with your favorite food. Morgan had said he’d overheard you talking to Emily about how you wanted a certain order from this new restaurant because it tasted like the one you had back home, and to surprise you, he had brought it in one day and set it on your desk, brimming with energy to see your reaction.

You were confused at first, but when you saw him, you’d grinned, prying to box open, then your eyebrows had shot up and he’d asked you if it was your favorite food. You’d pressed your lips together and nodded, grimacing with the first bite, “I love it, thank you.”

Later on, he’d smacked Morgan for the first time upside the head, running away quickly after, Morgan had chased him for some time until Hotch had told them to stop acting like, “idiots,” and thst, “Jack acthas better self control than you two most days.”

“Do you have any pets at home?” He asked, watching you stretch out your arms above your head, deflating against your seat.

You smiled, “I used to have a dog, but she died before I left for university.”

“I’m sorry,” he frowned.

“Don’t be, she wasn’t really mine, but my sister’s.”

He nodded, it was early morning, everyone had gotten up way before they’d wanted to, except him. He was ready to go a bit too early, and when he’d picked you up at your apartment, it seemed as if you hadn’t slept much either.

“Hey, Spencer?” You suddenly whispered.

“Yeah?” He stared down at you as you began to move, causing him to shift until his body aligned with yours and your back hit his chest.

“Do you want to hear a boring story?” He quirked a brow, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. To the normal eye, you seemed incredibly close, strangely close–a couple kind of close, but to the team and between the two of you, it was more like the relationship Penelope and Dereck had, although instead of heaty words, it was comforting gestures like this, that, and you were always attached at the hip, you were partners with each other before anyone else, work partners that is.

“What’s a boring story?” He asked and you didn’t know if he was trying to be poetic, but it brought a smile to your face.

“My grandfather,” you focussed your eyes on the window, finding warmth in being pressed against him, his arms acting as a blanket that wrapped around you. “He was old in age, I mean, I knew that even when I was a kid, but there were times,” you shook your head recalling the moments in your mind.

Spencer kept quiet, listening intently as he rubbed circles on the exposed inner corner of your elbow.

“He would take me on adventures and back then, he seemed so young, so exceptionally immortal. It was otherworldly,” your voice got quieter as you continued, “I don’t know how to face him,” you sighed–God it seemed like all you could do for the past 45 hours was sigh.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “tell me about the adventures.”

You paused, turning your head slightly to see him, you’d done this countless times, but for some reason, it seemed more pertinent now. More….significant, “my grandad,” you murmured, “he was my captain. That was the game. We’d go to the pier sometimes, or the forest, and he’d always have these elaborate scavenger hunts set up in advance. He really–” you blinked and breathed, “...he was really good at things like that.”

“Setting up games?” Spencer asked incredulously, but you knew it was good-natured, meant to bring the smile that had so evidently fallen off back to your face.

“At crafting and cultivating imagination.”

“Ah,” Spencer nodded, “yeah how did I miss that?”

You smacked is chest playfully.

“How do you feel about seeing your family, how long has it been?”

You gazed out the window again, there was low chatter around the plain, it was dark, the lights were off, and most people were asleep. You pondered briefly about why Spencer was still up and deigned to ask him when sunlight shone through the window, blinding you momentarily. It wasn’t a lot nor was it as bright as you were used to, and it was quickly hidden behind the clouds once more, but you smiled at it anyway.

“A new beginning,” you raised your hand, blocking the slight sunlight that filtered in now and then, not really sure what you meant.

Spencer chuckled, reaching out to grab your wris. He held it, waving it around as if you were casting a non-verbal spell.

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” he whispered, “but whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

“I know you will,” you replied as easily as if you hadn’t said anything at all. “You always are.”

And again, for a moment, you pondered why that was, why Spencer always seemed to be the only person–other than Emily–who was always there for you when you needed someone, why he was the only person you wanted there when things went wrong. 

It was a question that had bubbled up over the last month since Emily had left. You’d begun to lean on him a lot more, yes, but you could very well just have as easily called Emily. Spencer wasn’t lying, you knew she would pick up no matter what, but oddly, you found you didn't want to call her because–you already had the person you needed with you. And he would always be there, even if you stopped working together, Spencer would always be there.

You were sure you could call him in the middle of the night and he’d come running. But why would you want to? You shook the dangerous thought away. 

“It’s sunrise,” he said, pulling your attention back to the window. Slowly, he brought your hand to once again rest on your stomach.

“We still have about 5 hours,” you sighed, noting the time.

He leaned back, shifting in his seat, “Then we better get comfortable.”

You wondered what you’d do first when you landed, would you have so much jet lag you wouldn’t be able to see your family for some time? Would you be able to sleep? Finally? Where would your grandpa be? Probably at the funeral home. Would other family members be traveling into the city for the funeral? If they were they’d have to stay at the main house, there wewould be no other space available in the others.

You were only staying three days, and if Stauss called you in early, you’d have no choice, but to leave before that. You were able to solve one more case before you left, though you had still strained for sleep, everyone else seemed to be a little overly excited. Blake stayed to help other teams, she was new and you weren’t that close, though she didn’t seem to mind.

She was like Rossi in that department, unable to take days away from work as she ran on catching these guys. But for you, and everyone else on the team, you were sure, you couldn’t wait for your days off.

They were the closest thing you got to normalcy, that and time with Spencer outside of work, it was time in your world, one where bad guys didn’t exist, one where you could escape into the realities of a Charlotte Bontë novel, one your grandpa had gifted you before you could remember a life without it.

You wanted to thank Spencer, but you didn’t know how. You wanted to thank everyone, really, but Spencer most of all, and instead of thinking about why, of letting it plague your thoughts, you leaned further into him, rubbed your face into his soft sweater vest, and closed your eyes.

Penelope threw her head back as she grabbed her suitcase, “where to now?” Spencer pushed her sunhat out of the way. She was in for a rude awakening, it was winter in Europe, and though most people were on holiday, that only meant the airports would be extra lively.

“First, let’s make sure we have everyone.” You began counting of heads, narrowing your eyes, “where’s Hotch?”

“We’re here!” Jack came running, Hotch sprinting after him. It was not too odd a sight, for you to see Hotch in dad mode, he normally had that look on when Spencer did something stupid or Penelope said too much on speaker–but this, oh this was gold.

Rossi snapped a photo with an old camera he’d brought along, chuckling when Hotch glared at him. “Alright,” you nodded, noting Hotch’s girlfriend slowly filling the space beside him. “Now, my immediate family isn’t that big, but the rest of the family does live in the same town, so you’ve all been assigned housemates.”

“Housemates?” JJ raised a brow.

“I’ll,” you checked the time, “explain on the train, come on.”

You were honestly surprised everyone had come, you’d invited them because you truly had thought them being here would lessen the pain, but to think that they all wanted to be here for you as well, even Rossi had come–and he hated taking vacation time. Though, the most surprising had to be the fact that Blake had actually succeeded in getting Straus to let you all come.

You stayed together, it was easy for some, though others kept getting sidetracked. You stopped a few times to look at a few shops and monuments, though you kept explaining to Penelope she’d have more than enough time later to go on her mini explorations.

You supposed it was normal though, that was how you were your first time in America–your first time in any new country or state, really. Most everyone had never been to Europe, even for you it felt like stepping into a storybook. You hadn’t been home in so long, it was like a lost memory.

Though afternoon, the day was getting dark already, and people were milling about, readying for Christmas–your heart lurched, and though you tried not thinking about him too much, you couldn’t help but wonder if your grandfather had been alone during his passing, what were his last words? His last thoughts? Rainclouds not only drew to the sky but your mind as well.

You felt more than guilty, that was the only way you could describe the horrid emotion twisting in your gut ever since you’d received the letter. You hadn’t seen your parents–your sister–face to face in a long time. It was part of the guilt of moving to America without giving them a heads up and for leaving when you knew they wanted you to stay.

Your older sister had stayed, why couldn’t you have? There really was no explanation other than you just couldn’t. It felt small, suffocating. You loved your hometown, but eventually, you knew there had to be something more out there, something more calling your name, and the longer you stayed, the more you buried that feeling, the less motivated to do anything you got.

So, you saved up during your uni days and took the first position in America you’d found, which is how you ended up at Interpol, climbing the ranks slowly but surely and eventually working with Clyde.

You reached the train station, the cool weather making everything around you a tint of blue. The benches that sat in front of the train tracks were taken up by Jack, Henry, and Will, who’d been carrying a ton of baby supplies. You paused, checked your watch again, nodded, and turned your face toward everyone again, “Alright people, here’s the plan. My family knows you're coming, one of the reasons they were okay with it is because we own a few properties and can house you all, hence your housemates, or if you prefer, hosts.” You glanced at JJ, “You, Will, and Henry will be staying with my sister and her husband. She has two kids so she’s used to the noise.”

You had thought about letting Hotch stay with your sister, but that would have just been too weird. No, instead you’d paired Hotch up with one of your cousins, who was married, but had no kids. Jack was older, no longer in diapers, and had a controlled temper, so it seemed perfect.

You relayed this information and moved on, “Penelope and Morgan, you’re staying with my aunt and uncle on my dad’s side, trust me, you’ll be thanking me–and Rossi, you’re with my aunt an uncle on my mom’s side Is that everyone then?” You looked around, nodding.

“Hang on,” Rossi held up a hand, “I don’t like the way you said that last part.”

“That’s everyone then?” You ignored him, “All alright, the train should be here–” You cut off your sentence as the train pulled into the station, “...right on time.”

 Waiting your turn to step onto the train as people made their way off, you felt around in your pocket for the letter one last time, sighing in relief when you it was still there. You grabbed your suitcase and began pulling it aboard the train when Spencer grabbed your arm and held you back. You glanced at everyone else boarding the train, making sure you had time before turning back, “Uhm,” he frowned, looking awkward, “where am I staying?”

“Hmm?” Your eyebrows furrowed and you looked at your watch again, “with me and my parents.” You said it so simply, as if it were an afterthought–as if it was so incredibly obvious that you didn’t think you had to mention it.

“Oh,” he didn’t know how to feel, he was a little embarrassed, but there was something else…sick? He didn’t know, but it made him bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“Come on,” you latched your hand onto his wrist and yanked him onto the train, “before it leaves without us.”

You honestly wanted to go straight to your parent's house, but you knew you had to introduce your co-workers/friends to your family so when you left it wasn’t so weird, though the only one who complained was Rossi, you couldn’t blame him, but at the same time you found it funny. He swore up and down you had put him in this position on purpose and he didn’t find it funny–“Not one bit,” he’d said right before you left him in his room. “I’ll get you back for this,” he’d warned.

Once you’d left JJ, Will, and Henry at your sisters–she hadn’t been home, thank God, as you didn’t think you could face her just yet–you and Spencer hailed a cab and had all but drifted off to sleep during the ride to your childhood home. Your mom had been the firstborn, so she’d gotten the main house, though your grandparents never left. They had kind acted as your second parents growing up and you were incredibly close, especially you and your grandfather…and now he was gone. You bit the inner corner of your cheek, feeling like you wanted to cry but just couldn’t find the comfort to do so.

Spencer noticed, of course, that you were leaning on him, and had been the entire cab ride. When the it came to a stop in front of a large, three-story Victorian house, he hesitated before shaking you awake. He wouldn’t have done it if he knew what to do, but this wasn’t his house and this was the first time he was going to meet your parents, though it excited him, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why.

You were like–his platonic soulmate, nothing had ever happened between you two and just because you were going to be sleeping in the same house, probably a few feet apart, didn’t mean anything was going to start now. Morgan slept at Penelope’s all the time and though Spencer always suspected they were more, nothing had ever happened, which meant it was possible for a guy and a girl to just be friends–and yet, here is was, palms sweating, mind running, mouth drying as he walked up the trail leading to the front door of your parent’s house.

A knock, and hushed whispers, and then the door opened, your mother standing in the doorway with a bright smile on her face. She called your name and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a hug. You wondered if your grandpa was at the funeral home still, if he was cold, which was a stupid thought, he couldn’t feel anything, he was gone, no longer here roaming the earth, telling his outdated jokes and taking you on secret journey’s, and you were no longer that little girl who laughed at his outdated jokes and believed in the magic of his secret journeys.

When you pulled away your mother, with her now thinning, grayed hair pulled into a tight ponytail and the wrinkles lining her frail face–said, “Oh, let me get a look at you.” 

She took a step back and that’s when your father came into view, “Dad,” you smiled, the feeling almost overwhelming.

He pulled you into another hug, and just when you didn’t know if you could handle seeing one more relative you hadn’t seen in ages, your grandmother shouted from somewhere on the first floor, “Is that her? Is she here?”

Your heart seized itself and you took a step back, unknowingly stepping into Spencer’s personal space. You turned to apologize, but your grandmother had already wobbled in on her two dainty legs, as quickly as she could have if in her prime. Her old crone eyes narrowed, “nice of you to grace us with your presence.” She sprinkled salt on the floor as she glowered.

“Mom,” your mother groaned.

“What?” She crossed her arms and turned her head as if she had things better to do than welcome the granddaughter–who’d left everything behind–back into her life.

“It’s fine, Mom,” you reassured as your father went to close the door behind you’d walked in, Spencer gled to your back.

Your grandmother stomped out of the room in old lady fashion. “How are you dear? Have you been getting my letters?”

You cringed, “Yes,” though you never sent one back, you did always text a message, thanking your mom for writing you, she’d only heart it, though, which left you wondering if maybe you should’ve picked up a pen and paper. “I keep them all secure in a drawer.”

She nodded, a placid smile falling to her lips, “Well, you must be tired and–” she glanced at you, then at Spencer, then at your father and held his gaze for a moment before returning her eyes to you, “who’s your…”

“Oh, this is Spencer,” you patted his chest as if that was explanation enough.

Your mother nodded, not really sure how to take it, she turned to Spencer, hoping he’d offer a little more information, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Spencer stared at her hand, contemplating and you were just about to say something about it when he reached out and shook it. Slack-jawed, you eyed him suspiciously, turning away in a huff. When you’d first met him, he’d refused to shake your hand, sure he had come a long way since then, but it still annoyed you for some reason.

“Come, let me show you your rooms.”

Your mother led you up the starcase than faded into a small stairwell, leading up to the second floor. The wood was old mahogany, though you weren’t paying much attention to it. At the end of the left hall was another staircase that led to the third floor, but even half awake you knew it was probably locked. It always had been. 

You recognized the wallpaper, a deep, forest green and you half wondered if the wallpaper in your bedroom had changed, if it had been converted into a guest bedroom. Your mother gave Spencer the guest room down the hall. You waved goonight to him before heading into your room. He paused his eyes taking in your childhood home.

It was so incredibly different from his, but it also felt…small. You were this giant, bubble of energy and a quiet town in Europe just dind’t seem to add up to your personality. He sighed and pulled open the door, you weren’t a few steps away like he had hoped, but you were close enough. He stopped himself–this was completely bizarre, even for him. This was more up–well, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t up his alley.

Tired, you’d turned in for the night, though your eyes caught on all the things you’d left behind, you told yourself you’d look at it in the morning. You were glad everyone was here supporting you, you were especially glad to have Spencer–were glad he came, but then of course he came, that was just the kind of person he was.

You turned off the lamp on the bedside table, burying your face in the sheets, finding yourself still unable to cry, but whispering, “You would have liked him a lot, nonno*.” Which was madness, firstly, why did it matter if you grandfather would have liked Spencer or not. Secondly, your grandfather was gone, and the whole reason you were here was because of that fact. Maybe you just couldn’t accept it yet and that’s why you were thinking all these weird thoughts, why you couldn't cry.

You sighed, shutting your eyes, hoping you wouldn’t dream; to face tomorrow, you would just need sleep. Sleep and a lot of quiet.

You cracked open one eye, light trickling in through the curtains though it wasn’t bright. You left your door ajar as you headed toward the bathroom. There was soft chatter on the first floor, and you were sure your grandmother and parents were awake. The faint aroma of coffee wafted through the air and you wondered if Spencer was up too.

You didn’t have to wait long to find out as he stepped out of the bathroom just as you went to open the door. His hair was wet and he was wearing a white collared shirt under a brown sweater vest. He smiled when he saw you, though your eyes were drawn to the water dripping down his forehead. He was holding a towel, you assumed to try and dry it, though it looked if he hadn’t had much success.

“Morning.” You murmured.

“Good morning,” he echoed, stepping out of the way. “You’re parents said I could,” he motioned behind him, pressing his lips together when you raised a brow. He nodded, “hurry? I am kind of nervous.”

You snorted and shook your head, “sure thing, piccolo*.”

You shut the bathroom door behind you, feeling an airy sensation float through your body as you began pulling your clothes off.

Half an hour later, you found Spencer in his room still trying to dry his hair. “You should just let it air dry.” You voiced, tucking a lock of your own wet hair behind your ear.

He looked up when you opened the door, sighing, and setting the hand towel to the side. His hair was nearly dry, though he was trying to get the wet bits in the back. 

You huffed, climbing on the bed and sitting behind him on your knees, “let me see it.” You began massaging the now-damp towel into his hair, trying to use the little dry parts it still had left. He chuckled, jerking his head slightly when the towel rubbed a sensitive spot. You smirked, “that tickle?”

He huffed another laugh, “stop,” he called your name in warning, “I’m serious.”

You laughed, running the towel teasingly up and down his neck. He jerked and eventually jumped up, pushing you backward on accident. He launched a tickle attack, fingers jabbing at your sides, your neck, under your arms, and when you thought he couldn’t get any worse, he sought your feet, your sockless feet.

“Okay!” You snorted, “Okay, you win!”

“What?” He asked, staring down at you with triumph.

“Oh, don’t be an ass.” 

He grinned playfully, but relented, “Alright, come on, your parents probably want to see you.”

You huffed a sigh and threw your head back, the pillows coming to its rescue as you let your hands come to rest on your stomach, “do we have to?” His grin eased into a gentle smile and you gave in, jumping up, “Yeah, fine.” 

You headed downstairs, passing picture frames from past relatives. There were so many ancient trinkets that your generations had left behind, Spencer said it was like walking through time, and it honestly was. Not just because the house was built in the middle 1800s, but because everything from the wallpaper to the furniture, and right down to the people still living in it–had that reminiscent aura about them.

“Nice of you to join us.” Your grandmother said as you walked in, “And who’s this, a boyfriend?”

Your mother sent hers a warning glare before turning back to you, “good morning, please sit,” she motioned toward the breakfast table.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Spencer said taking the seat beside you, “again.”

Your mother laughed and waved a hand, “There is no need for formalities, but I do want to thank you for coming.” She glanced at you momentarily, but you avoided her eyes. You knew you would eventually have to speak to everyone again, but you weren’t ready for that yet.

“So, how long have you been dating my daughter?” Your father asked. You would have choked on the tea had you drunk any prior. Your eyes widened instead and you turned to Spencer apologetically, but he didn’t seem at all fazed, “we’re just friends.”

His smile seemed content, but your grandmother scoffed. You turned to her, almost already fed up with the little attitude that’d been present since your arrival. You knew she had always preferred the company of your sister, and she detested you for leaving without a word–not to her, but to your grandfather.

You frowned, wanting to ask about it, but you couldn’t find words that would bring the least amount of sadness to the room. 

“Are you going out today?” Your father changed the subject, turning toward Spencer. He seemed to catch on to the fact that you were uncomfortable, so he directed all his questions at your beloved pretty boy.

Spencer answered them with ease–to which you knew you’d be in debt. An hour went by and Penelope was blowing up the team group chat, asking when you were meeting up. Eventually, you knew you’d have to take her around town and to be honest, you could use a little distraction from the looming presence of being around the rest of your family when they got in this afternoon.

“When will you be back?” Your mother asked

“Not sure,” you replied, more clipped than you meant for it to be.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on her,” Spencer reassured, trying to ease the tension.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” your grandmother poked her head out of nowhere.

You shot her a glare and said, “Is this your way of seeing me off?”

Shocked by your reply, she tutted and jerked her head away, with closed eyes and crossed arms. You rolled your eyes, whispering, “see you later,” in the softest voice you could manage.

“That was…”

You huffed, wrapping your arms around yourself, “tell me about it.”

“So…your grandmother…”

“She hates me because I left, deep down they all do.” You frowned, but no tears came, they seemed to evade you.

Spencer pressed his lips together, normally he had the perfect response for anything you said, but you never spoke about your family. You were always sure to draw a boundary, you were very much like Emily in that sense, or at least he thought so.

You took a cab to the pier, agreeing to meet at the beach seemed simple. There were a few people, mostly locals though, your hometown wasn’t a place tourists normally visited. The main reason this town was able to survive was because a lot of the residents were wealthy, and that wealth stayed in the family and–well, the families stayed here.

“Woah,” Penelope yelped at the fourth store you stopped in, “we have to look around,” she said, eye-widening. Jack and Henry were milling about together, looking at little trinkets. You recognized the shop, it was an antique toy store–your grandfather had bought all your gifts over the years from this one in particular, some were secondhand, but they were sentimental to you and you had taken a few with you when you’d moved to America. 

“Babygirl, calm down.” Morgan laughed, following her down an aisle.

“How’s everyone settling in?” You asked, turning to Rossi when he huffed and muttered something under his breath. “What was that?” You leaned in, grinning.

Spencer pulled you back just as Rossi glared and called you a sadist. “We’re doing fine, your sister is nice.” JJ smiled, “she was asking about you,” she paused, waiting to see if it was an alright topic of conversation. When she realized you were waiting patiently for her to continue, she did, “she said she was sorry for not being home when you dropped us off. She wanted to catch up.”

You took a breath, your cheeks seemingly hot in the cold weather. “I know it’s not my place,” Will started, catching your eyes, “...but I…I think you should talk to her…”

You frowned at him, contemplating, then you nodded, sigh slipping past your lips, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Oh!” Penelope shouted, “Gelato, my phone says there’s a gelato place right around the corner!” 

You noticed Morgan walking up behind her when a laugh–though it sounded more like a croak–rang through your ears. “Your phone would be correct,” an old woman rounded the counter, short as could be. Her eyes bounced from face to face, settling on yours, “I told your old wench of a grandmother you’d come back. Were it for anything it’d be for him.” She sighed, “Come here, let me have a spin, my God how long has it been?”

You wanted to say eight years, but you neglected that subject and instead focussed your memory on figuring out who this woman was. 

“Hmm,” she hummed after a moment, taking a step back, her arms so incredibly bony they looked as if they might snap with the slightest pressure. Her pallor was somewhat tanned, and there were a few black spots up and down her exposed skin.

“You’re nonna’s old classmate.” It clicked, she was always stopping by the house in your earlier days, and she’d sometimes sit on the wraparound porch, sipping wine with your grandmother.

“Did you forget me already capretta*?” She chuckled as if she’d made a joke.

The rest of your group had deemed the conversation not there’s to listen in on, so they’d taken to wandering around the shop, the only one who stayed–partially because he wanted to and partially because you’d grabbed his wrist when he had tried walking away–was Spencer.

“I’m not a little girl anymore,” you murmured, “you shouldn’t call me that.”

“Oh, you’ll always be capretta* to me, you and all the others.” She smiled, her beady eyes watching you for a moment, as if expecting you to do something brash. Eventually, she said, “his funeral is tomorrow, yes?”

“Yeah,” saying it brought out a wave of pain. Your mouth felt heavy and your stomach dropped to your feet.

She nodded, “have you decided what you’re going to say?”

You shook your head, “I won’t be speaking.”

She paused, disappointment flashing across her face, “well, I’m sorry to hear that.” You pressed your lips together and began turning away, ready to get out of this uncomfortable situation, but she wasn’t finished, “you know, I’m sure he’s happy you’re here.”

Spencer watched you close your eyes, take a deep, shuddering breath, and open them carefully. He watched them gloss over and without thinking about it, snaked a hand behind your back, as if holding you to this earth would help you in some way, unbeknownst to him, it did. His touch grounded you, and you thought, another debt to be owed.

“You’re amante*,” she said right before you walked back outside.

“He’s not my–” you waved your hands but your your words faltered as she shook a cloth at you, a knowing smile adorning her face.

“Maybe not yet, capretta*.”

You sighed, yanking Spencer outside. “What did she say?” He asked as if he couldn’t use damned context clues.

“Nothing,” you responded, but Rossi raised an eyebrow, holding up his hands when you shot him a look, your eyes flashing in warning. 

The other’s finally joined you outside and you spent a few more hours acting as a tour guide. When you deemed it time to go home, you told everyone to be ready in formal attire around 8, the rest of your family would be coming in, staying at the main house as it was the last place that still had room, and a small party would ensue. Everyone only came together for weddings and funerals so they tended to make the most of it.

You weren’t really looking forward to seeing the rest of your cousins, hell you could barely face your immediate family, extended seemed a little too much too soon.

You thought about hiding up in your room, you hadn't had much time to take it in yet and you thought it might help.

Relatives started arriving around 7:30. Spencer had wandered down to your room and knocked, though you could hear the hesitation in it. “Come in,” you said, sitting up.

He walked through, shutting the door softly behind him. “So this is where I find all your secrets.” He chirped, an easy smile settling on his face as joined you on the bed, leaning back. “It’s pink,” he noted.

“Hey,” you said, “the wallpaper came with the room.”

He huffed a laugh, his eyes catching on a few blankets stacked neatly on a shelf linear your bed, “are those your baby blankets?”

“No,” you laid back down, the lamp at your side dimming slightly. “I think I stole those from my sister.”

He smiled, “I wonder what it’s like to have a sibling.”

You smiled, recalling all the idiotic fights you’d get into, how your parents would send you two to your room until you, “learned to love each other”. “She’s older by a few years,” your voice carried through the silent room, though it was lively on the first floor. You suddenly remembered you had a third, but you couldn’t recall a single memory of you being allowed there as is had always been locked.

“Do you want to talk about her?” He asked after a while.

You debated, on one hand, it might be good practice for when you spoke to her, on the other hand, what would you even say? You had no idea how she’d been these past eight years, what her life was like. What could you say and so you said, “ask me about her.”

He hummed for a moment, falling on, “why’d you steal the blankets?”

Your lips pressed together and you tried piecing together an accurate depiction of the event. “Well, she’d got them on a trip with our grandmother. My grandfather and I had been on an adventure, I think we were in the forest, I can’t remember,” you sat up and pushed yourself off the bed, walking over to the dresser and bending down to the shelf that held the blankets.

Spencer sat up, letting his eyes follow you, he felt warm, not anxious. Though his mind was working slowly, he found he didn’t mind. You seemed to calm everything down for him, it was a sense of comfort he hadn’t known he’d needed until you came into his life, and his headaches from before had slowly ceased the closer the two of you got.

“This one,” you held up, “was originally hers.” You brought it to him as he pushed himself to the edge of the bed, his feet sprawled around you. You didn’t think twice before stepping in between him, but you had never done that before and it caught him off guard. You had never been in such proximity when you were both wide awake, and you certainly had never faced each other like this.

Nevertheless, he didn’t mind–in fact, he was finding it increasingly obvious that he preferred you to be as close to him as possible. He ran a hand over the smooth ruffles of the white blanket. It was pleaded with light pink embroidery. “You should give it to your daughter.” He heard himself say, though his throat went dry right after. 

“You think so?” You found yourself wanting to be closer to him–as if I’m not close enough, you scolded yourself.

“Yeah,” he looked up at you, and gosh–it looked like he wanted you, and gosh–you felt your heartbeat speed up.

Your body moved on its own, stepping forward, loving the way his legs close together to entrap you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, dropping the blanket down beside him. You lifted your knees onto either side of his waist and sat in his lap, his arms snaking around your hips. “Hi,” you murmured, a nervous–almost hesitant–expression falling over your features.

His eyes flitted between your lips and your eyes, but he managed to force out a, “hi.”

You bit your lip and it drew his gaze instantly, you could feel his heart palpitate in his chest, almost as fast as yours. His eye fluttered close and his head fell back when you ran your hands through his hair. You didn’t know what you were doing, you told yourself multiple times, unsure of why this was happening–now of all times, oh your sweet nonno! Forgive me, you pleaded.

You angled your head forward, ready to do the one thing you’d knew your subconscious had been wanting for God knew how long, but then a knock sounded on the door and Spencer’s eyes opened once again.

“Who–” you cleared your throat, “who is it?”

“Uhm,” a nervous chuckle came from the other side of the door, “it..it’s me.” Your sister. You cursed, glanced at Spencer, then with an apologetic look, unraveled yourself from his embrace.

You walked toward the door, trying to fix your nettled clothing in the process. You took a breath and paused, then opened the door. Your sister stood there, tall, lean, and elegant, as you remembered her to be. “Hi,” she smiled, tilting her head.

You smiled back, trying your best to not give away what had just been going on–what the actual hell was just going on? You wanted to contemplate it more, wanted to ask yourself what the hell you thought you were doing–but refrained from doing so in the moment.

“Can…can I come in?”

You tensed, your eyes darting behind you and Spencer stood, throwing you an understanding glance. Your sister took a step back as he left the room, eyes following him as he disappeared somewhere down the hall. You swallowed and shifted out of the doorway, “come in.”

She raised an eyebrow but kept quiet upon you lifting a hand. 

“How have you been?” She asked once you shut the door. 

You thought about your answer, settling for, “good,” because you had been good, you had been very good, up until you got that letter.

“That’s good,” she responded, looking around the room, smiling, “you know, mom kept it just the way you had it when you left.”

You nodded, yes, you had noticed that, but you weren’t sure how you felt about it just yet.

“What’s this?” She walked toward your bed, where Spencer had been not a minute ago. She picked up the dainty blanket and sat down, steering clear of the part that had been undoubltey rumpled by Spencer. “Oh,” she said as if just recalling, “it’s the blanket I gave you.”

Your eyebrows scrunched together, you distinctly remember you stealing it from your room and hiding it when she had come asking if you’d seen it.

She laughed, apparently recalling the same thing, “I knew you had it back then,” which came as a surprise to you. She bit back a smile as she began folding it again, “nonna told me to let you keep it.”

Your eyes widened slightly, “did she?”

“Yep,” your sister popped the ‘p’.

“Hmm,” you hummed.

“What?” She asked, setting the blanket aside.

“She’s become batty.”

Your sister’s eyebrows rose, “how do you mean?”

“She’s been nothing but brutal to me,” you frowned, crossing your arms.

Your sister’s eye crinkled like she was about to laugh, “wow,” she said instead, “you’ve been gone so long you must have forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?” You scoffed.

“That’s how she’s always been,” your sister shook her head, mumbling your name and something else incoherent before turning to look back up at you, “I hope you visit again, that this isn’t some one off thing.”

You pulled away, your walls instantly going back up and your sister sighed, clearly noting the mask of an expression. “You always did that when you were a kid, you know.”

“Did what?” You furrowed your brows.

“Fold into yourself,” she waved her hands, “I don’t know how else to explain it.” She huffed, “you know, we really miss you, everyone. My kids,” she started, tears thrreatening to break loose, “you nieces and nephews–they don’t even know you.”

You looked down and for a second you weren’t sure what she was talking about, but then you remembered that yes–you were a zia*, your sister had children, three of them, and you hadn’t met them once.

Guilt wrapped itself around you like a veil, “I’m sorry,” you heard yourself saying, your face contorting as if you wanted to cry, wanted to express how remorseful you felt, but didn’t know how to.

“You’re just like her,” she threw her head back as a few tears ran down her cheek, “I think that’s why you were closer to Nonno*. You and Nonna* are too alike, you’re both so damn stubborn.” She huffed a laugh and for a moment, a sliver of a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“I think love my best friend,” you found yourself admitting, maybe it was your way of trying to reach out, to tell your sister you were still you.

“That guy that was just here?” She grinned at you, “yeah, the family has been talking about it, Nonna* said to expect a wedding within the next year.”

Your face fell, embarrassment taking over, “what? Why? That old bat!” You scoffed, standing, “I can’t believe her, I’ve only been here–what? Two days? If that? That crazy old woman,” you marched toward the door, “Well?” You called to your sister, “are you going to back me up or what?”

She stared at you for a moment and then slowly, but surely, an calm smile crept onto her face, but her eyes were ones of storybook villains,“yeah, sure.”

The day started gloomy, though when you met Spencer in the hall, it became just a little less than that. You weren’t feeling like yourself, though you weren’t actually sure what self you were referring to. 

JJ had messaged the group chat that she’d be late because Henry had an accident right before they set off to leave. You thought about messaging your sister, but it felt weird, you weren’t used to initiating conversation with your family, so you didn’t, although you did plan to speak before the funeral.

You wore simple black attire, as did everyone else and you caught yourself holding onto Spencer’s hand tighter than usual, almost as if he’d leave you too, and you couldn’t have that. Your heart studded in your chest once you saw the coffin, it was closed, of course. It had been open for the hearing, but that had occured before you’d landed.

You couldn’t move forward. You told the others to go on and after making sure you were okay, they did, “but you’re not allowed to go,” you’d whispered, almost to yourself.

Spencer had squeezed your hand, whispering back, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your family gathered around the casket and the sacerdote* stepped forward, reading off a few of the retellings your grandmother had no doubt written down with the help of your parents. You noted a few other, non-related spectators, probably friends.

A few of his favorite songs were played and then your mother said a few words, followed by your grandmother, and finally your sister. “Are you okay?” Spencer pulled you closer by your arm.

You pressed your lips together, watching the coffin being lowered into the grave. “I don’t know…” and when you swallowed, you found your throat dry and for the first time since the letter, you not only found yourself wanting to cry, you found it was almost within reach.

The ceremony ended and relatives began dropping dirt into the grave, you thought to say one last prayer before leaving, but you didn’t want anyone to see you. You turned to Spencer and let go of his hand, “I just…” you turned away, pressing your lips together as you eyed the fresh grave.

He smiled sadly, but he nodded; he always seemed to be able to understand you no matter how silent or how loud you were. Maybe that’s why you loved him, you couldn’t be sure. There were so many things you loved about him–gosh you loved him. The revelation was like a wish from a birthday candle being answered.

You stepped away and Spencer watched as you pushed through the crowd. Hotch and the others surrounded him, questioning stares ever-present. “We should give her some time,” he said after seeing you hesitate, then sit near the makeshift headstone.

“What’s she doing?” Penelope frowned, watching you shift in your spot on the wet grass.

“Saying goodbye,” Spencer was the only one to respond–he was also the last one to retreat.

You didn’t know how to begin, you hadn’t spoken to him in eight years. You were scared that he was angry at you, but then again, you knew that couldn’t be the case, yes you knew he was gone, but what if his spirit was still here? What if he couldn’t move on because he had unfinished business and it was your fault?

You stopped yourself, since when did you believe in superstition? That was your parents…and Rossi; not you.

You sighed, running your hand through the grass, deciding to start as if he were still there, trying not to sound too guilty.

Nonno, you began, I–I’m sorry, you shook your head, I know, I know I should have visited. I know– a single tear fell down your cheek and you paused to wipe it away, shocked by your own emotions. “Forgive me,” you whispered.

“You sound like a crazy person,” you jerked your head to the side, eyes landing on your grandmother.

You huffed, eyes narrowing as you sniffled and wiped another tear that had fallen. “You’re one to talk.”

Your grandmother shifted, as if uncomfortable, and then she moved forward, more brittle than you had noticed the first time. “I’m not going to sit down,” she said after a moment, “don’t let my looks full you, I’m not how I once was.” She grunted as she stood beside you.

“Yeah, well, your looks aren’t fooling anyone, so.”

“Ouch,” she laughed, but it sounded like a wenches cackle. “Oh nipotina*,” she clicked her tongue and shook her head, a complacent smile making its way onto her wrinkled face.

You sat in silence, comfortable or not, you were glad she had stopped talking, you didn’t know what to say to her. In your opinion, you had never really gotten along with your grandmother, this wasn’t reconnecting with your parents or sisters or even your zia* and zio*, this was…new territory altogether.

You frowned, “listen, child,” and you did, you perked up, you could listen to her talk, that would be easy, you just hoped she didn't expect a response. “Your grandfather loved you, he never stopped talking about you.” You smiled, but then it faltered. You had abandoned him, hadn’t even deigned to visit because of how guilty you’d felt…

“He knew,” you whispered, heart racing. 

You heard your grandmother sigh. “I thought as much,” she frowned, staring at her husband's grave as if she could bring him back by will alone. 

“You did?” You hadn’t left without saying goodbye, not to him at least, that was one thing everyone had gotten wrong, your grandmother knowing had never occurred to you because you were sure your grandfather kept it a secret. Why else would the entire family have blown up when they’d realized you had left? When they’d realized it was too late to stop or convince you otherwise–because by the time everyone else had found out, you were halfway across the North Atlantic already.

“I always thought it was strange how he never said anything about it.” A grim smile tugged her at her red-painted lips.

“Nonna*, did I make the right decision?” You asked, surprising even yourself.

She sighed and you thought she might say ‘I can’t tell you if it was right or wrong’ or something a normal grandmother would say, but your grandmother wasn’t normal, she was an old bat, probably the same one you’d turn into at her age and she said, “You’re damned right you were wrong.”

Your mouth dropped, taken aback, and then you burst into laughter, throwing your head back as you tried wiping your tears, “oh you’re such an old bat,” you sighed.

“I knew you always called me that behind my back,” she harumphed, jerking her head away and crossing her arms like a child.

“Oh come now, Nonna*,” you stood and reached out the touch her shoulder.

She huffed and dropped her arms, eyes darting around your face in what seemed to be concern. “You were wrong for not telling the rest of us, you had your parents worried sick, and your sister too.” Her frown deepened, “even me.”

You nodded, “I know, but nonna*,” you sighed, wanting to explain yourself, but she held up a hand. You raised a brow, almost saying huh, so that’s where I get it from, out loud.

“Your grandfather always said you were meant for something greater, that your heart wouldn’t allow you to stay in this town the way ours allowed the rest of us.

“No, no nipotina*, you were not wrong for leaving. This town, this family? Yes, you come from here, but there,” she nodded her head toward your co-workers, (or friends, you were honestly still deciding), “with them, that is where you belong now.”

You smiled, finding acceptance in her answer.

“And your friend,” she rolled her eyes when she said it, “well, I expect the wedding to be here.”

You huffed a laugh before turning, catching Specner’s eye, and when he waved your heart swelled. “We’ll see,” you started walking away.

Your grandmother trailed after you, throwing her hands up and shouting, “incovalato*! You insolent child!”

a/n: ahhh i can't wait to write my next fic because i already know waht it is. i don't want to give spoilers, but just know you're going to see dad!spencer !!

taglist: @darkmatilda @theylovemelody

[awordsmith]

rained on with you 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you attend a few of Spencer's classes as an auditor for personal reasons and he calls you out in front of the class, and has no idea just how off he is.

katcember

who? spencer reid x college!reader when? s13 category: angst to fluff (hurt/comfort) content warnings: kidnapping of a sibling, mentions of sa (not you), anger, shouting, stress, public embarrassment, student/professor dynamic (you're not his student), Spencer being sexually harassed by female students, intense despair and sadness, self-loathing, guilt, thoughts of murder, happy ending, not proofed, reid with care word count: 8.7k a/n: my first post, be pleasant! this actually made me cry because I've had a teacher I trusted and felt comfortable with yell at me for something I thought was completely okay in front of not only my class, but another class. enjoy!

You cursed yourself, there was something about the dreary weather outside that had you rushing through the outdoor halls of the building that made everything worse, you thought perhaps it was because it perfectly resembled what you felt inside.

It's been a month, you'd told yourself the first time you'd decided to audit the first class. It was a sociology class by a woman you'd never heard of, it wasn't even a general class needed for your major, you could have taken it as an elective, sure, but by that time, the deadline to add and drop classes had ended.

You'd taken notes and must have read them a hundred times over again, the police were kind at first, understanding, but as you began to compile more and more information, they stopped listening.

Two months had gone by and they'd eventually labeled her as a runaway. It wasn't uncommon for girls her age, but you knew your sister, and it just did not make sense.

That's when you decided it was you or no one, your parents could not handle the thought of anything else, and they too–eventually–chose to move on. "For the better," they'd said, it had made you so angry and feel so incredibly helpless at the same time.

How could they–her own parents–give up just like that?

Not you. You would never forget your sister, nor her person. You had gone over the day multiple times in your head and yet could not wrap around the fact that she'd just vanished without a trace.

You were entering the third month of her disappearance in December, and coincidentally her birth month. You did not want to celebrate without her and though the mere thought of her threatened tears rolling down your cheeks, you couldn't stop. It was as if the guilt wouldn't let you.

During the day, you attended your normal classes, and at night, almost every night, including Friday–tonight–you'd attend a lecture-based class that surrounded around psychology, sociology, and criminology. You had become a regular in each of the classes, criminology being the last you started attending.

You took vicarious notes, and when you weren't studying for your course classes, you were cramming as much information you'd learned from your secret night classes into your head and pouring it into your sister's disappearance.

To quench your need for sleep, you'd taken up drinking a lot more coffee than one should normally take in a day. You had been running a little behind schedule, so when you walked into the lecture hall and all eyes–including the professor's–fell on you, you absently took a small step back.

"Sorry I'm late," you murmured, avoiding his eyes as you moved to take a seat in the front like you normally did. The hall wasn't that big and most students sat in the back-row, what few did sit in the front were pretty quiet and never said a word to you. The lights were always dim, but enough for you to see your paper and pen.

The scent of rain and coffee wafted through the air as you began the trek to your normal seat. A question abruptly stopped you in the middle of the row, you had passed all the other students and you normally would have deigned to go around them, but thought not to interrupt the prof introducing the topic of today.

"What's your name?" Called the professor. You were startled as you set your back pack on the floor and slid into a seat.

"My–my name?" you swallowed, wishing the floor would swallow you.

"Yes, your name." His voice was thick and laced with something more than displeasure.

You glanced up at him, biting your cheek for a moment, deciding how to respond. What could it hurt? You thought. You looked back up at him, meeting his eyes, they were soft, and for some reason you abruptly wondered how old he was, surely not much older than you. You mumbled out your name, then shifted in your seat to lean down and rummage through your bag for your notebook.

"I don't actually believe you're in my class," he glanced around the room briefly before his eyes returned to you, your head down. He waited patiently for you to lift it again and meet, "I'm not in the habit of being straightforward like this," he began walking toward you.

Your heart pounded in sync with each step he took. Was he made you hadn't asked him to audit his class? You should have just asked him, but he always seemed to be with someone, you even once tried to find him during his office hours, but you didn't really want to go into depth about why you wanted to listen to his lectures. You'd barely escaped the previous two.

Besides, he'd looked intimidating, just as he did now, hovering above you with his arms crossed, "tell me," you kept your head down as your cheeks grew red, knowing every one in the class had their eyes on you, "why do you keep coming back?"

When you didn't respond as you just didn't know how, he scoffed, "listen, I don't mean for this to come off as personal, but stop." You jerked your head upward, eyes pleading. He was the only professor that aloigned with your schedule.

He rolled his eyes, ran a hand down his face, and sighed. "Stop–just," he held bout a hand, a resigned and indifferent expression on his face, "girls like you are the reason I don't allow auditors in my class anymore. If you're not curious about the material, there is no reason for you to be here."

"But I am," came the tiny squeak of your voice.

He laughed, but tried to cover it up with a cough as he deigned to look at you again, "I have students here," he motioned toward the other students in the hall with his arms, "who I'm sure would appreciate their time and energy being respected, I know I do." His face fell flat, "so do us all a favor and–

"What?!" Came your realized reply. For as long as it took you, you were surprised the prof had not yet realized the mixup. You felt less embarrassed now and more–pissed. How arrogant can one person be? How big is too big an ego? "Are you crazy?" You couldn't help the shout as you stood.

To his credit, the prof–yeah, you didn't even know his name–and he thought, you scoffed internally, rolling your eyes on this outside, you took a few steps forward until you were in front of him. You shoved your notebook in his chest and waited for him to grab it before taking another step back, doing your best to ignore the number of eyes that were most defiantly flying between you and the prof.

"Look, I'm sorry I interrupted your lecture, and I'm also sorry for not asking to audit it, but to say that I've been using my free nights where I could be sleeping or working on her case to see you–" you took a breath, face flushed despite how you both wanted to laugh and cry and scream, "whatever," you shook your head, a scoff leaving your lips as you did so; you turned around, snatched your book bag from the floor, and stormed out, letting the metal door fall closed with a hard thud.

You only got a few paces away before tears began welling in your eyes and you plastered yourself against a nearby wall, the car lot you'd been at no more than 5 minutes ago right around the corner. "I'm sorry," you whispered, "I'm so–o, so-rry," you wiped your eyes, your voice trembling with and cracking with the weight of the day and the most recent events. You knew that it wasn't the last you'd see of that prof, you'd need to go back eventually to get your notebook back, that is–if he kept it, for all you knew he'd thrown it away already.

Whatever the case, just one last time, you'd need to talk to him just once more, if only to get your stupid notebook back that you stupidly handed over in a moment of dumbfounded and audacity-stricken. You just couldn't believe it.

You shook your head, swiping at the tears that had began streaming down you face. You'd go during one his office hours, perhaps he'll feel sorry or guilty. Good, you thought, he should.

Not tonight though, tonight, you were sleeping, you weren't going to think about anything. Your body was exhausted and you knew it; it had been for a while and yet you neglected it the sleep it desperately needed for favor of finding your sister and keeping up your normal schedule.

Just one night, you thought, making your way into the lot.

Huffing, you stuffed your hands into your pockets, it had been a few days now, you let Saturday and Sunday pass, Monday too, today, you couldn't handle it any longer. You needed your notebook, you were nearly there, you had gone over your suspect list, you had what you thought was a solid profile, though you couldn't be too sure, you were planning to go over it with the sociology professor when you had the chance, though you had no idea if she'd be able to give you anything more, especially if she didn't take it seriously.

You were just thinking that you could probably say it was a personal project, something to get your gears turning when you ran headfirst into someone. "Oh, I am so sorry," you backed away, reaching an arm out to steady the girl.

She glanced at you, tear-marks down her face, "it's fine," she huffed and held her head up, "it's nothing," she smiled painfully, "my fault really," she turned to you with an endearing expression, "thank you, though." She walked off quickly, no doubt wanting to get to her car.

It was such a strange experience, you had to rub your own head, thinking you'd hit it too hard and that's why you weren't walking in a straight line.

Nearing his office, you puffed out your chest, ready to stand your ground and demand your book back if necessary. You didn't believe yourself above the law, but spending a night or three in a jail didn't seem all too bad when only God knew what your sister was going through.

The smell of coffee hit you, like it always did, it became somewhat familiar in your routine, smelling it now–when you normally didn't–almost through you off.

You cleared your head and were about to clear your throat before stepping into his office, when you caught a sentence, he wasn't alone. You raised a brow and pressed your back against slightly ajar door, "please," it was the prof–his shaggy brown hair and puppy brown eyes appeared as a perfect image in your head, though his eyes were narrowed in your depiction. You glared back at the him from last Friday, then paused, catching the other side of the conversation.

"I–I don't know what you mean," murmured the student–a girl. You briefly thought of the girl you'd ran into, then through the image away in favor of eaves dropping. "I just," a char creaked and a heavy sigh came.

"Listen," the prof's gruff voice was lighter this time, he sounded almost...awkward. You smirked at it, now he was intimidated by a girl? An actual student of his no less? What kind of pathetic–

"I just was to know how I can please you, in the class, I mean," she corrected yourself, but the meaning was there and it made you cough, you'd covered it in time, swiftly moving your face into the inner side of your elbow.

"And I've told you," the prof's chair shifted, man he must be uncomfortable, you thought, feeling a little sorry for him. You had no idea–it just never crossed your mind–that he could have been yelling at you from a reasonable stand point.

You sighed and through your head back, prepping yourself for something you most definitely shouldn't do.

"I know what you said, Sir, but," the girls voice began to get pushy, which is when you thought it finally time.

You swept open the door all the way and stepped inside, arms crossed a sly smile on your face, "sorry to interrupt, oh," you let your eyes fall to the girls, "sorry I didn't know you were with someone, but," you had the decency to try looking regretful, "I'm sorry, this is really important."

It took a few seconds for the girl to register that you were now addressing her. She glanced at your dominating figure and then back at the prof, who looked both grateful and constipated. You bit your cheek to keep from laughing.

"Right," the prof said, turning to the girl who now went limp in the chair, "thank you for stopping by, I appreciate it I do."

The girl nodded solemnly, understanding this was a polite way of being dismissed. She collected her things gravelly, which is when you paused, she was young–fresh out of high school young. What was she doing trying to mess with a professor her first year in university?

Her face pinged familiar when she looked at you and you instantly made the connection from the girl you'd bumped into earlier. Your eyes widen and a just barely audible, "oh," came from you mouth.

When she was gone, you took a breath before turning back around, meeting his eyes in a silent, "so, that was crazy," his lips formed a line and his eyes almost shrugged for him.

"Does that happen a lot?" You didn't know why you asked, but you did, and well, he answered didn't he?

"More times than students come in with actually problems." He frowned, eyes fixed on the door left open.

"Maybe that just mean you're a good teacher?" You raised a brow, at least you thought he was, he did ramble sometimes, but it was enjoyable, seeing as how you were used to it. Well, you used to be, Your face tightened, "my notebook," you roamed your eyes over his desk before looking up again, "I want it back."

He nodded thoughtfully, watching you for a moment, "who is she?"

Your eyes fell, so he had read it, "my sister."

He nodded again, though you only looked back up when he pulled open a drawer. "I assume you..." his sentence broke off when heavy rainfall began.

He glanced at the door again, then at you, to which you smiled, though small, kind, "we can leave it open."

Relief filled his face and just for a second it made you angry on his behalf. Why hadn't he gone to the dean of his college? Surely it wouldn't be as bad as what he'd been going through now.

You opened your mouth to say something about it, but he spoke before you, "uhm, the case, it was dropped?"

You nodded, "yeah, last month."

"I assume you have a list? This was pretty detailed work," he held up your notebook.

"Thank you, but that's not all I have," you informed, "that's just my notebook for your class, which is incredibly insightful by the way, you should really think about becoming full time, your lectures aren't that hard to understand once you're comfortable and familiar with the material and usage of vocab..u...lar..y..." you dropped of your sentence, glancing away.

He chuckled, almost startling you out of your seat, "it's okay, I do that sometimes too."

You smiles slightly, "I know, you do it constantly during your lectures and seminars."

His smile cracked and he looked a little worried, "do I?"

You snorted, "Don't worry, they're interesting and most of the time relatable to the discussion or topic." He nodded, looking a little conscious. "So," you prodded, noting the book still in front of him.

"Oh, right," he picked the book up and handed it back to you, you didn't know what else to say, so you began to stand, "you know," his voice echoed through the office, though not large and with rain pouring down as if a hurricane was about to roll in, still clear, "if you want I can take a look at it, I am an FBI profiler."

You turned back to him and raised a brow, "what was your name again?"

He looked shellshocked, "you, you don't know my name?"

"Don't take it personal," you waved off, "I don't know my real professors' names, I call them all prof or professor for a reason."

"Do you call me professor?" He smiled, intrigued by the sudden admission. It was a little feeing, knowing that not only did he have a student in his office whom enjoyed his seminars and took detailed notes during his lectures, but who didn't have a single clue who he was. He'd written paper's, was on live television more times than he could recall–and he had an eidetic memory–and still, she did not know a single thing about him other than he taught twice a week once on a Wednesday night and once on a Friday night. He was honestly surprised he was able to get off work in time to head over to campus and set up.

"Prof," you said, grinning smugly, "professor isn't your style."

"Why not?" He scrunched his brows together.

"You're too young, it makes me feel weird and takes a hit at my pride," you grabbed your chest dramatically.

A snort came from his throat as he watched you reenact Romeo and Juliette, act 5, scene 3. He paused, referring to you as Juliette could be misinterpreted and he did not want that. He liked talking to you despite himself and he frowned as he recalled how he'd embarrassed you lat Friday, "I'm sorry," he tilted his head downward, watching your smiling eyes find his, "last Friday, that was uncalled for..."

You stared at him for a long while, trying to figure out how to say it, but eventually gave up and let your thoughts spill out, "yes, it was." He winced slightly at the harshness, you did too, you hadn't realized hoe hurt you still were, but you sighed, "at least I thought it was." He lifted his eyes and you averted yours, "look, it's not my place or anything, but what's happening is not okay, it's harassment. You should.." you bit your lip, frowned, and met his eyes through your lashes, "why haven't you gone to the dean?"

He took a breath and sat down in his chair, it squeaking on impact. You watched him run a hand through his hair, he looked contemplative, "I don't know...I just," he huffs, "they're kids, they have their entire life ahead of them, I don't know how I could just take that all away because of some silly crush."

The way he said "silly" instead of "stupid" or "annoying" made you smile. Your heart warmed and at the same time you felt sorry for him, but you were also beyond confused, "you said you were an FBI profiler?" He nodded, "then, how can't you tell the difference between–" you stopped yourself, that wasn't fair to him at all. "All right," you nodded, "if you won't go to the dean, that's your choice," you pressed your lips together, "but if you ever need a rescuing like today," you patted your arm, "I can be your superman."

His eyebrows furrowed, "don't you mean supergirl?"

"Nah," you smiled smugly again, "I mean superman."

He nodded, a grin falling over his face like it'd been waiting to break free, "okay, thanks. Oh, and–uhm," he pulled out his phone, "should I email you?"

You nodded, "as long as you let me continue auditing your class."

He smiled, eye alight with something you were certain you had never seen cross his face in the two months you'd been taking his lectures and seminars. "If you want me to look at your sister's case," he said quietly after you'd hit the door, "I'd be willing to mention it to my team."

Your eyes widened and you spun around, tears already in your eyes, you kept your hope down, but your thankfulness as clear as the notion you were going to get soaked before reaching your car was. "I would appreciate it greatly, even if nothing comes of it."

He smiled, "I'll let you know what they say after class tomorrow."

"Thank you," you swiped at your eyes, wondering how someone who you had never spoken to you up until now could make you cry so much.

You spun around, notebook covered under you shirt, and headed down the hall, where you were bound to face the wrath of the climate.

You worked out the finality of your suspect list, you could not narrow it as you'd have to actually interact with these people, and if you did, you could only think of what that meant for you sister. You didn't have all the information the cops had gathered, in fact you had significantly less, the only thing you had that the cops didn't was relation.

You threw your head back and groaned, you were hoping the prof had done his job. Yes, you still called him prof, it hit you a few minutes after ringing out your clothes before getting in your car, he'd never told you his name. You felt an urge to go back and ask, knowing it was going to keep you up at night, but as much shit as you talked, you were not brave enough to face the wind and rain again.

You were waiting for it to start hailing, thanking your school for having rooftops over their car lots. Sure enough it did bug you, but what bugged you more was what his team would say. Would they help? Would they roll their eyes and state that she clearly just ran away? Your sister was 23, her birthday was around the corner, you were just a year younger, though your birthday had passed already.

You slide out of your car, breathing in the fresh air, hoping the wind was all you got tonight. You felt someone watching you, knew you were probably just tired. It had happened a few times, so you weren't too concerned.

You were early, not wanting to cause any disruption like the last time you were here. It was a Wednesday, but at this time, the school wasn't as crowded, sometimes, if you were desperate you parked in the teaches lot and hopes no one would pay too much attention.

Your nose picked up the scent of coffee again and you couldn't help the cheeky grin that spread across your face, nor the welling in your eyes. What would he say? Would his team take the case? Would they try helping anyway if they couldn't? Despite yourself, you couldn't help but hope.

When you popped your face in, there were a few students already settled. Some glanced at you, some were too distracted by their phones, none seemed to be much affected by your presense.

"Oh, there you are," came a deep and yet squeaky voice. You spun around, finding the prof behind you, he tightened his lips, averting his eyes from your every time you found his.

Your heart failed, they had denied it. You gulped and prepared yourself, "it's alright–"

"So, they took the case–"

He startled at your disappointment as you startled at his shifty eyes. "What?" Your voice seemed octave, "what do they think?"

"Well," he stepped away from the door and moved you along using ah hand on your back so that a student might get through. You wondered what they thought of you, probably incredibly confused as to why you were still here, having an intimate conversation with their professor after he had so easily confirmed his distaste of you just a few days ago.

"What happened?" You prompted, "just tell me, I can take it." You nodded assuredly.

He huffed, stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned his back adjacent the wall, "how long has your sister been missing?"

"December 21 will make it a full three months," you stated, "what does it matter?"

"They've agreed to take the case, but they're concerned," he started, "they–" a few students passed us and entered the classroom.

You glance down at your phone, "we can continue after class," you spun around without a word and entered the class, half wondering why in the world his team took the case, you were pretty sure–from what you gathered in your night lessons–FBI profilers, BAU agents, only dealt with serial killings. It was a long shot really, and you knew there were likely cases that rendered more serious, but you just could not pass up the offer.

You didn't want to question it, but you did, the prof ended class early and that's it, you thought, I need his name, calling him prof isn't going to do it anymore.

You collected your things slowly, waiting for the hall to empty. When it was, you headed for his desk at the corner of the room. "They never found a body?" He questioned as soon as you braced your hands against his desk, back pack discarded to the side on the floor.

"No," you shook your head, eyes determined, "if they did, my parents or I would have been called in to ID it." You were sure she was still alive, you could feel it.

"If they haven't found a body, there's a good chance she's still alive," he affirmed your suspicions, in any case, I'm not really suppose to be discussing this with you...but I think we're a little past that."

"I'm superman," you remind him, chuckling away the pain in your voice "only kryptonite can hurt me."

He smiled, genuinely, kindly, "they've already started working on it."

Your eyes widened, "already? The police reopened the case?"

He faltered slightly, "not exactly...but...we have skilled...team members."

"My lips are sealed," you mimed zipping your lips.

"Did you bring your suspect list?" You raised a brown and he smiled smugly, as if to say, "come on now."

You pulled your book bag onto his desk as he stood and brought around a stool that seemed to have materialized from thin air. You moved out the way and allowed him to set it down, murmuring a thank you as you took a seat.

He was dialing someone on his phone as you slid over your list, when the person answered, he put the phone on speaker, "hey, Garcia, I'm gonna need you to run background check on a list."

"What'doyou got for me, Doctor?" Came a woman's voice from the other side of the line.

Doctor? You squinted your eyes, watching the man in front of you. Accomplished, was the world that boiled in your mind, this man was incredibly accomplished, how old was he exactly? It made you wonder, honestly. You were in your last year of college, ready to go full time after this year, but not without your sister. You still had so much you wanted to do with her.

The phone call ended, you had tuned out the entire time, "you're skilled teammate, I suppose," you raised a brow, your lis quirked slightly upward.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you'd make a one hell of a profiler." He grinned back, eyes lingering.

Your heart thrummed in your chest, oh no, your subconscious screamed, but your conscious replied anyway, "and what do you know, Doctor?"

He snorted, "alright, first of all, it's Spencer, second of all," he lifted and pointed a finger at your clothing, "you stress easily, you clean up neater when you're trying to mask something, probably juggling being a full time student and full time rookie cop," his eyes dipped to your bag, where a pin of a true crime show you loved sat perfectly, "you have interest in crime, but you'd hate the profession because of the long hours." He reached for your bag and instead of stopping him, you watched, amazed,"you prefer alone time," he placed your current read in front of you, "which means you're most likely single and have been for while," he glanced at you momentarily, then went back to rummaging, "you listen to music when you're trying to focus," he set down your headphones and sets your bag to the side again, "and I can't prove it on my own, but I guarantee if you open your phone right now and look at your purchase history, it'll have more than the average orders spent at the coffee shop across from campus."

You nodded and gulped, "a magician."

He tilted his head with a crooked grin and raised and eyebrow, "no, it's–it's just–"

"–fucking awesome?" You asked, amazement written stark across your face.

"Yes," he cleared his throat, "well, anyway," he forced his gaze back down at the list in front of you when his phone rings.

It's the girl again, says a woman, Emily, had more information and thinks he may have a location. From what you got, your sister was most likely captured by a sex trafficking ring. Your heart sinks when you hear the new, hoping and praying they were able to find her, but you knew the probability, it had been months. "She could be half way across the world by now," your throat was raw and thick.

"Hey," Spencer placed his hand over yours, "it's going to be okay. I promise." But he didn't say they'd find her, he didn't say the probability of her being found at all could be a one in a million chance, and that's when you thought almost irritatingly, he is way too good at his job.

You stood outside the coffee shop a day later, watching the downpour of the day, huffing as you stepped inside the offered warmth of the shop. There was the usual barista at the counter, her smile genuine, "hey, I was just talking about you."

"Really?" You try for a smile, not wanting her to think your sour mood because of her.

"Yep, you want the usual?"

You nodded and stepped up to the counter, "actually can I add a chocolate croissant, too?"

"Sure thing," she rang you up and you sat down near a window to wait. Your fists strained against themselves, anger had racked your brain this morning. It was all you could think about, how you'd kill the people that hurt your sister, that could even think it okay–

You heard your name being called as the door to the coffee shop rung, you glanced up to see an odd looking abominable-Spencer, you snorted, "are you okay? What are you wearing?"

He approached you, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion as he shrugged off the giant, apparently rain- repellent coat, "it's a puffer jacket."

You smiled slightly, one of the realest smiles you've had since the kidnapping. "Did your team find something?" You asked as he placed the jacket on the chair across from you and sat down. You'd assumed so, since he had been the one to email you this morning during your fist class. The fog had cleared away, so you walked instead of driving, leading to regret as soon as you reached your destination, when the rain began to pour.

"Yes, actually," he nodded, "my...they found the drop off, where the gils were being held. You would have perked up if you didn't know what the look on his face meant.

"You didn't find her," you amended, an aching sadness falling over you. You thought it might have been because you'd spent all this time looking for her, trying to prove she wasn't a runaway, and you were so close. Even though you knew the probability of finding her was slim to none, you couldn't give up, your heart and mind wouldn't let you, as long as she lived, and she was alive, you'd never stop looking.

"They're interrogating a few of the..." he cleared his throat, noting the glistening of your wet cheeks. "They, they're also going over what the victims remember, hoping it'll give them some clue as to where...uh, the others were taken."

You gulp, nodding. For a second, you felt an urge to say her name, to tell him, but that wouldn't be fair, "thank you, for everything, Spencer."

"Of course," he frowned, without thinking his hand shot out and lifted your face, eyes darting over you, he was analyzing you.

Your lip quirked, "are you profiling me right now?"

His mouth hung ajar for a moment, eyes searching, then, "no, I've already done that."

You nod, "right, last night, you know my favorite book."

"That's not what I meant," he sighed, then, as if just no realizing, dropped your face so abruptly, you had to catch it. He leaned back, then stood, "I'm...gonna go order."

You nodded, your mind racing with the thoughts of your sister. How you just wanted to hold her hand one last time, press her against you, and tell her how sorry you were. That you didn't mean it, any of it. You had no idea where she'd gone after she'd left your apartment, she had just left.

The fight was stupid, it could have been avoided completely if you'd just been a little more understanding. You hated yourself for that, how could you be so selfish, it was just one person! It wasn't even a boy, it was her friend. Your reasoning may have been a little justified, but just because you didn't know this girl–your brain stopped. Your head shot up and you wiped your tears, waiting eagerly as Spencer sat back down.

"What?" He furrowed his brows, "what did you remember."

Damn him and his profiling skills, "there was a girl, that day, my sister and I had got into a fight, we have our own apartments, but mine's closer to campus, so when she's tired she'll usually crash at mine, sometimes with friends. I only had two rules for that, one there could be no more than 2 of her friends, and that I had to know them. But I didn't know her, and that's why we got into a fight." You take a breath as you ramble out all this information, "I'd thought it was strange, I even told the cops, but they brushed it off–she–she would have never done that. She never broke my rules, that's why I was so annoyed–" you murmur, "H, her name started something with an H, I think," then you remembered.

You told Spencer her name and he had his skilled teammate, Garcia, run that name through the universities system. Of course there were multiple, so you began trying to recall things that stood out.

"Got her," came the reply, "running background check, Rossi's on the other line, brb my sunshine," a click and the call was disconnected.

You stared in awe at the phone on the table, and then you grinned, you lifted your face and was met with an equally proud expression. Your order was called soon after and you stood to grab it. As you passed Spencer his arm shot out and halted you, you looked down at him questioningly, he opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and let you go, "it's nothing."

You nodded, a little nervously. You suppressed the butterflies in your stomach, this could only end one way, he was comfortable with you, he was helping you find your sister, the entire reason you'd began auditing his class. You had told him it wasn't for him and it wasn't, but what would be the point if now...

No, you would find your sister and cease contact with him, that'd b how this ended. I'm his superman, you thought, cringing slightly, and unfortunately I only have one weakness.

They'd did it, they'd found your sister. She was being rushed to the hospital and you and your parents were doing your best to contain your relief. You couldn't help but yell at them. "I told you so, I told you!"

You had emailed Spencer the good news, though he'd probably already knew. You emailed on sing your personal emails, seeing as the university monitored the ones on canvas.

The rush of excitement and thrill was frightening. The bags under your eyes would now disappear and you could sleep again without having nightmares.

"Where is she?" You all but screeched at the receptionist, your parents took assertion, and you let them. It was evident, even to you that you were not in the right state of mind, nor were you physically great. It had taken them four days. Four days to find your sister, all this time you were out searching, it felt like a waste of time.

You couldn't face her, you took a step back, terrified of her reaction. As your parents rushed to the elevators, you stayed where you stood. You ignored their calls to you, you face unreadable in their eyes. As the elevator door shut, your took a shuddering breath. The hospital was full, which didn't seem unusual for the staff, but it was too loud for you.

Too loud, you wanted to scream, and cry, and break down, but you didn't deserve that. Not after all your sister went through.

"Hey, hey, hey," calm and gentle, his voice tugged at you like a life raft. You turned as and soon as you met his eyes the tears fell, you let out a loud wale as he wrapped you in his arms.

"She was–over two months!"

"Shh, shh," he rubbed your back and cradled your neck, you buried your face into his shoulder, "hey, it's not your fault," his voice went high for a second and then lowered again. You heart boomed in your chest–you loved that about him. The uncertainty in his voice, the way he didn't know if what he said was going to make the situation better or worse. In the single four days you had known him on a more personal level, he had grown and grown like a weed.

His presence made everything just a little bit bearable. Why, you didn't know, but you could not do this to him. You could not be the person he comforted on a daily basis because that's just what he expected of you, why he was weary and displeased with you in the first place. You could not feel this way about him, especially because it was almost mad–again you hadn't known his name more than three days.

"What did you mean?" You asked suddenly, pulling away, "when you said you had profiled me before?"

He pressed his lips together and used his thumb to wipe the tears that kept streaming down your cheek, the lights in the hospital seemed to dim and the nose seemed to filter out, "it's nothing, it doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me," you pressed, and then you thought his eyes held warning and you hated yourself all over again. "Right," you unlatched yourself from him, feeling caught it a lie, "I, I should go. Thank you for," you chuckled out a cry, but not for your sister, for you stupidity, and possibly the lost of your just formed friendship, "my families waiting."

He nodded and took–what seemed to you a bigger than necessary–step back. "See you later, then, superman."

You stifled a new set of tears and forced a smile to your face, and turned around, your face instantly falling. You stepped into the elevator, hyper aware of his eyes still watching you. You clicked the button, any button, just fo the door to shut and kept your head down, and when the doors closed, you fell to the floor, wrapping your arms around yourself.

A few floors later, you found your sisters and your parents. She was in bad shape, she had bruises all over her body, you watched your parents stand over her bed, trying to talk with her. It was okay at first, until the doctors brought out a rape kit, you just...you couldn't watch that. You needed air, you headed back toward the the elevator, your eyes rimmed red with crying and dark with the lack of sleep.

When you the elevator opened on the first floor, you kept your head down and your arms wrapped tightly around you, you walked swiftly toward the exist, too wrapped in your emotions to notice the person following you.

Once outside, you headed toward the side, where a small playground sat. You didn't know if you wanted children or not yet, or maybe you did want them, you couldn't think straight. The darkened playground comforted you. You found yourself coming face to face with a rock wall. Not too tall, but challenging enough for 10 year olds. You smiled to yourself and climbed until you reached the top, which was pretty disappointing, but it got you off the ground.

"I hope you're not thinking of jumping," his voice startled you, what was he doing here?

"Didn't you go home?" You questioned, you calfs coming face to face with the top of his head.

"I thought about it," he admits, his hand running along the wall, stopping as it finds one to grip, "but then I remembered," he hauled himself upward, "a friend I made just recently," he grunts as he pulls himself upward one final time, leaving a small space between you, "likes to watch the rain."

"What?" You your voice quivered as the word floated from your lips, but you were smiling...slightly.

He cleared is throat and held out his wrist, "one...two..."

You cleared your throat, trying to make is a bit firmer, "why are you counting–"

There, just the tiniest drop of water fell into you eye, you wiped it away, turning to him with widened eyes, "why didn't you stop me?"

You brace your hands against the rock to jump off, but Spencer stops you, grabbing you wrist, he called your name once and you made the mistake of looking into the big, brown, puppy dog eyes.

Soaked were you a few second later, Spencer too, though you weren't sure if that made up for it. There were no stars, clouds blocked them from your view. You smacked him on his chest shouting through the rain, "what the hell, Spencer?!"

"Technically, Hell is considered insanely hot by many of its believers!" He replies, earning another smack, this time to the shoulder, a laughing fit entangles the both of you as the rain fell around you and after a moment of absolute madness, you caught his eyes and you wondered if this meant what you thought it meant–what you couldn't stop your heart from hoping this meant.

"Thank you," you shouted once more, finding the courage to lean against him. It was odd, the colder you physically got, the warmer your mentally grew.

"Anytime, superman," he brushed strands of wet hair out of your face and you knew, you just knew what you felt, but it's not real, not to him. You were superman and Achilles said it best, "They never let you be famous and happy," and you knew how that story ended.

The weather seemed to ease up this morning, you were happy, two weeks had gone by and your sister was back at home in time to celebrate her birthday. You stopped auditing classes and seminar's, but you still found reasons to email Spencer. Yeah, you still emailed him, if he wanted you to have his number, he'd give it to you or ask for yours–besides, yo9u had grown fond of this way of communication, leaving everyone off with sincerely yours, superman.

He didn't seem to mind and alway replied instantly, he had become one of your closest friends, which awkwardly wasn't hard because–as he had stated previously, you preferred your alone time, which was a nicer way to say you didn't have many friends, but you didn't mind at all.

"Are you texting him?" Came your sister's question as she hopped next to you, wrapping an arm around you, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look at your screen.

"God–no," you grinned, standing up, pulling the phone out of her reach. "And it's emailing," you grumbled, heading into the kitchen.

"Emailing," she widened her eyes, following you to your kitchen, "honestly, I don't why you bother."

"He's more comfortable this way."

She took a sip of orange juice, nodding, "mm, right," she set the glass down, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, "because he's the hot professor girls were swooning over."

"It was harassment," you pointed out.

"Oh, right," she nodded, "and you just happen to come into his life at the perfect time." She put a hand over her forehead, "my savior, my superman." She giggle as you through a jolly rancher at her.

She dodged, "ow hey–those things hurt!"

You snorted, "mmhm."

"Ssss," she hissed holding her side.

Your rushed to her, worried eyes raking up and down her body to find the cause, "hey, are you sure you're fine? We don't have to go out tonight, like I said, Mom and Dad don't think it's a good idea either."

"H-hey," she laughed, but it was pained; you helped her get to her feet again, brushing a lock behind her face, "come one, I've been through hell and back, that basically means I'm invincible now."

You frowned, then smiled softly when she met your eyes, "okay, okay fine. But the second you seem off, we're coming home."

She nodded, "it's just an arcade, what worse could possibly happen that hasn't happened already?"

You frowned, glancing away, and bracing your wrists against the kitchen counter, "if you say so..."

She ran to your room and began picking out outfits, a few of her friends were meeting you at the arcade. You were kind of there to keep an eye on her, you still hadn't apologized for kicking her out that day with the girl–that witch. Too many times did you have dreams about wrapping you hands around her neck and squeezing until there was nothing left but dust.

You vowed to have Spencer have his tech genius friend, Garcia, run backgrounds on all of her friends moving forward. No one was safe anymore. Of course, you kept that bit to yourself.

"Come on, we're going to be late!" Your sister grabbed your arm, tugging you toward the front door, for a moment, your mind took you back to the day in the coffee shop around three weeks ago, when Spencer had grabbed your arm, he'd looked like he wanted to say something, and that was the first moment you realized you might've had a crush on him.

You frowned, feeling bitter about it. It was a shitty thing, a shitty thing for you to do, but you supposed you could not exactly control your emotions like you'd wished.

The day was clear and so far, the night was too, three of your sister's friends, ones you knew well and had more than once crashed at your apartment before, had met up with the two of you.

They headed into the arcade, getting halted do to a line. They pouted and poked fun at each other for almost running into a few children. It was a good time so far, and you were having fun, if not for you sake, for your sister's all the more, but there was an ache. Something was missing and you could feel it.

"You know," your sister fell back, letting the entrance to the arcade go, "he told me everything." You jolted, your gaze jerked watching her saddened expression. She watched the concrete, "you never stopped trying to find me," she lifted her gaze then, eyes sparking and frown flipping, "I guess he thought I should know because he probably knew you'd be too scared to tell me yourself."

Was she talking about Spencer? You couldn't breath, of course she was, who the hell else was there?

"Thank you," your heart melted at her words and tears sprang in your eyes, "and I forgive you, so don't worry about it. Besides, you're not the only one to blame." She threw her head back and snorted at herself, "I broke a rule, you've had them since the beginning. So don't be too hard on yourself okay?"

Her eyes caught on something behind you and her face lit up, "Spencer! Hey, glad you could make it."

He huffed, glancing down at you while you stared up at him in complete awe. "Magician," you murmured, his gaze settling on you for a second, "no, it's just me." He turned back to your sister, mouthing a 'thank you', then, "and happy 24th birthday."

"I should be thanking you, this way, she won't be analyzing everything I do."

The threw her head back and laughed, then slide through the door and found her friends in line again.

"Spencer?" You raised a brow, a half chuckle leaving your mouth, "what are you doing here?"

"Well," he stuffs his hands in his pockets, "I have...skilled teammates..." came his response.

"And that includes my sister?"

"No, no," he waved off, "I just was able to get her number." You raised a brow and he held his hands up. "After speaking with her in person–I thought she should know how much you cared–she invited me," he threw his hands up slightly, "here."

You connected the dots easily, this must have been after you'd told her about the people that found her, after you had told her a little more about the rude turned friend professor. Your cheeks burned, though the darkness hid it. As much as you loved and wanted to be around him constantly, it also hurt you, and you hated being around him because you knew, you knew you couldn't feel this way about him.

Except you did and you were bad at hiding it.

"What's that?" He sniffed at the air, turning around and walking toward the edge of the sidewalk, where concrete met blacktop, "it's...rain."

You threw your head back and groaned, "you're kidding."

"Nope," he laughed, holding out his hand where trickles began to fall.

"I have got to have the absolute worst luck," you huffed, smacking your hands to your cheeks.

"That," Spencer said, stepping in front of you, "or," he palmed your hands, pulling them away from your face, eye tracing every line–

"Please don't tell me your'e about to say something sappy." You cringed, then popped open one eye when he stayed silent.

He was huffing, trying to hold in his laughter, "no, no I'm just gonna," he leaned in, hands finding your face, and he kissed you. You'd thought about what it would be like and a few times you even caught yourself day dreaming about it, he smelled like coffee and rain, just how you preferred, and this was real.

Every part of you on fire, despite the wind that started pulling at the trees. Rain poured over you and you jolted, screeching, "no!"

Spencer laughed at you trying to pull him to safety, "what-what? Why?"

"Not this time," you grinned up at him.

"But–but that was the best part," he whined playfully, jabbing a thumb behind his shoulder, still letting you pull him by his hand under the roof of the arcade sidewalk. "I–I thought you loved the rain?" His voice went high, the low again, the way it always did when he was joking or nervous.

"I love watching the rain, I don't like to be in the rain." You corrected.

"But I love being rained on with you," he murmured, tilting his head; his big brown puppy dog eyes shining with affection.

"Maybe next time, Doctor," you huffed a laugh and he held the door open, and you stepped a small spin to walk in, using his arm as a dome.

a/n: (please let me know if there are any grammatical errors) I am so sorry I honestly did not mean for it to be this long when I thought of the idea, but when I began writing, I realized it would be way longer than I intended and actually is now my longest fic I have ever written. I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it <3

[awordsmith]

if we had known 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you and Spencer are best friends, and have never crossed that line because you're in love with him and he's in love with JJ–or so you think.

katcember

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s7 category: angst content warnings: proofed! right person wrong time(?), unrequited love, false depiction of therapy (really just the quickness and no evaluation), past to present, depression, broken to mending friendship, jealousy, envy, Spencer's addiction, lots of crying (prepare yourself), personal growth, reid with care word count: 9.4k a/n: it made me cry. a lot. enjoy!

Wind had been blowing through your hair, you had worn a long-sleeve and yet it was still cold–it was December, the constant downpour should've made you think twice before you'd left, but it hadn't, and you were freezing. Maybe you should have brought a jacket, that would have been ideal, but you were running late, and you were never late, so you had been rushing.

You remembered the clouds darkening that night, you weren't afraid of the dark, apparently, as Spencer had mentioned, but of the things that could be lurking. Hotch was staying late, per usual, and the others had already gone home for the night, so Spencer had offered to walk you to your car.

He was nice like that, which is why you'd considered him your best friend. You hadn't had many outside of the BAU, some acquaintances at best–and though you had been incredibly close to the other members on your team, Spencer was different. You had always supposed it was due to the fact that you were the closest in age.

He had been 26 at the time, and you were just a year younger. That was the year you had joined the team, at the ripe age of 25, whereas he had been with the team for 4 years prior to you. He was the youngest known member to join the Bureau, and working with him, you were able to see why.

He was incredible in almost everything he did, you loved listening to him rant, it was mesmerizing the way someone could be so passionate about so many different and unrelated things, the way he knew so much about nothing and everything. You'd known it was mainly his eidetic memory, but it had still been fascinating. You couldn't help the way you'd analyze the way he spoke nor could you fail to notice the other team members energy toward his rambling. It annoyed you a little, but you had been new and hadn't wanted to say anything.

In your own way though, you'd been able to show him you cared, "go on," you'd murmur in a low voice, a small smile grazing your lips. He used to look at you contemplative. The first time you'd said it, you'd almost wished you could take it right back. The others had looked at you like you might have been mad, and maybe at some point you were; if it were maddening to want to listen to someone speak, then you would've concluded that, yes, you were indeed mad.

"Thank you," you'd said as you got to your car, spinning on your heels, smiling up at him.

"Any time," he had chirped, hands in his pockets, "hey, there's this showing, it's in Italian and there are no subtitles, but I can whisper you the translations, if you...wanted to go..." he'd scratched the back of his head, it was the first time he'd invited you out. It wasn't a date, you'd known this because you'd heard him ask the others about it before, most of the time he was shut down and you'd had to cover your snickers because as sad as it was, it had also always been somewhat funny, their responses and expressions–and the way Spencer never look disappointed, but rather confused and sometimes even expectant.

"I'd love to-o-o," you'd shivered, grabbing your arm and rubbing it up and down.

"Oh, are you cold?" He'd frowned, concerned. He'd pulled his satchel off and had sat it atop your car's trunk. He'd shrugged of his sweater, it was his favorite at the time, the brown, plaid one. He'd worn it more than he spoke, which was saying something, you remembered smiling at the thought as he'd handed it over to you.

You were stunned, you had never dated anyone before, so this treatment hadn't been normal for you. Though with Spencer, things always seemed to be everything but ordinary.

He had grabbed your bag as you'd slipped into his sweater, dainty as it had been, it did the job. It smelled like him, like too-sweet coffee and paper, or maybe that was old books, it could've been both, he never was seen without one or the other.

"Thank you," you'd smiled up at him, taking your bag back, watching as he'd pulled his satchel back over his shoulder. The wind picked up again, but his sweater kept you warm, "again."

He'd nodded, "as I said, any time, it looks better on you anyway," you'd returned his nod, suppressing the grin that would have no doubt escaped you if didn't know Spencer was Spencer, if you were strangers, perhaps.

"So, the movie, where do you want to meet?"

He'd grabbed the strap of his satchel, eyebrows raised in slight disbelief, "you–want to go? Really?"

"Yep," you'd nodded, eyes lighting up, "I have a personal translator, not many people can say that. I'm special," you'd said dramatically, but pride had slipped through, and you were sure he'd noticed it, even if he'd omitted to say anything.

He'd snorted, "I don't come free."

That was the moment you'd known, that no matter how hard you'd try detaching your heart, losing him would hurt–it'd hurt in ways you'd kept yourself from imagining. Coming to this conclusion, making up your mind hadn't been all that hard, it was simple–really; you would just never lose him.

That same year, Spencer had been kidnapped by an unsub, who'd later be identified as Tobias Hankel. Words couldn't express how angry you were at JJ. You'd lashed out when you'd found out he was missing, Morgan had to hold you back from, from that point you had lost all control of your emotions and it was the first time you hadn't been scared to lose your job. You had been terrified of what he was going through, you hadn't even a clue as to where he was or if he was still alive. But he has to be, you remembered thinking.

It had almost drove you to complete depression, thoughts of uncovering his body in the most gruesome way, thoughts of him being a body and not Spencer, the genius who could ramble on and on about almost anything, who'd given you his sweater when you were cold, who'd whispered translations into your ear–it was unthinkable, and to this day it still brought you to tears when you thought about it.

When the live videos of him began popping up on the screens in the living room, Hotch had ordered you to stay in another room.

He'd noticed the way you'd began to look at Reid, how you watched him speak and encourage him to do it more often around you. He'd never say it out loud because he knew you and Spencer were both adults and would never cross that boundary, but he just couldn't bring himself to let you see Spencer like that. Gideon seemed to agree.

You'd been angry at him, of course–you were angry at the world. It's how he'd feel if something like that ever happened to Haley or Jack, he hadn't blamed you, but he had still needed you to be at your best, and you had already been deteriorating with the knowledge of Spencer's kidnapping, seeing those videos–him in that state–it would have ultimately broke you, and you were so young; he hadn't known then, if he could have pulled you back from that.

Finding Spencer alive was the only thing that saved you from a catastrophic end. You would have brought down the door with you bare hands had it not been for Hotch kicking it down for you. When you found he wasn't there, you'd run out, passed the other's shouting, "they have to be on foot, they can't be far."

Gun out, you were the first to approach, some part of your mind had taken over and you'd realized doing this by yourself wasn't rational nor professional, even if it was Spencer. He had been right there, so close, and yet so far. "I'm moving in," you'd told Gideon and Hotch, when they'd finally caught up.

No one said anything as you'd moved forward, guns trained on whatever might have been in front of you. It'd been dark, you'd had your flashlight above your gun when a shot rang through, you'd screamed and had ran towards it. The rest of the team followed close behind. Spencer had been leaning over Tobias, mumbling to him.

Hotch had stepped in front of you to help Spencer get to his feet as you'd stopped to watch, unable to physically move forward. Tears sprang in your eyes as the team began asking if he was alright. When Hotch had confirmed this, he'd glanced at you and frowned, turning back to Spencer for a brief moment to pat him on the back before walking away. Spencer had turned to you–or at least you thought he had. JJ had moved forward to your side hesitantly, but Spencer instantly captured her in a hug.

Your heart dropped and you felt some type of way, though you hadn't wanted to admit it to yourself at the time, there'd been a strong distaste for JJ in that moment, strong and yet it hadn't just been anger, it had been envy. You'd known it was envy because jealousy stemmed from something you had, and you did not have Spencer the way JJ did.

"I am so sorry," she'd said, and guilt had ran up your spine. How could you have felt such a terrible way toward her when she'd probably been punishing and blaming herself for everything he'd been going through? The worst part however, was that though you may have been closer to Spencer than anyone else on the team, he'd always have that bond with JJ; she'd known him first–and that was something you couldn't compete with.

When they'd pulled away, he'd glanced at Gideon and smiled painfully, but then his eyes had turned on you, and a nervousness that hadn't been there before spread across you like fire in a forest.

"Hey," he'd mumbled.

"Shut up," you'd wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his chest. He had smelled horrible, alcohol and another scent you wouldn't recognize until later.

He'd chuckled and you had heard the aching in it as he'd wrapped an arm around you, the other had gone to your hair, smoothing it downward, "I didn't say anything."

"What did I say," you'd pulled away, eyes red and rimmed, tear streaks smudged slightly on his dirty shirt.

He'd gave you one of those impeccable smiles, the ones he'd come to find could always get him out of trouble with you, you hated it, but despite yourself it still worked. He'd lifted his head then, to someone behind you, it was Morgan, his own eyes looking just as haunted.

Morgan had followed Gideon toward the cars after a shared silence. You'd helped Spencer limp back to the car, "you can put your full weight on me, I can handle it," you'd said, huffing.

He'd snorted and winced right after, "I know, you can handle anything." You'd smiled to yourself, then had frowned when Spencer stopped moving suddenly. You'd slid your eyes across his face, afraid he'd had some internal wound, one he couldn't mentally feel, but then his eyes–serious and captivating–stopped your wondering, and his voice had trembled when he'd whispered, "thank you."

Your throat had went dry and the rawness that'd laced your tone said everything and nothing at all, "any time."

He'd gotten addicted, anyone with half a brain could've seen it. You'd wanted to mention it, you'd wanted to bring it up, you just hadn't known how. Everyone on the team had seemed to want to ignore it, or, like you they'd had no idea how to bring it up without triggering him.

But you would. Your movie nights had ceased, after he'd been released from the hospital, you'd wanted him to take it easy, you'd never once thought that would've been the result. What the hell had happened? What had you not seen? What in this tragic world had he'd been going through on those live videos?

You had kept biting your tongue, but eventually, it had got to a point where you just couldn't stand to see him like that nor could you stand to sit idly by like the others and pretend like nothing was wrong.

Unannounced, you'd shown up at his place, should you have been there? You didn't think to care, a knock, then two. As you'd gone in for the third, audible rustling had come from the other side of the door. You had frozen, hands glued to your side like a cheerleader at default. His face when he'd opened the door looked horrible, he'd probably been just been asleep, it was a Sunday after all, a once in a lifetime Sunday where you hadn't been called in, a miracle, really; were it not for that Sunday, you just might have chickened out.

"Hey," you'd smiled, rubbing your hand over your arm nervously. "How–are you feeling?"

You hadn't bee able to see half of his body as he'd been leaning halfway out the door. You'd been to his apartment a few times prior, sometimes to pick him up, sometimes you'd binge movies and shows, but you'd never stayed the night. With how close you were, you were both careful not to cross that boundary–well, it had mostly been you.

You not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you not wanting to accidentally give yourself away by mumbling something in your sleep; you not wanting him to notice it in your eyes on an evening when you were half awake–and he would have, you had absolutely no doubt that he would have.

"I'm okay," his voice was thick, it had been 1 in the afternoon and you hadn't been one to judge, especially when it came to him, especially when you'd considered what he had survived–but it had still clung to you like a shadow, a dark, looming shadow. "What are you doing here?"

Your friend–your best friend–had been in trouble, he hadn't even looked like your friend anymore, he'd been a shell of himself, and if you had been anything, you'd been determined. You'd frowned and pushed your way into his house, "you've been distant," you'd moved your eyes around the space, nose crinkling at the odor, his apartment had been trashed. Cups of noodles had been on every surface, some even on the floor between his couch and coffee table. Blankets scattered the floor and you could remember seeing clothing on the floor in the hall that led all the way to his room. Your chest had squeezed in pain for him.

"Yeah, I've been meaning to," he'd motioned around and had cleared his throat.

"Oh, Spencer," your eyes had softened as he'd shut the door behind him, "I don't know what you've been going through, but I know it's been hard on you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he'd audibly gulped and had cast his eyes to the floor, having the decency to look a little ashamed.

"Spencer," you'd walked toward him, voice startlingly clear. His eyes had glanced up for a second, then quickly back to the floor. "Spencer," you'd said again, pulling on his wrists, "why haven't you come to me? I know you're hurting, please let me help you."

"Why?" His tone had been clear indifference, his eyes narrowed slightly and when he'd looked at you his face was distrusting.

That was the first time you'd felt a physical crack in your heart. You had never–never–seen him this way, in all the months you'd grown to know him, to appreciate and respect him, never once had he looked at you that way.

"Because you're my friend," you'd pleaded, tears welling up in your eyes.

He'd snatched his arms from you and had turned around with swiftness he'd only ever used in the field, "I think it's time you go."

"Spencer?" You'd called, your voice quiet.

He said nothing as he'd stepped out of your way and had reopened his door, waiting patiently for your exit.

You'd done so, but not without a plan forming in your head. The next day, Monday, you had woken up extra early, gotten ready, and had headed for Spencer's. You hadn't let a single word of his deter you from banging on his door until he'd answered–pushing away the guilt of waking up his neighbors–that day you'd forced him to give you a copy of his house keys.

The day after that, you'd gotten up early again, and using the copy of his house key, had silently slipped into his apartment and hauled him out of bed. You'd took his groaning and shouting and every insult he'd thrown your way under his breath, he didn't mean it, you knew, so you'd always thrown them away as soon as they'd leave his mouth–but sometimes, they'd find you at night when you were in bed and you'd cry yourself to sleep, then you'd get up and go through it all over again for his sake, all for him–but maybe...maybe just a little bit had been selfishly for you.

Hating yourself for knowing that had it been anyone else, you probably would have given up that first day, but it hadn't been anyone else, and you hadn't given up on him. Even if you'd known he was in love with JJ at the time, you wouldn't have done anything differently, because you didn't want to lose him–you couldn't; you had promised yourself.

The following weekend, you'd asked Gideon to let you stay home from the case you and the team had been working on, alluding to the fact it had something to do with Spencer, which thankfully got to him.

While Spencer was away with the team–you'd hoped they would watch out for him, you had to have faith that they had cared enough to do at least that much–you cleaned his apartment. You'd bought materials specifically to tackle the mold threatening to grow. You'd searched up–a lot of what you now knew on how to clean an apartment that had been dormant for a couple months–on the computer in the nearby library. Leave it to Spencer to always make you feel young.

You'd begun with the things you could pick up, separating dirty laundry from garbage via trash bags. The space had garnered a foul smell which you'd noted that first Sunday you'd popped up out of nowhere, but it had eluded your mind when Spencer had asked you why. You'd thought on that moment multiple times, why? Why? You'd sometimes felt like screaming when you were alone, how could he have asked such a stupid question? Of all the things that must have been floating through his thick skull he'd settled on "why"–you'd taken a breath, calming yourself. He couldn't help it, he hadn't expected anyone to care so he acted as if no one did. You hadn't meant to profile him at the time, it had just happened, and if you'd been honest, you hadn't felt sorry. It had been one of your biggest motivators–to show him that someone did in fact care.

Eventually, he'd begun to expect you each morning, and maybe it was a little selfish on his part–maybe–but he'd begun to lean on you, turn to you...a lot more than he should have. At first he'd rationalized it, you'd been persistent, who was he to stop you?

Within a month he'd begun seeing a therapist, he hadn't wanted to take time off of work and admit himself into a facility, doing that had–and still–scared him more than his addiction, it would have meant admitting he was unstable, unable, and that just–well it hadn't been an option.

He'd gotten his life somewhat on track again, thanks to you, it had all been you. He had treated you horribly and you had still cared, had still helped him–admitting himself into an institution not only scared him because of his past, but because the thought of not being able to see you at work everyday, and outside of work whenever he'd wanted was too much to bear, he knew he would have possibly gone mad–and he hadn't wanted to think about what that had meant.

You'd never seen a drunk Spencer before then, the air was chilly, and you'd just left the bar, thanking God Hotch hadn't been there, or he no doubt would have ripped into you for allowing Spencer to drink as much as he did.

Before then, the only thing you'd thought he drank more than he could handle was coffee. Morgan had taken Penelope home–you'd gotten used to their relationship as fast as Spencer read novels. Rossi and Emily had stayed home as well, reasons: unknown.

JJ hadn't been able to make it, she'd gone on a date with Will, she'd grown on you after Spencer had gotten better, but you'd still had a bone to pick with her and the rest of the team for allowing Spencer's addiction to get a bad as he did.

You'd kept your opinions and feelings to yourself because Spencer never brought it up, but there'd been times–you'd recall them sometimes right before you'd close your eyes at night–times where he'd asked for help in complete roundabout ways. But he'd said them in a room full of profilers, so there was no way he'd said them on accident or without meaning.

"Woa–ho," you'd laughed, grabbing onto his arm to keep him upright. "I am never letting you drink that much again."

"Wha–what?" He'd whined, "why? What did I do?"

You'd heaved a heavy sigh, but had laughed when he'd stopped, turned to you with squinted eyes, and poked your forehead.

Turning back away, he'd found you were on a bridge that overlooked a shallow river, the lampposts that had glowed that night lit up the dark, working together with the stars to allow you to see.

You'd followed him to the hangar and watched as he'd leaned over the railing, his elbows had b raced against the cold metal. You'd leaned your back on the railing beside him, head tilted upward toward the stars as his tilted down toward the water. "I think I love her," he'd whispered, but when you'd caught it–and you had caught it, your heart sank.

"...love her?"

"Yeah," he'd paused, "JJ."

JJ.

Crack went your heart. You'd blinked away tears and gulped. How were you suppose to respond? How would a normal friend respond? What would Penelope or Dereck say? Hell, even Hotch would've been a better person for him to say this to–but he hadn't known that.

You'd swallowed your pain, "oh..."

"I don't know what to do," he'd continued, "she's my best friend..." and she has a husband, and she has a kid on the way, and I thought I was your best friend and I love you... Thoughts ran through your head at godspeed, but you'd stayed silent because you were sure–no, more than sure, you knew for absolute certainty your voice would have given you away within seconds. Spencer had been drunk, but you hadn't been thinking about him, no it was you. If you'd heard your own voice, even for just a second, you would have lost it.

A break down had not been on your list of things to do that night, but there you were, balling your eyes out like a lovesick teenager the instant you'd stepped into you apartment. You hadn't been able to stop it, it wouldn't have been healthy, anyway, and if you had kept it inside, you would have chanced being profiled by the best, and it wouldn't have been hard to connect the dots.

You'd been pretty sure Spencer had not remembered a single thing from the moment you had left the bar. He'd called you the morning after with a massive hangover and as much as you had wanted to avoid him, he'd been your best friend and it wouldn't have been fair to him, especially if he'd had no idea what you were feeling–and how could he?

You'd hid it so well you hadn't even been able to believe it yourself. How to move on, how to get ride of these thoughts that had seemed to plague you every night? You buried it the only way you could; you wrote it out in a journal, everything, every last bit, it had been easier than saying it out loud to a therapist and even yourself.

Every time you'd felt the sudden urge to cry, every time you saw his gaze linger on her or they spoke alone, it hurt you, it hurt you a lot more than you'd ever thought it could.

It'd been a year, a year of suppressed feelings, of envy, of keeping quiet just so you could hold onto what you have left of him because if there was even a small chance JJ had given him any thought–yes she was married, yes, she had a child, and yes they were coworkers–you were pretty sure Spencer would take it.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Spencer plopped down on the chair beside yours. You were using it to hold documents as you'd been cleaning out your desk, but you'd stopped using for some time now, and you'd meant to take it back to the meeting room you'd stole it from when–briefly–you recalled that night Spencer had gotten a little too drunk.

You slammed the notebook shut way too fast to go unnoticed by him and as you lifted your head to meet his, his eyes snagged on the small brown, leather-bound book. "Nothing, why–what's going on?"

His eyes narrowed bit and when he lifted them back up to meet yours, you stilled. "Nothing..." he dragged out, "just wanted to see if you were busy tonight."

"Nope, completely free," you chirped.

He pressed his lips together, careful to keep his eyes on you. If he didn't, you would've profiled the notebook piqued his curiosity, and if he was going to snoop, he could't give you any reason to hide it.

Now, Spencer never would have done it if it hadn't been you. You had your secrets, sure, but he had talked to you about his mother, he had introduced you to his mother. You hadn't been around when the team first met her, and Spencer had desperately wanted you to, had wanted her to know you.

He'd taken you after he'd gotten clean, and you had been perfect just as you always were. You'd told him about your family too, where you'd grown up, what it was like for you in school, in university, you had practically shared life stories, so the fact that you were keeping something from him–it just–it didn't sit right.

It would keep him up at night and he knew it and–yes, it was an invasion of privacy and it was your right and yet he could not find it in himself to–for a lack of better words...care.

It was nearing his birthday, you hadn't mentioned it yet, but he knew you were planning something, perhaps that was what you'd been writing about, and if it was, well, then there was no harm no foul. You'd be pissed, of course, but you'd forgive him...eventually. You always did when he prodded at you, he'd use the smile you never seemed be able to say no to.

That smile, you were sure God had crafted it just for you because every time you saw it you just melted. Your knees would go weak or you'd get butterflies in your stomach, somersaults, or you'd just feel sick–you didn't know which was worse.

Some days your body would be affected physically and there would be no other explanation except the way you were feeling that day. Except the way you'd cry into your pillows, whenever the pain was too much, you found yourself ignoring the wold around you.

It was growing–had been for a while–you were planning to cancel on Spencer, which wouldn't be out of the norm for you these days, which was most likely one of the reasons he'd invited you out today, because you'd cancelled on your movie night last Saturday and the Tuesday before that, you'd cancelled your babysitting at Hotch's with him.

He was probably worried something had happened to you and you knew it was't fair, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. His birthday was coming up and you wanted to do something for him, something special, you both loved October, you more than him because it was his birth month as well as spooky season, but as the days passed, you couldn't stand to see his face without feeling your heart ache.

You tried reading, throwing yourself into work, anything and everything to get your mind off of him, but nothing stuck. You were being consumed by your thoughts, your unrequited love, you needed a rush, maybe then you'd be able to close your eyes and breath without smelling his cologne and seeing his stupid, pouting smile.

October 12th, Spencer's birthday, he was turning 30 this year, and you still hadn't wrapped your head around what to do. You'd walked into the office, Penelope running past you, calling for you to follow. You weren't normally late, but the past year of suppression had taken its toll on you; you didn't think you'd ever been in a worser state than you were in now.

You listened over the case, but you weren't really listening, you were debating whether or not to tell Hotch, when someone latched their arms onto your shoulders and shook you.

You glanced around the circular table, meeting each pair of eyes with more shame than the last, "I'm sorry," you said, rubbing your eyes.

Hotch stared at you for a moment, silently analyzing your appearance, Spencer opened his mouth to speak, perhaps on your behalf, you couldn't really tell, but Hotch beat him to it when he stood abruptly and said, "follow me, the rest of you continue." You ignored Spencer's concern as you followed your boss to a private space.

Your eyes locked on something behind him as you waited for him to speak, and when he did, you weren't surprised at what he had to say, "what's going on with you?"

Six years, six years you had been with the Bureau, six years you had worked with Hotch and Spencer and Morgan and JJ and Garcia. Six years and for a brief, but sure moment, you'd thought about asking for a transfer.

"Don't do that," Hotch pulled your attention to his face, "don't ignore me."

Your frown deepened, "I'm not–

"First stage, denial," he tilted his head down when you averted your eyes so as to keep the contact, "but you're not in denial, nor are you angry, I've seen you write in that book of yours for half a year, but it's not enough anymore, you must've just hit stage four–"

"I thought we didn't profile each other," he'd hit a nerve and you both knew it.

He sighed, and murmured your name, it wasn't until you found his eyes again that he asked, "who are you mourning?"

You seized up, tightening your face. It was overwhelming and scary just how accurate Hotch was. A moment passed between you two, Hotch's brows furrowed in confusion and you–body, mind, face, and soul–frozen in terror.

The sound of the door opening knocked you both out of your trance. It was Spencer, Hotch caught the twitch your left eye gave when you perceived who the intruder was. Recognition lit up his face, but then he was just as confused again. You and Spencer seemed to be as you always had been–no, something must have changed, for you at least. Spencer seemed oblivious, or he had been for the better part of whatever you'd been going through.

He was now between a rock and a very hard place, what could he honestly do? This had nothing to do with him–but he had failed a team member once, and now that same team member seemed to be at the pinnacle of the distress of another one. What was he to do? What was the best course of action? He had no information, well, he knew you were in love with Spencer, that wasn't much of a deduction, the whole team practically knew–all but Spencer of course. If it was rejection–no that just didn't fit with Spencer's upbeat attitude, whatever had happened clearly wasn't recent.

"Hotch," Spencer spoke, pulling his attention away from his thoughts if only for a moment, "do you mind if we..."

Oh. The team lead thought, perhaps Spencer had found out already? Then he had everything under control? So, should he leave it alone? Ignore it? That seemed to be what he did best, he grimaced at the guilty thought and glanced at you, now just a bit relaxed. "Sure, but be quick."

He stopped himself from saying more and took up refuge in the room with the rest, pretending like he didn't notice their questioning eyes. This time, of all times, the best thing he could truly do for his team members–was absolutely nothing.

Spencer stood silently, hands stuffed in his pockets as he stared at you with unrelenting eyes. He was analyzing you just as Hotch had been, but with better, knowing eyes.

He did–in fact–sneak a peak at your journal, more so toward your latest entry. It shocked him–to his core, it shocked him. He had to put it down when he'd read the first paragraph. Being able to read 20,000 words per minute, he'd thought he'd be done within seconds, he'd thought he would have been able to read the entire thing, actually, before you got back from the restroom.

It had been the first time in a long time he'd been wrong about something, wrong about himself.

He'd read it over again after a few second of sitting in your chair, too stunned to come up with coherent thoughts. He'd thought he surely must have read it wrong, he must've been tired, he couldn't have read what he'd thought he'd read.

But sure enough, the words were still there, emboldened and burning in his head. He'd flipped back to the first entry, you'd been documenting for a few months now and it physically pained him to read it. How could he have not known? How could he have been so incredibly blind? How could he call himself a genius and not have profiled that his best friend was in love with him? That she was hurting from it, because–all because–

"You know then," her voice tugged at something in him. His face contorted into pain-stricken grief. You contained a small urge to laugh, it would have been dry anyway, and you were tired, but you shoved it down, away.

"Yeah," his voice was raw, like he'd been crying and maybe he had, maybe some part of him felt sorry for you so he had cried. Pity, it disgusted you, it made you disgusted at yourself.

You nodded, your lips forming a thin line, "I'm sorry," you got out before you shut you eyes on instinct to keep the tears from spilling out. You turned around to hide hide yourself, he already knew, you had to keep some emblem of your dignity.

You began walking away when you recalled, for some reason, his birthday, and you turned back around, walking back up to him with tears streaking down your face. Tears in his own eyes threatened to break loose at any moment. You truly were sorry that you had put him though all of this, but that's not why he was crying.

He was angry at himself and hurt for you. He didn't know how he could have been so incredibly stupid. That's all he could think of, all his mind–his heart–would let him think clearly; how stupid he was.

He watched as you stepped forward, as sad and detached as you seemed, your walk was graceful, as if you were a ghost floating down the hall. He tensed slightly, as you brought your hands forward, he'd take it, he deserved to be slapped after all–hell, he would probably slap himself later on when he was alone because of how unintelligent, how thickheaded, and witless he'd been.

He didn't even close his eyes, he was ready for it, but you didn't slap him. You pulled his face down and pushed yours forward. You kissed the side of his cheek and whispered, "happy birthday, Spencer."

Shock wrapped itself around his brain, he felt like a robot as you pulled away and turned. Pieces fell as you walked away because shattered was your heart.

He should have followed you, he should have, he knew he should have, but he had been scared. He still was, and the more time went on–the longer he stopped seeing you–that fear grew. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what was terrifying him, but he had a few guesses.

He didn't want to lose your friendship: he'd been so close to you for so long, he turned to you for everything and he'd expected you to do the same. There were moments, he'd knew there were, when he'd catch himself analyzing he curve of your figure when you'd fallen asleep on his ouch or yours. His eyes would sometimes trace the lines that made up your face, the dip at the top of your lips, the way they'd press together when you were contemplative or worried. He didn't want to lose those moments, moments that he really shouldn't have had, moments that he considered his and his alone.

He'd never been in this situation before and if he wasn't careful, he'd mess it up: Spencer'd had crushes before, he'd even had a girlfriend once, briefly, but compared to you? They had been fun, exciting even, you–you were dangerous. When those girls had entered his life, he knew they'd eventually leave and he didn't mind that. That's why he'd kept all those moments to himself, why he never told Morgan or Penelope or even Emily. The things he'd done just so he could keep you, of course he knew it wasn't rational. You'd eventually find a boyfriend and settle down and maybe that boyfriend would someday become a husband. He had always ignored the bile that built up whenever he thought about it, about losing you–because he wouldn't be giving you away, how could he if you were never his to begin with?

A week turned into a month and before he knew it, December was here, it had surprised him so much so, he thought surely a car must have hit him when he hadn't been looking.

The team noticed it, the deterioration. It was visible in both his physique and his mind. He couldn't focus on any of the cases they'd been given. It started off small, with his mind wandering, but as time went on, it became less and less easy to focus him again.

Hotch had emailed you professionally, explaining how you could take as much time as you'd needed and when you were ready to come back, the team would be waiting. Then he'd texted you unprofessionally and told you if there was anything you needed, he was one text or one phone call away.

You'd spent the past few weeks going to therapy. As soon as you'd left the office, you'd sat in your car for a while, contemplative. You'd started driving and your subconscious brought you to a personal health center. You had forced yourself out of the car and through the front doors, tears fell down as you entered. There were a few people in the waiting room, not including the receptionist.

"I–was wondering," you half said and half sniffled, "if you had any walk-ins."

They had one, but you'd have to wait for about an hour, and you did. You spoke to a woman, thankfully, it was easier for you to let out all your faults, all the times you'd cried, all the times you had felt you were a horrible human being, all because of one person, but then again this obsession wasn't at all on Spencer.

And it wasn't all on you either, your therapist, whom you called your saving grace from time to time, explained that because you had built up all of your emotions, and there had been a number of them, you kind of just broke. Which was on parr with the way you'd been feeling.

She'd asked to see the notebook you kept, but you had left the thing in the drawer of your office, you'd cursed yourself. You had no idea how much Spencer had read, but he must have read it because there was no other way he'd known exactly how you were feeling, and if there was any chance he'd go back to read any more–that was if he hadn't read the entire thing already–well, you'd wanted to prevent that.

"What are you feeling?" The therapist had asked, "would you rather write it down?" She'd slid over her notepad and pen.

You'd taken it willingly and had stared at the blank space for a moment, and then–all at once–conversations and small gestures and intimate moments flooded your system, it had been 9 in the morning, and the curtains had been closed and the regular light turned off; a lamp and candle directly across form each other had been the only things to keep the room from complete darkness.

The words left your mind faster than you could write, but you did and when you filled a page, you'd flipped it over, no longer crying, but focussed, and when you were done, you'd taken a breath. You had ignored the uncomfortable feeling of the therapist analyzing you, it was her job as it was yours, yet you'd still felt yourself shift under her gaze.

"Can I see?" She'd asked and you'd handed over the paper and pen, though hesitantly.

And it took her breath away, just as you had known it would, as it had no doubt took Spencer's.

It was almost a year's worth of grieving, and yet you had not idea what you were even thinking about. How could you mourn something that wasn't dead? It's not dead because it was never alive. You'd thought.

Unrequited love. One of the most painful types of love, yet when it came to Spencer–there was something more. You'd told her, "it's not just that," she'd nodded, encouraging you to continue and her patient eyes reached something in your heart, and just barely, you felt it mend.

You saw her the next day with an appointment, and they you a few days later, you saw her again. You grew accustomed to seeing her twice a week, and you'd even grown acquainted with some of the staff, the receptionist especially. They had multiple therapists who specialized in different areas, yours, thankfully, focussed on personal growth.

The weather transformed before you eyes and before you knew it, it was the first of December. You'd stepped out of your house and took in the fresh air, it was one of the firsts in a long time that you had felt truly okay, that you didn't feel like the world would come crashing down around you, and better, that you didn't wish for it to happen anymore.

You'd texted Hotch two days ago, you hadn't known if he was on a case or not, but it had been Saturday and your hope peaked through. Throughout the rest of October and all of November, the team had messaged you multiple times, checking in to see if you were okay. You didn't have the energy to respond at the time, but a few weeks after seeing your therapist, you'd texted each and every one of them, save for one geeky genius.

You had notably not received any messages from Spencer, and it used to send a dull ache through you, but now it only made you swallow. You missed him, missed his company, but not seeing him was a step forward, your therapist had said you needed time and space away from him particularly, and you knew she was right. Your subconscious had been telling you the same thing for weeks before Spencer read your journal.

Thankfully, Hotch wasn't on a case, and he did pick up, when you'd told him to come over, he knew something was up, for better or worse, he didn't know, but you were speaking again, and to him no less. You'd asked if he could bring Jack, you had a lot of apologizing to do to the little guy for cancelling on him.

Hotch had alluded in messages that Jack asked about you whenever a babysitter that wasn't you came over, though he never outright wrote that the kid missed you because he'd known it wasn't fair to you. You were thankful, but you still felt guilty.

That day, you'd turned on The Magic School Bus for Jack and kept a careful eye on him while you and Hotch sat at your kitchen stools and spoke quietly in the background. "How is he?" You'd asked, trying to start the conversation light.

"He's fine," Hotch had replied, "...he misses you." He didn't say 'you and Spencer', which told you he knew.

How? It was Hotch, of course he knew.

"How are you?"

You'd turned your head back to him, a small, but sad smile falling over your face. "Better."

He'd nodded, tight-lipped, "good."

"I want to come back to work," he'd let out a breath and were it not for his eyes, you would have never known he'd felt relieved.

His mouth quirked upward slightly, and a crooked grin–a rare sight from Aaron Hotchner, indeed–filled the no longer anxious silence.

Your first day back at work, a Monday, December 3rd. It was tense at first, and you thought you might tuck tail and run when you saw Spencer, but you didn't, if anything you felt lighter. Maybe now, you could mend your friendship, that's what your therapist had said was the best course of action if you wanted to still be friends with him, though you didn't have much of a choice, you worked with the man.

You didn't avoid him, and the team at first, wondered what you had spent the last few weeks doing. Hotch had returned to your house Sunday to give you an eval, and you had passed with average colors, but he had cleared you. That was all that mattered.

Spencer didn't know what to make of your abrupt return, he hadn't been expecting it and for some reason he felt Hotch was punishing him...slightly. He thought you'd go back to avoiding him, but you didn't. You didn't seek him out like you used to, but you no longer evaded his questions or averted your eyes when he spoke to you.

He felt the wight in his chest lessen, and as time went on you were slowly falling back into your normal routine, but you still loved him, despite yourself, and he still loved JJ, and you came to accept that. If this was as close as you could be to him, you were okay.

And who knows? Maybe as time went by, you'd be able to move on. Your heart warmed and gently, you felt it mend again. Quietly, but efficiently, your heart was righting itself.

A week went by, and then two. You were talking with Hotch in his office about what Jack wanted for Christmas, and he was asking if you'd wanted to take Jack to see Santa with him. The others had already agreed to go, Spencer included, it was quite obvious the kid looked up to him; it still sent a flutter through your body, beginning at your toes, till it hit you head and you felt dazed. Spencer would be an amazing father, whoever he married–and he would...marry one day, you were sure of that–would be the luckiest person on earth–and his kids, well, they'd be blessed by angels.

"Oh shit," you stopped, frowning at the looming darkness that greeted you at the exit of the Bureau.

A snort came from behind you, "yeah, I thought you'd say that." Spencer sighed, halting beside you. You tilted your head upward, your small smile adjacent to his. "I guess some things never change."

You huffed a laugh, smacking him in the chest, "whatever, come on my knight and shining armor."

Hotch watched from his office window as Spencer followed you out to the carpark, like he had all those years ago, and briefly, he wondered if Spencer was going to tell you now. He clicked his tongue, remembering the not so pleasant discussion he and the team had with him concerning you after your return.

They had more or so laid into him, Hotch, though, kept his comments to himself, knowing he didn't have the power to control the actions of others, but maybe, just maybe, fate did. He didn't believe in ghosts, but Rossi talked about them sometimes, and even he had to admit, the setting before him was a little too coincidental.

You waddled to your car like a penguin, making Spencer laugh, you loved his laugh, you always would. "So," he stopped at your car, leaning against it with those doe eyes–a gift to him and perhaps a curse to you.

"So?" You raised a brow, unlocking your car and shrugging your bag into the driver seat.

"There's this showing..." he cleared his throat, "it's uhm," he chuckled nervously, feeling his palms sweat, somehow the universe had known. It must have, he was a logical person, a scientific one, and being one he knew scientists had not yet debunked the theory of fate, normal people called them "happy coincidences" and/or "happy accidents". They were two different words, but both phrases held the same meaning.

"What language is it this time?" You sighed, but you were teasing.

"It–uh, it's in Italian," he cleared his throat and your heart boomed.

"Oh," you nodded, "sure I'd love to go."

He would have said 'really?', but it was you, and you had been so agreeable these past weeks, He was hopeful, but nervous because what if you did say no? What if he said the wrong thing without knowing it and you left again? He couldn't' loose you, not this time.

It was now or never and he knew it, the entire team had coerced him to a dinner where they half ate and half lectured him the entirety they were there.

"It's so obvious," Emily had sighed.

"Look pretty boy, I'm not one to butt into other people's business, but seriously..." Morgan had shaken his head.

And where Morgan stopped, Rossi had picked up, "did you lose your brain over night?" He'd poked Spencer's head, muttering something in Italian, but Spencer knew Italian, and he had to agree, yes, he was ignorant.

JJ, Spencer sighed when he thought about what JJ had said, "If you love her, Spence," she'd also reached out to grab his hand, holding it down on the table, "then she deserves to know."

"She's my best friend," he had squeaked out.

"Oh, sweetie," Penelope had watched him with sad eyes and a sad smile to match, "we know."

"Spencer?" You raised a brow, an awkward smile perfecting the confused expression you wore.

"Sorry," he muttered, "just..."

"Yeah...what-t?" You shivered and began rubbing your arm to warm yourself up.

"Your cold?" He couldn't believe it, but unlike that time years ago, he wasn't waring a sweater. In fact, he wondered if you still had that one. It was his favorite at the time, but when you'd tried giving it back, he'd insisted you keep it.

At the time he'd excused it as being a germaphobe, but now, he thought it might've been something more. When his eyes shifted to yours, your heart–you could swear it stopped beating. His eyes had softened and he was looking at you with something you couldn't coherently explain.

"When did you know you loved me?"

You took a step back, the question hitting you like the cold wind slapping across your face. "I–"

"I think for me, it was after I got better, after you helped me get clean. Well, at least that's when I started taking into account my off behavior." He rambled a little.

"What?" Your breath hitched, how could he spring this on you so suddenly? How–how–"what?"

He paused, eyes finding yours again, disbelief and maybe anger? He expected as much, he was telling you this after all you'd been going through, but the thing he couldn't understand was why. Why did you think there was no possibility that he could like you back? Why–if you had loved him for so long–did it just–a year ago–start breaking your heart?

He called your name and took a step forward, "what gave you the impression, that I didn't love you back?" If he had know–only if he had known you'd been going through this, that he'd been breaking your heart–that you loved him...

You turned away, tears–God you were so tired of crying. "You said–that night you were blackout drunk on the bridge, that you loved her." You took a shuttering breath, twisting your body to look at him again–knowing this was more than likely going to ruin your friendship for good. "You called her your best. Friend. Spencer...and I," you motioned toward yourself, "I knew I would never compare and I had kept my feelings hidden for so long that I didn't even know what I was feeling–"

"Whoa, what?" He held up a hand, "what–what are you talking about?" His eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, recalling a memory, he had alway thought he'd been dreaming whenever it came to them.

Over the weeks after, it had come back to him in sections, as he'd pieced together the parts one by one, he had come to the conclusion that he must have dreamt it up because–because JJ wasn't there that night. She had some plans with Will, or something, he couldn't really remember.

It had to be a dream, because he couldn't have confessed his love for you to JJ–she wasn't at the bar that night–but if what you were saying was true–no it didn't–it didn't–and then it smacked him in the face.

"I–" he closed his eyes, laughing almost hysterically, "I was talking about you." His voice cracked and he shook his head, running his hands over his face. He couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe it.

"What–" you sniffled, "what are you talking about?"

He caught his breath, tears falling down his cheek as his face crumbled and he wiped them away, loathing himself more than he ever had before, "I thought–" his breathing was heavy now and you could hear the straining–the thickness strangled together as he forced it out, "I thought you were JJ."

Step, you took a step, and then another until you stood in front of your best friend. The sound echoed across the dark, silent lot, though the wind was picking up again. The cheek you'd slapped burned red, Spencer looked like an owl–a deer caught in headlights, if you will–face turned to the side, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock.

Slowly, he let his head drift back toward you, you were already waiting for his eyes to find yours. You wanted to hit him some more, to take your pent up frustration out on him, but you only had energy for a single slap tonight. A slap, and a kiss.

You pulled him down by his collar, your eyes closing upon impact. He tasted of coffee and smelled like olde books and leather, like you knew he always did. If only you had known, but you couldn't change the past, you could only move forward.

"So, where do you wanna meet?" You asked him when you pulled away. He blinked, and you smirked, eyes narrowing slightly, "for the showing."

His eyes lit up and he pulled you closer, wrapping his long arms around your torso, breathing you in like you just might disappear before his eyes if he didn't.

You giggled as his breath tickled your skin, tears long forgotten, and your heart full as it once had been.

a/n: if you're a writer, don't proof read your angst fics

[awordsmith]

fingertips 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you and Spencer constantly have had accidental moments over the years that always meant more to one than the other thought.

katcember

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s7 category: fluff content warnings: proofed! reader kidnapping, mentions of torture, constant flashbacks, yes sarcastic sarcasm is intentional, hidden feelings, tension, no smut (I'm working my way up to that one), reid with warmth word count: 9k a/n: ahhhhh, i just created a community radio (it can be found on my masterlist or pinned page) so feel free to send in song requests to be added! enjoy!

Your breath coated the window of the coffee shop, fogging it. You wiped it with your sleeve, waiting for Spencer to get back from ordering your drinks. The dim yellow light lit up the shop with a soft, mild glow; it was late, most sane people would be at home by now.

The bustling in the background caught your attention and your gaze caught on Spencer, still standing in line. He'd asked you to meet him here a few days ago, when you were working on your last case before your small–unavoidable–break. It was Christmas Eve. It was Christmas Eve and he had asked you to meet him days prior. He had every second to cancel, to change the date... Sitting here now, you knew–without a doubt–you were about to have a conversation long over due.

It made you think about how it all had gotten started, all your firsts, and when you knew you'd always love him more than a friend should. From your fist meeting to the feeling that someday it would hurt, because you could never let him go.

The first time we met, you thought, a calm smile settling over your face.

"And this, is Dr. Spencer Reid." Jason Gideon, your new boss introduced.

You nodded, a tight smile on your face, to say that you were nervous would be an understatement. Almost robotically, you shoved your hand forward, "it's nice to meet you–Doctor" you added quickly to the end.

An awkward expression came over his face as he stared at your hand, "oh, uh, he has a problem with physical contact." Dereck Morgan, your new team member, snorted.

Your eyebrows scrunched as you glanced at Morgan, your eyes swiftly turned back on Dr. Reid with a question lying just beneath the surface. He raised a single eyebrow back–though if it were on purpose you didn't know.

"You know," he said after a moment, after Gideon had walked away, up into his secluded office that you've only been in a few times. "It's actually safer to kiss."

Your eyes widened and Morgan snorted another, louder laugh, clapping his hands in the process. Dr. Reid's face had taken on a bit of mortification.

"I–of course I was just–I mean–I was saying that as–a fact–not that–"

"Just stop while you ahead, pretty boy." Morgan's contented sigh came to rest and he stood up. Dr. Reid still looked rigid, though, and you felt a little bad. Where you were nervous, he seemed just as awkward.

Morgan patted the poor doctor on the back and walked away, toward the staff room, it seemed. You both watched as he walked, a pep in his step, for a lack of better words. When Spencer turned back to you, fear written in his creases of his features, you offered a pleasant smile, "don't worry about it," he seemed to relax at that, which is why you couldn't help adding, "pretty boy."

His head jerked back toward you and you bursted into laughter, already feeling the tension and stress in the back of your head decrease a sizable amount. Thank you, Dr. Reid. You thought as you stared back at him, kind and gentle eyes, once again making him relax. He didn't know why he all of a sudden felt easier, but he did, and for the first time in his life, he didn't want to question something.

Music pulled you from your thoughts, the old jukebox in the back corner of the shop had began playing. An old man was now making his way back to a woman, whom you assumed was his wife. They looked cute, happy, and whole.

Your heart swelled, would you be able to have that kind of love one day? Would someone be able to talk about you as fondly as old men spoke of their first loves? Spencer called your name from across the shop, "you just want the coffee? Nothing else?"

You smiled warmly, though, a bit nervous, "no, no I'm fine." He nodded and typed something into his phone, which you had forced him to upgrade a few years back, you haven't been able to get him to upgrade since, but maybe, just maybe if he received a gift from Santa...

The old couple caught your attention, they were standing, and you watched as they–ever so slowly–took to the emptied space in the middle of the shop. Butterflies shot through your chest, and you felt like you might be sick–it was so cute.

It reminded you of–you turned back to Spencer, your cheeks reddening not just form the frostbite that had accompanied you when you'd first arrived.

That night...

You've been with the team a year, and tonight is the first night you've ever stayed at the office. You were tired and you wanted to go home, but you had to get this paperwork done and you did not want to be working a few feet away from your bed, where the promise of warmth and sleep–deep, deep sleep–awaited.

Thankfully, though, you weren't alone. Both Hotch and Reid had work to do too. Which wasn't odd for Hotch, but Reid, well, he normally went home, like the rest of you. Gideon sure went home right after, which still made you pause, he seemed to love his office so you wondered what his house had that his office didn't.

"You're staying late right?" Reid's voice carried through the empty bullpen as he rounded your desk and sat in Elle's desk chair.

"Yep," you nodded, pushing your hair out of your face. "Hey," you tilted your head toward him, "you wouldn't happen to have a hair tie, would you?" He grimaced and you chuckled, "thought so."

Sighing, you stood and walked the few paces to Elle's desk, leaning over the side of it, rummaging around. Spencer tensed, watching you closely. The single light that still loomed over the room traced the angle of your face. He caught his breath hitch when you pulled back and tilted your head upward, tying your hair back.

You brushed any remaining strands out of your face and tucked them behind your ears. "What?" Your face lit up in happy confusion.

"No–" he cleared his throat, "nothing."

You nodded complacently, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, "really?" You leaned in, pushing your face as close to his as he would allow. You held onto Elle's chair and desk with your hands to keep yourself balanced.

His eyes averted from yours to the floor multiple times and he cleared his throat again. You were only messing with him, his reactions were always worth it though, Penelope and Dereck had taught their new child well.

Reid contemplated what to do for a moment, he knew you were teasing him, you did this sometimes when you two were alone, it always started the same–where he'd get flustered over something dumb and you'd take the opportunity to make fun of him for it. He knew you were doing it out of endearment, so he normally didn't mind, but–he couldn't get that image of you, your exposed neck in the almost completely dark room, out of his head, so keenly unaware of the dangers that could be lurking.

Reid sighed, latching his right hand onto your right wrist and yanking it back. You stumbled slightly, Reid had never used his strength on you before–you'd always thought it was because...well, he had none (but that's beside the point!). He certainly seemed to have it now, did he grow these overnight? You thought, taken aback, though your attention was pulled to his–avidly aware of the closeness between your bodies.

His eyes traced yours, looking for...you didn't know what, but it was something alright. You swallowed and couldn't help laughing nervously, the grip he had on your wrist was strong but careful, you had no doubt if you tried pulling back, he'd let go immediately.

You didn't, for a while. His touch was a sensation you had never felt before. You'd brushed fingertips multiple times, but this–this felt like the Darcy hand scene in Pride and Prejudice–the place where his skin met your burned all around. Not just physically in your hand, it burned in your chest, in your throat, and your head was probably steaming too.

Were it not for Hotch coming out of his office at the exact moment he did–you shook your head, no, that was a completely unprofessional thought.

"You two are still here?" Hotch asked taking–and almost falling–down the stairs.

You and Reid turned away to contain your giggles, which was only harder once Hotch said, "That was a smart move on both your parts. I'm going home early–" The three of you paused, allowing the silent end of that sentence to simmer. Early for Hotch. "In any case," Hotch cleared his throat, "don't stay too late: long day tomorrow."

"Yep," Reid's voice was clipped, but you said nothing at all, opting for a silent nod instead. Hotch left the bullpen and when you heard the elevator ding, you spun around and headed back to your seat. Spencer stayed at Elle's, which strained your focus, anytime he leaned back or stretched, your eyes would wander over to him.

It irked you for an entire thirty minutes, which is when you had enough and yanked out your headphones. Light music helped you focus–it cleared the other surrounding noise from your ears and kept your thoughts from sidetracking too often. In this case, it should've been perfect, and it was, for a time–until you were just about done with your work and they died.

You huffed a loud sigh, pulling them off your head and throwing them across your desk. Spencer raised a brow and turned to you, he'd been watching you carefully from the corner of his eyes. Every time you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, he'd thought you were glancing at him, but then you'd pulled out your headphones and he was sure he had been daydreaming.

"What's wrong?" He heard himself ask, surprised to feel a tingle throughout his body–was he... excited he had something to talk to you about?

"My headphones–" you motioned toward your useless item now laid strewn on your desk, "just died."

"Oh," was the first thing to pop into his head, and apparently he didn't have enough control over his motor mouth because he said it out loud too. You glared at him slightly before deflating against your chair.

"And I just got to the last wha–hun!" You whined, smacking your hands to your face. Spencer wouldn't admit it at that moment, but your tiny tantrum brought an equally tiny smile to his face; he found you incredibly endearing.

"You know," he spoke up softly, getting you to pull your hands away slightly to watch him, "...you could always play your music on your computer."

Your eyes lit up, "really?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, waving his hand around, "there's no one here."

"You're here." You stated.

He gave you one of his "come on now" looks. A few guys tried giving you that face, thinking it was cute, but it always made you cringe–the fact was, though, it was cute on Spencer, and you fell for it every time.

"Okay, fine, but you better not be mean. My taste in music is superior, anyway." He chuckled, sliding out of Elle's chair, and taking two long strides to your desk.

"Alright, let's hear it then." To his surprise, the notes that rang through your computer's speaker were not ones that he was prepared for. "This is Tchaikovski."

You nodded, "I prefer the André Rieu's version, honestly, but the playlist is on shuffle.

He nodded thoughtfully, "Yeah, I can see that."

"Huh?" You raised a brow, standing and stretching, "what's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, but a cheeky grin attached itself to the corner of his lips, "You just...seem like you would."

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the urge to ask more, "Are you done?"

He twisted his body to glance over at the desk that was not his–but was the one closest to you. "Yeah, just finished." Actually, he had finished ten minutes ago, but he didn't want to leave you alone. Well, I can't just leave her, he'd rationalized, it wouldn't be right. So he sat there, shifting his documents until you'd thrown your headphones off.

"Okay, I just have this page left, wait for me?"

He hid his smile by looking down, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Yeah, sure." You were done fifteen minutes later, Spencer caught you stacking your papers and shoving them in your drawer, "all done?"

"Yep," you stood and stretched, pulling your arm over your head. You yawned and turned to him as he approached you again, his steps hidden by the music that was now fading in. Your head turned and a smile tugged at your lips, "It's Rieu."

He focussed his attention on the morodo, listening, "Oh, yeah, it does have the nostalgic familiarity." You raised a brow, but he shook his head.

"Do you ever close your eyes and picture yourself dancing?" You asked, letting your eyes flutter shut as your body swayed a little.

Spencer was about to say no when a thought formed in his head, he didn't like the term "idea" or "plan" because that wasn't what it really was. It was more of an urge and it really did just...pop into his head, "Do you want to dance?"

Your eyes shot open, an enticingly daring expression flooding your face. "You dance?"

He shrugged, but a smile he couldn't control was again tugging at his mouth, "I'm a quick learner."

You nodded, though you thought it, you didn't say you weren't much of a dancer yourself–you didn't count the concerts on your bed or in the middle of your room because you mostly shook your head back and forth, no choreography detectable.

You took charge because although you didn't know much about popular dancing, you knew some ballroom...well, what you'd seen on TV and had tried copying in your living room.

"Put this on the back of my shoulder," you tapped one of his hands, mimicking the action with the arm. The crescendo was building, so you took his free hand in yours and moved back, "one," you said, "two," another step, "three."

A few seconds later it seemed he was now the one teaching you. He even attempted spinning you, which you had not attempted nor planned out before. You almost spun right into a wall, but thankfully, Reid yanked you back to him in time and you fell against his chest instead.

"Maybe," you whispered, out of breath, hearing the song fade out, "we should stick to catching criminals."

"Yeah," he dropped your arms and leaned a hand on the nearby stair railing while you bent to your knees, "maybe we should."

You huffed a laugh, "Oh you look horrid."

He snorted, "Not much more can be said for you."

"Okay, yeah, whatever, help me clean up."

"No," he whined, throwing his head back against his arm, still holding the railing of the stairs, but one warning glance sent him dashing after you.

"Hey, are you okay?" Spencer's eyebrows scrunched together as he took the seat across from you.

You shook your head, sighing softly, "No," your eyes flickered back to the old couple, then meeting Spencer's once more after a brief moment, "you order?"

"Yep," he nodded, his earlier Rudolph nose now down to a slight tint of pink.

"What do you think the other's are doing right now?" You turned toward the window next to you, desperate to draw this out. Your nerves were all too clear, it felt like you were dying–slowly–with the way your mind was floating through these memories so clearly.

"I don't know," he shrugged, "but to be perfectly honest, I'm not worried about them right now."

You nodded, gulping, how to distract him? How to steer him away from the inevitable conversation, you weren't even sure why he'd wanted to meet you tonight, it was nothing special, yeah, sure, it was Christmas Eve, but the date didn't signify anything for you two.

"Hey," you said, finding yourself coming up with another memory, "do you remember when we had that team dinner, but everyone bailed?"

"Everyone except us," he snorted.

"Yeah, what was that all about?"

His eyebrows scrunched together, "what do you mean?"

It was the first time you'd been out of the office with Spencer alone–that wasn't work-related...kind of. "Well, they never really told us why any of them bailed, don't you remember, aren't you curious?"

Her chuckled, "I mean no? It was what four–five years ago?"

"Yeah, but...

The night was almost as annoying as it was cold, the team had cancelled–everyone had something to do and not one person deemed you worthy enough to know what it was, but you had been looking forward to this dinner for the past month. You were not about to let it slip through your fingers.

You had never been to a fancy restaurant and the reservation was still made, it wasn't as if Rossi would have thought to cancel it and you planned to add everything to his tab anyway. (It wasn't stealing if he had offered to pay before.)

The hostess led you to a large round table with multiple seats you were expecting to be empty–but to your surprise, there was someone there, "Reid?" You called, confusion written across your face.

He turned, his face brighting, "oh, hey, where's everyone else?"

You tilted your head, sitting in the seat beside him, "didn't you get the text?"

"I don't have a phone," he shifted his body to face yours, "well, I do...but Penelope called it an abomination so I just don't use it."

You raised a brow, "what about email?"

He shook his head–you pressed your mouth together and patted him on the back, "It'll be okay."

"What?" His eyebrows shot up.

"I have to go to the bathroom, tell the waiter to bring out the menus, pretty please."

When you returned, you found Reid had followed your instructions and was now leaning over a small rectangular board. "Oh, you're ba–"

He paused, his eyes trailing over your body, "jeez, Reid, take a picture."

"Sorry," he cleared his throat, scooting out of the table a bit so as to follow you with his eyes as you rounded the table and sat back down, "I guess I just didn't notice before–you look beautiful tonight."

"Wow, thanks," you replied with sarcastic sarcasm, laughing when he began sputtering out an explanation.

He stopped and watched you with awe, it was as if he thought you'd never stop laughing like you were, but only if he was quiet enough. You stopped eventually–of course you did, it wasn't as if he really did think you wouldn't.

"What's that look for?" Your laughter ceases and a calm smile comes to rest on your face as you angle your head upward.

"Hmm?" His face scrunched up but he couldn't help smiling at being caught, "I don't know what you're talking about," his voice went high and he turned his head toward the lights above you, his smile ever present.

"Oh," you grinned, smacking his arm right when the waiter came and asked for your orders.

The rest of that night you spent with him, joking, laughing–ignoring the world around you. He walked you out to your car, which is when you found yourself not wanting to get in–to leave–just yet.

Instead of dragging out the conversation, however, you sighed and went silent for a moment–it was late, he must be tired–before thinking too much about it, you grabbed his wrist, and in the quiet, lamplit car park of the fancy restaurant, said, "thank you, Reid, for being you."

He chuckled and shrugged and right then and there–you had a wisp of a precarious thought that left you as soon as it appeared, "I don't know how to be anyone else."

"I know," you sighed, knowing it was probably time to get in your car and head home, but something–some unseen force–was holding you back, "that's what I like about you."

You both paused. You didn't say love. Normal friends would have said love, but you didn't, you said like; normal friends dislike each other, siblings dislike each other–lovers...lovers, don't hate each other, or do they? "Thank you." He tilted his head down to hide the shy smile that overpowered the rest of his facial features.

Okay, maybe you'd been thinking about it too hard–wait since when did you overthink things? And about Reid?

"You know," he murmured," pulling your eyes back onto his, he looked up at you through those long eyelashes Penelope always threatened to steal, head still turned down slightly, "you should call me Spencer."

"Huh?" Your cheeks burned, you could feel them heating up in real-time and you were hoping he didn't take notice of the way you shifted in your stance.

"Well, it's just–I mean I use your first name, and you're only a year younger, so–I mean it's normal for everyone else, but–I don't know–never mind."

He turned, embarrassment taking over, "Spencer." You called, eager to throw him off guard. But when he faced you again you stopped breathing, that would be the only explanation for the lack of oxygen in your body. The only logical explanation, anyway.

"I'll see you Monday."

"Yeah, uh–hu-h," you sputtered like an idiot, watching your coworker disappear between the cars.

"...but what?" He pushed his head toward yours, "You went somewhere just now, where did you go?" You couldn't very well tell him you were sifting through the memory archive of your relationship with him–not when you were trying to steer the conversation away from it–well, for as long as you could.

"I...don't," you shook your head, closed your eyes, and sighed with a smile, "sorry, I'm just a little out of it tonight."

He frowned, "anything you want to talk about?'

You pressed your lips together, "Nope."

He nodded, and slipped off his scarf, setting it on the table. He turned his head from side to side, massaging the tension between the muscles. Your brain shifted and then you weren't seeing Spencer massaging his neck, you were seeing yourself–that first night in his apartment, the very first time you'd slept over.

A shiver ran down your spine as you recalled the events leading up to the mentioned massage.

"Thanks again for letting me crash at your place," you sighed contently.

"No problem," Spencer chirped, opening his door. "How did you lose your keys again?"

"Ugh," you ran a hand over your face, "I don't know, they must have fallen somewhere." You groaned, "I'll have to get the locks changed–jeez–my landlord is gonna have a cow."

His chuckle turned into a sigh, "well, you can stay here as long as you need."

"Oh," you turned, "by chance, do you mind if I borrow a few clothes as well? It'll just be for tonight, I can buy something in the morning."

He pressed his lips together, giving you a small nod, "whatever you need."

"Thanks, Spence," you gushed, yanking him into a tight hug, "ugh, what would I do without my pretty boy?"

"Okay, okay," he pushed you away, "you–do know I'm older, right?"

"By a year," you rolled your eyes.

"Just making sure," he concluded, flipping on the light and heading into the kitchen as you stopped to look around. It was clean and a lot of the furniture looked old, especially the bookshelves, but it was definitely Spencer's. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?" He called.

"Do you have any frozen fruit?" You asked, stepping in front of one of the shelves and running a hand along a row of spines.

"Frozen fruit?–" he sounded confused at first, and then his sentence completely fell off, so you turned around, he was in the entryway to the kitchen, "see anything you like?"

You faced the shelf once more, "they're all Econ and Mathematics," you said, almost indifferently, "got anything romantic?"

He smiled, "those treasures are hidden in my room."

"Why yes, Spencer, I would gladly take your room for the night, I'm so glad you asked." Your smile widened as you spoke, placing a hand to your heart, "What," a shake of your head, "a," shake, "gentleman."

His mouth hung agape, but it looked as if he was trying to hide a smile, "you're unbelievable."

"Don't hate the player, Spencer," you spun around and headed for the kitchen, "hate the game."

He scoffed, his frown hanging on for dear life so as not to disappear, but it was losing its grip–quickly.

Spencer let you get in the shower first, but when you got in, you had to stand there, contemplating just how exactly you would tease him for having only shampoo and a bar of soap. A. Bar. Of. Soap.

"There's not even conditioner," you threw your head back, groaning.

A knock came from the other side of the closed bathroom door, "you okay in there?"

"Yep," you shouted, "just..." another sigh, "...peachy..."

Ten minutes later you were stepping out, grabbing the towel Spencer had lent you, it was his spare. You should have grabbed the clothing you wanted to wear before, but a hot shower after a day of dead girls–yeah, you needed the shower.

You heard Spencer moving around in the kitchen, making alfredo with cilantro and broccoli–oh you could already taste the pasta on your tongue, its smell wafted toward your nose and your mouth watered. You hurried to his room, deciding to lotion your body after you were dressed.

You pulled on the bra you'd been wearing before and rummaged through Spencer's drawer's for a t-shirt. Of course, he only had two, the rest were socks.

Frowning, you headed for his closet to see if you could find something better, thankfully, you found rows of white collared shirts, and in pulling one over your head, you grinned at the thought of seeing his face crumble, so maybe you were a bit of a sadist when it came to him–it was only all fun, really. If it meant that much to him, you'd just buy him another tomorrow.

You were about to walk out when you realized you were pant-less. You thought about reusing your underwear, but that would just be gross, so, you would have to go commando.

But... you still needed pants. After a while you sat on his bed in silence, frowning at the disappointment of not finding anything comfortable, then–just like a lightbulb, it occurred to you he might have sweats hidden somewhere.

You began pulling open the rest of the drawers when another knock–this time on his door–came. "Are you decent?" His question muffled by the door.

"I'm about to be," you replied, standing with your prize. You shoved your legs into them, the length dragging past your feet, you had to manually knot them with the strings to keep them up, and even then it was still falling. You sighed, pulling the linen shirt over the pants. "Alright," you brushed your hair down, "come in."

His eyes caught the shirt you wore, then they dipped toward the grey sweats; he smiled, tilting his head as he let his eyes track back up toward your face, "new style?"

"Oh shut up," you glared, feeling a similar smile come over you, as you shoulder-checked him out of the room. "Is the pasta done?"

"Almost," he nodded, "hungry?"

"No, I'm perfectly full," you rolled your eyes.

His laugh sent a tingling sensation through your body and your stomach dipped, "I'm gonna get in the shower, okay? Feel free to finish cooking."

"Aye-aye captain," you saluted him, turned, and marched toward the kitchen.

Spencer stood there for a moment, he's known you for about three years now, and yet he still couldn't figure out what this was, what you were–to him... He was considered a genius by normal standards, but around you, he felt his whole world shrink until it was only big enough to hold a young woman, and then he wasn't such a genius.

He often grumbled idioms to himself whenever he found he was losing his shit–which is how he stepped into his shower tonight, uttering idioms under his breath, all while knowing they were pointless.

Rossi had taught Spencer how to cook–not just cook, but cook. He'd only been with the team a year, but he was quickly sliding into a nice rhythm with everyone and you thought he might even be helping Spencer in the way only Gideon used to...maybe.

You loved that zio.

Spencer was right, the pasta was almost done. Which meant you could start grabbing plates, "...left cabinet near the sink..." you mumbled to yourself, trying to remember where Spencer said he kept dishes.

"Hey, all done?" Spencer walked into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and an MIT sweatshirt.

Your smile dropped, "you were hiding that weren't you?"

"How could I?" He raised his brows, leaning his back against the counter in front of you. You had just turned off the iron holding the pot boiling the noodles, and now you turned around to mix the sauce, ordering, "poor the water out please."

He moved swiftly, careful to only hold the handles. You watched him from the corner of your eyes, though you couldn't see them with the sweatshirt he was wearing, the ease in which he tilted the large pot told you those muscles you'd noticed during your first overnight at the office with him, were still there, and possibly even growing.

You turned away and cleared your throat when he set the pot back down, "alright grab the plates."

He smiled, and it was almost like you were dancing with the way you spun to let him pass. He laughed and you couldn't help but smile, this was nice–this was fun.

After dinner, Spencer began cleaning the dishes and you began cleaning the table, when you finished before him, you hip-bumped him and said, "I got this, go find a movie we can watch–preferably horror."

He sighed, shaking his head, "yes Hotch."

You your jaw dropped, but he could see your smile through it, "you did not."

He laughed and it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard. It warmed your chest and for a second you felt lightheaded; dizzy.

Upon finishing the dishes, you found Spencer strewn across his couch, head leaning forward as he rubbed the back of his neck. The paused movie on the tv screen was parallel his long couch, waiting for you.

"It hurt?" You took slow steps toward him.

He jerked as if he hadn't known you were there until you'd said something. "Not really," he turned back toward the screen, "ready?"

You don't really know what it was that made you keep on your journey toward him, probably that unseen force from before. "Let me see."

He tensed when the buds of your fingertips prodded up and down his warm neck. Logically it was probably from the coldness, but you hesitated, almost pulling back for fear of making him uncomfortable.

"Sorry–"

"No, I–" he grabbed your wrist, holding it down on his neck, "it's fine...please?" It was so small, so quiet, so overwhelming in that space between you and him, and that question–that word–...it shrunk it even smaller.

"Yeah, okay," you spoke quietly, fearing if it were any louder the moment would turn to ruins.

You pulled away, breathing on your hands so they wouldn't feel so cold, then, you moved in, working the tenses muscles first, just like your dad had taught you. For a second you recalled the child labor he put you through during your childhood, nose scrunching at how he started giving you half a dollar every foot massage after you'd brought it up.

Spencer's groan yanked you to the present instantly, you smiled, "I'm no chiropractor, but I'm not completely clueless."

Spencer's snort earned him a smack on the shoulder, leading to you both laughing. A few passable seconds and you were now at the base of his neck, where his shoulders formed the arch. You were so focused on your work–a vein must've popped out–when Spencer turned his face and suddenly you had that loss of breath sensation again. Your mouth went dry and–unwillingly–your eyes ran over his lips, but when you blinked you forced them up again.

"Thank you," a boom in your chest, and you fell backward, onto your butt, your legs sprawled, but your knees somehow still tucked beneath you, Spencer of course was worried, jumping up immediately, and asking if you were alright.

The thing was, though, you weren't. Not in the mental sense, because your mind had spent years trying to figure out just what all the moments and feelings over the years meant. And yet, you couldn't put it into words until now.

You were absolutely, positively, irrevocably in love with him. Your coworker, possibly your best friend–and–and–how could you not know until now? You've had your fair share of crushes, you've had boyfriends, even, but have you ever been in love? No–this was a first. And–and you just couldn't grapple with what that meant. If it even meant anything at all.

You offered him a kind smile, "Yeah, sorry, I must have just...lost balance."

He looked at you for a moment, nodding, "If you say so, here, let me help you up."

You sighed, realizing you were still on your knees–get up girl, you're not freaking praying–

"Thank you," you murmured.

"You don't have to thank me," he replied cooly.

Your brows furrowed, "what?"

"I said you don't have to thank me," he led you to the couch, "I have free will, I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to, so, you don't have to thank me."

He held your eyes and for only a timid instant, you thought it may have been a confession, but no–there was no way. You nodded, "All right, then–the same goes for me."

After a tic, he nodded, "Right."

You blinked and suddenly you were in the coffee shop again, but Spencer wasn't in front of you. You nearly jumped up shouting his name before you noticed he was walking over to grab your drinks. That was odd, had they called it out? Why hadn't you noticed?

Your eyes tracked his movements when he reached out to grab your cups, his forearms hidden beneath the nerdy plaid sweater, one of many–you knew–were in his closet.

You smiled at your joke, recalling the first Christmas you'd spent with him–well, okay it was with the team and it wasn't on Christmas day, and yeah, it was for Secret Santa, but it was the first time you had pulled his name since joining the BAU and becoming part of their little but many traditions.

He spun around and started walking toward you, and you couldn't help thinking his eyes had that same glint that they did when he'd opened your gift.

You had tried to make it as uncommon and unexpected as possible, but still as about him in some way. His reaction...you felt sickly sweet thinking about it; like you might throw up. And the gift he'd given you–because he'd pulled your name from the bowl for the first time that year as well–you could feel your heart grow ten sizes...

The lights around the bullpen were dimmed so as to appreciate the blue weather outside. There was only one window, but Penelope brought a few candles so as to capture the very essence of the winter spectacle.

When you had retrieved Spencer's name from the bowl a week ago, you'd being thrumming with both excitement and nervousness, you'd gotten Gideon the first year, which scared you to absolute bits, but Hotch helped you...somewhat. Then Elle left and Emily joined the team, and you'd gotten her, last year it had been Penelope. This year, well–you just had to go all out.

You had felt it a few months ago, in his apartment, you'd even admitted it to yourself, but you couldn't tell him, nor could you let anyone else know. This was your secret, yours and yours alone.

You'd spent hours searching stores, but nothing seemed to fit, there were so many people out doing their annual gift shopping and it just all seemed too crowded to brave the storm of people again.

It was last Wednesday when you stumbled across the gem of a store, well, it wasn't much to the normal person, but as they say, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder'–and though he hadn't been there, you knew the shop would have driven him mad with happiness.

Upon entering, multiple little trinkets had caught your eye, but you'd wanted to filter around for a bit, and you did just that until you came across a teddy bear wearing a plaid vest. Now, you didn't know if it had been fate, but the teddy bear was holding a small chess piece, the queen. You recalled Gideon constantly beating Spencer at chess when you first joined the team, and how Spencer had been humbled with each loss.

You now watched with anticipation as Spencer shook the gift in his hand, it was light and cheap, and a little old, but you were sure he'd love it, after all, what was all that ancient woodwork in his apartment? He grinned, clearly just as excited to open the gift as you were. "What is it?" Emily asked, glancing at you.

"Tell him to open it," you motioned toward him with a hand.

"Open it Reid," she turned toward him, the other's murmuring similar comments.

And he did. His eyes widening when they pulled out the small, plaid-vested teddy bear. "Is–is that a stuffed animal?" Morgan questioned, jumping when Penelope smacked him on the arm.

"It's holding a chess piece," Spencer ran his fingers along the tiny queen. His eyes caught yours in a manner that had you planted to the floor, you tried swallowing, but your throat was dry, you felt as if he were trying to communicate with you through his eyes. Like he was saying, "thank you," only that was too small, it was deeper than that and yet as simple as a smile. Your heart thudded and you had to turn away because if he saw you. He'd know.

You had no doubt. Not a single sliver of it–he'd know in an instant, and well, you don't know how he'd react, and you loved how things were now, so you turned away, not from your feelings, but from the damage that might ensue, should he find out. "Mmhmm," you rocked back and forth on your feet.

"Alright, who's next?" Rossi called, "Reid, who'd you get?"

His eyes flashed to yours as he set the small bear down. "Actually," he pulled a finely wrapped square gift, it was the largest of the gifts this year and you hadn't a clue as to what it could be nor who had brought it in.

As he slid the firm gift into your hands, he said, "be gentle, it's fragile."

Now, you were undoubtedly curious. It was skinny but heavy enough, so you set it down and began clawing at the wrapping, gently, just like he had said. When it was unveiled, your words caught in your throat. You looked up to him, holding it in between you two.

His smile grew bashful and he rubbed the back of his neck, "I know you don't, but I have a record player, and you're welcome to come over and use it any time."

Your jaw hung open and it was only when Emily shared a look with the rest of the team that one of them finally said something–it was Rossi–"Are we missing something?"

Your smile hurt with the way it stretched across your face. "Thank you," you set the gift aside stepping forward to hug him, but then remembered the rest of the team around you, so you awkwardly tapped his chest, but he looked like he knew your intent and for that you were grateful.

He had gotten you an André Rieu's Swan Lake record. How could someone be so–so perfectly him? As the gift-giving went on, you leaned over and whispered, "Thank you," again.

He stepped closer toward you, leaning over subtly, "remember what we said?"

The low tone in his voice sent shivers running down your spine. "Right..." you gulped.

"But," he continued, walking around you, pulling your gaze back to the record, in prime condition, you had no idea how he did it because you were pretty sure Rieu's Swan Lake did not exist on records, and yet here it was, in the very palm of your hands.

"But?" You asked, brimming with butterflies.

You swear you felt yourself beginning to tremble with them before he said, "if you ever need a dance partner, I'm always available, and I might be open to a little 'please'."

You smacked him laughing, thinking he was about to say something serious. He covered his chuckles with a hand, placing his other on the desk to hold himself up.

You both paused when you realized the chattering around the room had stopped, and when you looked up, everyone was staring at you, even JJ had her brows raised, Hotch–he looked like a dad catching his daughter with a boy in her room for the first time.

Spencer cleared his throat and asked, "What did everyone bring for the potluck?" His voice, once again, squeaky and high.

You smiled at him, with a few years of practice you had stopped saying thank you to each other, it was in your eyes; it was like saying I love you: pointless if you both knew it already, so why waste breath on something that could be better used for anything else?

"It's hot, so be careful," he handed it to you and your fingertips burned at where you touched his hand.

"So," you said, "what did you want to talk about? Why did it have to be tonight?"

He smiled, and to your surprise, it didn't falter. Although, should you really be surprised? You knew you loved him. You have for years now. You've known he's loved you since he pulled you out of that damned basement, it was so clear, not in the way he had reached for you, not in the way he had yelled, sounding both terrified and relieved for the paramedics to "fucking do their job", not even in the way he cried out your name, face contorted in something so close to agony–no. Not in any of those ways–but in the way his eyes had pleaded with you.

The way they had been the only thing you'd remembered after waking up, the only thing you saw clearly when you'd fainted when the world had gone black for the first time, suddenly disappearing all at once–like you were dying, though you might have quite literally have been.

The light was dim, you didn't know how long you'd been here, or where here even was. It had to have been days–days without light, days without food, you'd barely sustained enough water to keep you from dehydrating.

You tried remembering how you got to this point. You were undercover–God how long ago was that? You wanted to cry but you refused to give in, to let him see you like this. It would turn him on, you remember that–at least. You couldn't–you just couldn't give him what he wanted, and for that, he kept you alive.

It was both a matter of survival and of stubbornness and until you gave it to him, he'd keep you ailing, he'd probably torture you in the days to come. Gosh–you were so incredibly weak, you didn't want to waste energy on trying to recall anything else.

But moments would come to you in bits and pieces. You had offered yourself to go undercover, you were his type–the unsub–you were the youngest on the team, but they trusted you and you trusted them to have your back. Most of all, you trusted Spencer, you knew he wouldn't let anything happen to you, and you knew he was probably looking for you right now, probably not sleeping, maybe even torturing himself for losing you.

How long had you known him? Four years? You had no doubt. None. He was looking for you, doing everything in his power to find you, to locate this son of a bastard who was keeping you prisoner for his sick, twisted needs.

"All you have to do," his voice would croak through the speaker he had set in the top corners of the room. You were pretty sure he had a monitor on you as well but tried to disregard that thought as you squinted through your hazy vision. "Is submit yourself to me."

"And then you'll let me go?" You would sometimes ask when you had enough energy, though it was always sarcastic and accompanied by a dry laugh.

The chains he'd linked you to had enough room for you to move around in your tiny prison cell, but you never did, you were normally too exhausted. He wanted to wear you down, this was his tactic, the one Hotch or someone–you couldn't really remember now–had concluded in the profile.

How long had it been? Time either moved too fast or too slow. "I've already told you I would." But it was a lie and you knew it. It was the game he played: get the unwilling participant to confess their secret, undying love for him, you had been messaging him for a few days under an alias before meeting up. That was supposed to have been it, you'd had him, but he wasn't guilty of anything until he tried something.

You were at a club, Emily was stationed on the floor, Spencer was sitting at the bar, Hotch and Morgan were acting as bodyguards at the entrances and exits, and Rossi had been somewhere on the second floor–that was all that had come back so far, everything else was still a mystery.

Regardless, you knew for a fact the unsub wouldn't let you go, he'd get you to confess and then he'd torture you depending on the way he felt that day, then eventually kill and dump you somewhere.

It was the confession, to him it was like a green light to do whatever he wanted, it was like the consent to kill you was hidden behind what he referred to as "the submission".

You stayed in the makeshift bed most days, only moving to keep bedsores from appearing. Despite the lack of physical torture–if you took out the starving and lack of vitamin D–the mental obstacles you went through just to keep yourself sane were another kind of torment.

It had only been a day later, but it felt like weeks of agonizing solitude before they found you. You were still in the clothes you wore to the club. You recalled the bright light, that was the first giveaway, you thought he might have had enough, but then you heard it, your name, your real name, falling from the lips of the only person who could say it like that.

"Spencer?" Your voice was raw, you'd eaten a slice of bread and an egg the day before, at least, you think it was that, you'd been given a single glass of water, which in your state couldn't drink without throwing up.

Spencer had been going insane–and fast. The team had never seen him so erratic before, not even his addiction had made him so lifeless, he wouldn't sleep, he was working nonstop and it got to a point where Morgan had to slip a sleeping pill into a cup of his coffee.

They hated forcing it on him, but it came from a place of love–they would never tell him and if he started showing signs again, they'd take responsibility and work with him, help him–but the kid needed rest, and he wasn't going to get it willingly.

When Garcia finally–finally–obtained an address, they wasted no time. Spencer–not giving a damn about a warrant–shouldered the door down, surprising Morgan and even Hotch, he needed to find you, he needed to. You weren't dead, he could feel it in his heart, you couldn't be. They hadn't found a body–and as long as they hadn't found a body you were safe. You had to be–you just–had to be.

Tears sprang in his eyes and fell down his cheek when he saw you. It'd been a week, they'd never–never–spent this long on a case before, you were a wreck, a pile of almost nothing. His heart broke at seeing you in such a way. He called your name, hoping you were still there, hoping you hadn't given in, that you hadn't gone through all the things he'd seen the other victims–God he couldn't even think of you in that way–you were so much more. So much more.

He'd been trying to fight the feelings, it wasn't appropriate and some part of him was sure you didn't even feel the same, but now–at a time like this–he didn't give a damn about what anybody else thought. Not of you or his feelings, if you hated him afterward then he could live with that. What he couldn't live with was seeing you fucking dead.

"Spencer?" You called and his expression broke free of the mask he'd been wearing up until now. He didn't want the other's to worry so he avoided crying in front of them, whenever he had that urge, he'd hide in the bathroom. But now–now?

He was ugly crying, a beak down if you will. His face came into your vision and his eyes, his bright, sad, glossy, warm brown eyes. It was like a hug, and then he was actually hugging you, your face buried in his chest, you could hear other voices but they were all drowned out by the silence that came over you and you could see nothing but Spencer's eyes. The way they looked as if you built the sky and added the stars just for him.

When you'd disappeared from the bar–he had been right next to you–right bloody next to you, and when he blinked you were just–gone.

You might forgive him, but he knew he would never forgive himself. You had given him everything, and he didn't know it until this very moment that he didn't care about being professional as much as he loved you, and he knew you knew, he didn't say it, but in the silence shared between you too you knew, and you didn't say thank you when he found you, because you knew he could see that in your eyes too.

It was unspoken, but in the silence–it was enough.

"Let's...walk," he stood suddenly.

"Wait, what?" Your eyebrows dipped in confusion, but you scrambled to follow him nonetheless. "Spencer, it's snowing!" You shivered right as you stepped outside.

"I know," he replied, walking down the sidewalk, stores were closed at this time of night, and the coffee shop was no doubt about to close as well, it was almost midnight, you were actually surprised they were still open, today of all days, but perhaps it was good for business.

"Then–why?"

He stopped and began heading toward the park around the corner. It didn't have a big playground, but it had a large field that normally filled with snow around this time of year. The kids were more drawn to it, naturally, though no kids were in sight upon reaching the destination he seemed to have planned.

You sat on the stairs of the small structure, snow blowing around you in the dark atmosphere, only alight by the stars and the park lamps.

The parking-lot had been desolate, not a single car in sight and you almost regretted not driving as you would now have to walk all the way back to the coffee shop, but Spencer, well, he could make anything worth the struggle.

"You know," he spun closing his eyes, coffee cup in hand as the mini blizzard coated him and his attire. He'd grabbed the scarf from his scarf from the table and wrapped it around his arm, now it was loose, the wind pulling at it slightly, "we should make a snowman."

"Now?" You questioned with a lift of your brow. "I mean, it's kind of late."

"So?" He set his cup down, raising a brow at you, "scared?"

You sighed, succumbing to his stupid challenge, "Fine, I give."

"You always do," he grinned, and something about that grin made you want to forgo everything and just kiss him, but you were the one to drag this out, so perhaps you should play along.

You'd been beating around the bush all night, the both of you; it was as if you were so comfortable with each other, so easy with your current relationship, that it was uncomfortable talking about a change.

So, you built the damn snowman. Spencer wrapped his scarf around it afterward, admiring his handy work, though it looked more like a bear with its oval mouth and no carrot nose. You rolled your eyes and snapped a photo of the snowman. "He looks just like his dad," you muttered.

A strange look came over Spencer's face just then, and you knew–you just knew: he was in love–but haven't you always known? He didn't say it because he didn't have to, it was all in his eyes. With the wind swirling around you–you heard your feet crunch in the snow as you stepped forward–and with the moon being your soul witness, you kissed him.

...

Or he kissed you, it was all a blur really: you kissed each other, adoring eyes meeting over and over again like a silent declaration, thank you and I love you.

All this time scared by a change, your fingertips had always burned with the knowing outcome.

a/n:  any way to say ahhhhhhhh differently? i don't know, but thank you for reading, and be sure to check out the community radio (i'm actually so proud of it)

[awordsmith]

Spencer Reid - list of fics

rained on with you

♩in which you attend a few of Spencer's classes as an auditor for personal reasons and he calls you out in front of the class, and has no idea just how off he is.

if we had known

♩in which you and Spencer are best friends, and have never crossed that line because you're in love with him and he's in love with JJ–or so you think.

fingertips

♩in which you and Spencer constantly have had accidental moments over the years that always meant more to one than the other thought.

where you came from

♩in which you receive a letter detailing the death of your grandfather, head back to your hometown, and wonder if you ever should have left.

[awordsmith]

angst masterlist

main masterlist

katcember

college!reader 𝜗𝜚 s.r

rained on with you

♩in which you attend a few of Spencer's classes as an auditor for personal reasons and he calls you out in front of the class, however, he's completely off. 

bau!reader 𝜗𝜚 s.r

if we had known

♩in which you and Spencer are best friends, and have never crossed that line because you're in love with him and he's in love with JJ–or so you think.

[awordsmith]

♯katcember ♪

what/who do you want to read?

- send in a request of

❏ your favorite character and an accompanied prompt

or

❏ what type of !reader you’d like to see

fluff / angst / smutt

requests will be open 12/3 and close 12/10

post updated will be random as i try to figure out a good schedule!

re: nothing is guaranteed, I am just a girl <3

thank you so much for joining and participating!

[awordsmith]

character list

Spencer Reid

۶ৎ 𝓻𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼: closed

request and inbox guidelines

[awordsmith]

smut masterlist

main masterlist

none yet

[awordsmith]

fluff masterlist

main masterlist

katcember

bau!reader 𝜗𝜚 s.r

fingertips

♩in which you and Spencer constantly have had accidental moments over the years that always meant more to one than the other thought.

[awordsmith]

♪ katcember masterlist ♪

katcember

college!reader 𝜗𝜚 s.r

rained on with you

♩in which you attend a few of Spencer's classes as an auditor for personal reasons and he calls you out in front of the class, however, he's completely off. 

bau!reader 𝜗𝜚 s.r

if we had known

♩in which you and Spencer are best friends, and have never crossed that line because you're in love with him and he's in love with JJ–or so you think.

fingertips

♩in which you and Spencer constantly have had accidental moments over the years that always meant more to one than the other thought.

where you came from

♩in which you receive a letter detailing the death of your grandfather, head back to your hometown, and wonder if you ever should have left.

[awordsmith]

request guidelines

requests are currently: closed

↳ accepting any and all requests for katcember,

↳ make sure to include a when (what season/movie/ep), if it doesn't matter to you, you can say n/a or no timeline

↳ if i happen to not get to yours in time, fret not darlings, i will get to them eventually and i will do my best to make them top priority

↳ katcember options can be found here

inbox guidelines

↳ i ask you to please be pleasant

↳ i'm open to all questions until they get weird, unless we've crossed that line, i plead with you to not ask too-personal questions, if i am uncomfortable i will not respond

↳ blocking rights are mine and i will use them if necessary

↳ don't mind how much you inbox, i'd love to get to know you all if possible!

[awordsmith]

i was asked to make a taglist, and i've been thinking about it for a little, so I'll start doing that in my next fic, if anyone wants to be a part of it just comment or dm me (if not you can just ignore this) ily cari

fingertips 𝜗𝜚 s.r

in which you and Spencer constantly have had accidental moments over the years that always meant more to one than the other thought.

katcember

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s7 category: fluff content warnings: proofed! reader kidnapping, mentions of torture, constant flashbacks, yes sarcastic sarcasm is intentional, hidden feelings, tension, no smut (I'm working my way up to that one), reid with warmth word count: 9k a/n: ahhhhh, i just created a community radio (it can be found on my masterlist or pinned page) so feel free to send in song requests to be added! enjoy!

Your breath coated the window of the coffee shop, fogging it. You wiped it with your sleeve, waiting for Spencer to get back from ordering your drinks. The dim yellow light lit up the shop with a soft, mld glow; it was late, most sane people would be at home by now.

The bustling in the background caught your attention and your gaze caught on Spencer, still standing in line. He'd asked you to meet him here a few days ago, when you were working on your last case before your small–unavoidable–break. It was Christmas Eve. It was Christmas Eve and he had asked you to meet him days prior. He had every second to cancel, to change the date... Sitting here now, you knew–without a doubt–you were about to have a conversation long over due.

It made you think about how it all had gotten started, all your firsts, and when you knew you'd always love him more than a friend should. From your fist meeting to the feeling that someday it would hurt, because you could never let him go.

The first time we met, you thought, a calm smile settling over your face.

"And this, is Dr. Spencer Reid." Jason Gideon, your new boss introduced.

You nodded, a tight smile on your face, to say that you were nervous would be an understatement. Almost robotically, you shoved your hand forward, "it's nice to meet you–Doctor" you added quickly to the end.

An awkward expression came over his face as he stared at your hand, "oh, uh, he has a problem with physical contact." Dereck Morgan, your new team member, snorted.

Your eyebrows scrunched as you glanced at Morgan, your eyes swiftly turned back on Dr. Reid with a question lying just beneath the surface. He raised a single eyebrow back–though if it were on purpose you didn't know.

"You know," he said after a moment, after Gideon had walked away, up into his secluded office that you've only been in a few times. "It's actually safer to kiss."

Your eyes widened and Morgan snorted another, louder laugh, clapping his hands in the process. Dr. Reid's face had taken on a bit of mortification.

"I–of course I was just–I mean–I was saying that as–a fact–not that–"

"Just stop while you ahead, pretty boy." Morgan's contented sigh came to rest and he stood up. Dr. Reid still looked rigid, though, and you felt a little bad. Where you were nervous, he seemed just as awkward.

Morgan patted the poor doctor on the back and walked away, toward the staff room, it seemed. You both watched as he walked, a pep in his step, for a lack of better words. When Spencer turned back to you, fear written in his creases of his features, you offered a pleasant smile, "don't worry about it," he seemed to relax at that, which is why you couldn't help adding, "pretty boy."

His head jerked back toward you and you bursted into laughter, already feeling the tension and stress in the back of your head decrease a sizable amount. Thank you, Dr. Reid. You thought as you stared back at him, kind and gentle eyes, once again making him relax. He didn't know why he all of a sudden felt easier, but he did, and for the first time in his life, he didn't want to question something.

Music pulled you from your thoughts, the old jukebox in the back corner of the shop had began playing. An old man was now making his way back to a woman, whom you assumed was his wife. They looked cute, happy, and whole.

Your heart swelled, would you be able to have that kind of love one day? Would someone be able to talk about you as fondly as old men spoke of their first loves? Spencer called your name from across the shop, "you just want the coffee? Nothing else?"

You smiled warmly, though, a bit nervous, "no, no I'm fine." He nodded and typed something into his phone, which you had forced him to upgrade a few years back, you haven't been able to get him to upgrade since, but maybe, just maybe if he received a gift from Santa...

The old couple caught your attention, they were standing, and you watched as they–ever so slowly–took to the emptied space in the middle of the shop. Butterflies shot through your chest, and you felt like you might be sick–it was so cute.

It reminded you of–you turned back to Spencer, your cheeks reddening not just form the frostbite that had accompanied you when you'd first arrived.

That night...

You've been with the team a year, and tonight is the first night you've ever stayed at the office. You were tired and you wanted to go home, but you had to get this paperwork done and you did not want to be working a few feet away from your bed, where the promise of warmth and sleep–deep, deep sleep–awaited.

Thankfully, though, you weren't alone. Both Hotch and Reid had work to do too. Which wasn't odd for Hotch, but Reid, well, he normally went home, like the rest of you. Gideon sure went home right after, which still made you pause, he seemed to love his office so you wondered what his house had that his office didn't.

"You're staying late right?" Reid's voice carried through the empty bullpen as he rounded your desk and sat in Elle's desk chair.

"Yep," you nodded, pushing your hair out of your face. "Hey," you tilted your head toward him, "you wouldn't happen to have a hair tie, would you?" He grimaced and you chuckled, "thought so."

Sighing, you stood and walked the few paces to Elle's desk, leaning over the side of it, rummaging around. Spencer tensed, watching you closely. The single light that still loomed over the room traced the angle of your face. He caught his breath hitch when you pulled back and tilted your head upward, tying your hair back.

You brushed any remaining strands out of your face and tucked them behind your ears. "What?" Your face lit up in happy confusion.

"No–" he cleared his throat, "nothing."

You nodded complacently, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, "really?" You leaned in, pushing your face as close to his as he would allow. You held onto Elle's chair and desk with your hands to keep yourself balanced.

His eyes averted from yours to the floor multiple times and he cleared his throat again. You were only messing with him, his reactions were always worth it though, Penelope and Dereck had taught their new child well.

Reid contemplated what to do for a moment, he knew you were teasing him, you did this sometimes when you two were alone, it always started the same–where he'd get flustered over something dumb and you'd take the opportunity to make fun of him for it. He knew you were doing it out of endearment, so he normally didn't mind, but–he couldn't get that image of you, your exposed neck in the almost completely dark room, out of his head, so keenly unaware of the dangers that could be lurking.

Reid sighed, latching his right hand onto your right wrist and yanking it back. You stumbled slightly, Reid had never used his strength on you before–you'd always thought it was because...well, he had none (but that's beside the point!). He certainly seemed to have it now, did he grow these overnight? You thought, taken aback, though your attention was pulled to his–avidly aware of the closeness between your bodies.

His eyes traced yours, looking for...you didn't know what, but it was something alright. You swallowed and couldn't help laughing nervously, the grip he had on your wrist was strong but careful, you had no doubt if you tried pulling back, he'd let go immediately.

You didn't, for a while. His touch was a sensation you had never felt before. You'd brushed fingertips multiple times, but this–this felt like the Darcy hand scene in Pride and Prejudice–the place where his skin met your burned all around. Not just physically in your hand, it burned in your chest, in your throat, and your head was probably steaming too.

Were it not for Hotch coming out of his office at the exact moment he did–you shook your head, no, that was a completely unprofessional thought.

"You two are still here?" Hotch asked taking–and almost falling–down the stairs.

You and Reid turned away to contain your giggles, which was only harder once Hotch said, "That was a smart move on both your parts. I'm going home early–" The three of you paused, allowing the silent end of that sentence to simmer. Early for Hotch. "In any case," Hotch cleared his throat, "don't stay too late: long day tomorrow."

"Yep," Reid's voice was clipped, but you said nothing at all, opting for a silent nod instead. Hotch left the bullpen and when you heard the elevator ding, you spun around and headed back to your seat. Spencer stayed at Elle's, which strained your focus, anytime he leaned back or stretched, your eyes would wander over to him.

It irked you for an entire thirty minutes, which is when you had enough and yanked out your headphones. Light music helped you focus–it cleared the other surrounding noise from your ears and kept your thoughts from sidetracking too often. In this case, it should've been perfect, and it was, for a time–until you were just about done with your work and they died.

You huffed a loud sigh, pulling them off your head and throwing them across your desk. Spencer raised a brow and turned to you, he'd been watching you carefully from the corner of his eyes. Every time you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, he'd thought you were glancing at him, but then you'd pulled out your headphones and he was sure he had been daydreaming.

"What's wrong?" He heard himself ask, surprised to feel a tingle throughout his body–was he... excited he had something to talk to you about?

"My headphones–" you motioned toward your useless item now laid strewn on your desk, "just died."

"Oh," was the first thing to pop into his head, and apparently he didn't have enough control over his motor mouth because he said it out loud too. You glared at him slightly before deflating against your chair.

"And I just got to the last wha–hun!" You whined, smacking your hands to your face. Spencer wouldn't admit it at that moment, but your tiny tantrum brought an equally tiny smile to his face; he found you incredibly endearing.

"You know," he spoke up softly, getting you to pull your hands away slightly to watch him, "...you could always play your music on your computer."

Your eyes lit up, "really?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, waving his hand around, "there's no one here."

"You're here." You stated.

He gave you one of his "come on now" looks. A few guys tried giving you that face, thinking it was cute, but it always made you cringe–the fact was, though, it was cute on Spencer, and you fell for it every time.

"Okay, fine, but you better not be mean. My taste in music is superior, anyway." He chuckled, sliding out of Elle's chair, and taking two long strides to your desk.

"Alright, let's hear it then." To his surprise, the notes that rang through your computer's speaker were not ones that he was prepared for. "This is Tchaikovski."

You nodded, "I prefer the André Rieu's version, honestly, but the playlist is on shuffle.

He nodded thoughtfully, "Yeah, I can see that."

"Huh?" You raised a brow, standing and stretching, "what's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged, but a cheeky grin attached itself to the corner of his lips, "You just...seem like you would."

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the urge to ask more, "Are you done?"

He twisted his body to glance over at the desk that was not his–but was the one closest to you. "Yeah, just finished." Actually, he had finished ten minutes ago, but he didn't want to leave you alone. Well, I can't just leave her, he'd rationalized, it wouldn't be right. So he sat there, shifting his documents until you'd thrown your headphones off.

"Okay, I just have this page left, wait for me?"

He hid his smile by looking down, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Yeah, sure." You were done fifteen minutes later, Spencer caught you stacking your papers and shoving them in your drawer, "all done?"

"Yep," you stood and stretched, pulling your arm over your head. You yawned and turned to him as he approached you again, his steps hidden by the music that was now fading in. Your head turned and a smile tugged at your lips, "It's Rieu."

He focussed his attention on the morodo, listening, "Oh, yeah, it does have the nostalgic familiarity." You raised a brow, but he shook his head.

"Do you ever close your eyes and picture yourself dancing?" You asked, letting your eyes flutter shut as your body swayed a little.

Spencer was about to say no when a thought formed in his head, he didn't like the term "idea" or "plan" because that wasn't what it really was. It was more of an urge and it really did just...pop into his head, "Do you want to dance?"

Your eyes shot open, an enticingly daring expression flooding your face. "You dance?"

He shrugged, but a smile he couldn't control was again tugging at his mouth, "I'm a quick learner."

You nodded, though you thought it, you didn't say you weren't much of a dancer yourself–you didn't count the concerts on your bed or in the middle of your room because you mostly shook your head back and forth, no choreography detectable.

You took charge because although you didn't know much about popular dancing, you knew some ballroom...well, what you'd seen on TV and had tried copying in your living room.

"Put this on the back of my shoulder," you tapped one of his hands, mimicking the action with the arm. The crescendo was building, so you took his free hand in yours and moved back, "one," you said, "two," another step, "three."

A few seconds later it seemed he was now the one teaching you. He even attempted spinning you, which you had not attempted nor planned out before. You almost spun right into a wall, but thankfully, Reid yanked you back to him in time and you fell against his chest instead.

"Maybe," you whispered, out of breath, hearing the song fade out, "we should stick to catching criminals."

"Yeah," he dropped your arms and leaned a hand on the nearby stair railing while you bent to your knees, "maybe we should."

You huffed a laugh, "Oh you look horrid."

He snorted, "Not much more can be said for you."

"Okay, yeah, whatever, help me clean up."

"No," he whined, throwing his head back against his arm, still holding the railing of the stairs, but one warning glance sent him dashing after you.

"Hey, are you okay?" Spencer's eyebrows scrunched together as he took the seat across from you.

You shook your head, sighing softly, "No," your eyes flickered back to the old couple, then meeting Spencer's once more after a brief moment, "you order?"

"Yep," he nodded, his earlier Rudolph nose now down to a slight tint of pink.

"What do you think the other's are doing right now?" You turned toward the window next to you, desperate to draw this out. Your nerves were all too clear, it felt like you were dying–slowly–with the way your mind was floating through these memories so clearly.

"I don't know," he shrugged, "but to be perfectly honest, I'm not worried about them right now."

You nodded, gulping, how to distract him? How to steer him away from the inevitable conversation, you weren't even sure why he'd wanted to meet you tonight, it was nothing special, yeah, sure, it was Christmas Eve, but the date didn't signify anything for you two.

"Hey," you said, finding yourself coming up with another memory, "do you remember when we had that team dinner, but everyone bailed?"

"Everyone except us," he snorted.

"Yeah, what was that all about?"

His eyebrows scrunched together, "what do you mean?"

It was the first time you'd been out of the office with Spencer alone–that wasn't work-related...kind of. "Well, they never really told us why any of them bailed, don't you remember, aren't you curious?"

Her chuckled, "I mean no? It was what four–five years ago?"

"Yeah, but...

The night was almost as annoying as it was cold, the team had cancelled–everyone had something to do and not one person deemed you worthy enough to know what it was, but you had been looking forward to this dinner for the past month. You were not about to let it slip through your fingers.

You had never been to a fancy restaurant and the reservation was still made, it wasn't as if Rossi would have thought to cancel it and you planned to add everything to his tab anyway. (It wasn't stealing if he had offered to pay before.)

The hostess led you to a large round table with multiple seats you were expecting to be empty–but to your surprise, there was someone there, "Reid?" You called, confusion written across your face.

He turned, his face brighting, "oh, hey, where's everyone else?"

You tilted your head, sitting in the seat beside him, "didn't you get the text?"

"I don't have a phone," he shifted his body to face yours, "well, I do...but Penelope called it an abomination so I just don't use it."

You raised a brow, "what about email?"

He shook his head–you pressed your mouth together and patted him on the back, "It'll be okay."

"What?" His eyebrows shot up.

"I have to go to the bathroom, tell the waiter to bring out the menus, pretty please."

When you returned, you found Reid had followed your instructions and was now leaning over a small rectangular board. "Oh, you're ba–"

He paused, his eyes trailing over your body, "jeez, Reid, take a picture."

"Sorry," he cleared his throat, scooting out of the table a bit so as to follow you with his eyes as you rounded the table and sat back down, "I guess I just didn't notice before–you look beautiful tonight."

"Wow, thanks," you replied with sarcastic sarcasm, laughing when he began sputtering out an explanation.

He stopped and watched you with awe, it was as if he thought you'd never stop laughing like you were, but only if he was quiet enough. You stopped eventually–of course you did, it wasn't as if he really did think you wouldn't.

"What's that look for?" Your laughter ceases and a calm smile comes to rest on your face as you angle your head upward.

"Hmm?" His face scrunched up but he couldn't help smiling at being caught, "I don't know what you're talking about," his voice went high and he turned his head toward the lights above you, his smile ever present.

"Oh," you grinned, smacking his arm right when the waiter came and asked for your orders.

The rest of that night you spent with him, joking, laughing–ignoring the world around you. He walked you out to your car, which is when you found yourself not wanting to get in–to leave–just yet.

Instead of dragging out the conversation, however, you sighed and went silent for a moment–it was late, he must be tired–before thinking too much about it, you grabbed his wrist, and in the quiet, lamplit car park of the fancy restaurant, said, "thank you, Reid, for being you."

He chuckled and shrugged and right then and there–you had a wisp of a precarious thought that left you as soon as it appeared, "I don't know how to be anyone else."

"I know," you sighed, knowing it was probably time to get in your car and head home, but something–some unseen force–was holding you back, "that's what I like about you."

You both paused. You didn't say love. Normal friends would have said love, but you didn't, you said like; normal friends dislike each other, siblings dislike each other–lovers...lovers, don't hate each other, or do they? "Thank you." He tilted his head down to hide the shy smile that overpowered the rest of his facial features.

Okay, maybe you'd been thinking about it too hard–wait since when did you overthink things? And about Reid?

"You know," he murmured," pulling your eyes back onto his, he looked up at you through those long eyelashes Penelope always threatened to steal, head still turned down slightly, "you should call me Spencer."

"Huh?" Your cheeks burned, you could feel them heating up in real-time and you were hoping he didn't take notice of the way you shifted in your stance.

"Well, it's just–I mean I use your first name, and you're only a year younger, so–I mean it's normal for everyone else, but–I don't know–never mind."

He turned, embarrassment taking over, "Spencer." You called, eager to throw him off guard. But when he faced you again you stopped breathing, that would be the only explanation for the lack of oxygen in your body. The only logical explanation, anyway.

"I'll see you Monday."

"Yeah, uh–hu-h," you sputtered like an idiot, watching your coworker disappear between the cars.

"...but what?" He pushed his head toward yours, "You went somewhere just now, where did you go?" You couldn't very well tell him you were sifting through the memory archive of your relationship with him–not when you were trying to steer the conversation away from it–well, for as long as you could.

"I...don't," you shook your head, closed your eyes, and sighed with a smile, "sorry, I'm just a little out of it tonight."

He frowned, "anything you want to talk about?'

You pressed your lips together, "Nope."

He nodded, and slipped off his scarf, setting it on the table. He turned his head from side to side, massaging the tension between the muscles. Your brain shifted and then you weren't seeing Spencer massaging his neck, you were seeing yourself–that first night in his apartment, the very first time you'd slept over.

A shiver ran down your spine as you recalled the events leading up to the mentioned massage.

"Thanks again for letting me crash at your place," you sighed contently.

"No problem," Spencer chirped, opening his door. "How did you lose your keys again?"

"Ugh," you ran a hand over your face, "I don't know, they must have fallen somewhere." You groaned, "I'll have to get the locks changed–jeez–my landlord is gonna have a cow."

His chuckle turned into a sigh, "well, you can stay here as long as you need."

"Oh," you turned, "by chance, do you mind if I borrow a few clothes as well? It'll just be for tonight, I can buy something in the morning."

He pressed his lips together, giving you a small nod, "whatever you need."

"Thanks, Spence," you gushed, yanking him into a tight hug, "ugh, what would I do without my pretty boy?"

"Okay, okay," he pushed you away, "you–do know I'm older, right?"

"By a year," you rolled your eyes.

"Just making sure," he concluded, flipping on the light and heading into the kitchen as you stopped to look around. It was clean and a lot of the furniture looked old, especially the bookshelves, but it was definitely Spencer's. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?" He called.

"Do you have any frozen fruit?" You asked, stepping in front of one of the shelves and running a hand along a row of spines.

"Frozen fruit?–" he sounded confused at first, and then his sentence completely fell off, so you turned around, he was in the entryway to the kitchen, "see anything you like?"

You faced the shelf once more, "they're all Econ and Mathematics," you said, almost indifferently, "got anything romantic?"

He smiled, "those treasures are hidden in my room."

"Why yes, Spencer, I would gladly take your room for the night, I'm so glad you asked." Your smile widened as you spoke, placing a hand to your heart, "What," a shake of your head, "a," shake, "gentleman."

His mouth hung agape, but it looked as if he was trying to hide a smile, "you're unbelievable."

"Don't hate the player, Spencer," you spun around and headed for the kitchen, "hate the game."

He scoffed, his frown hanging on for dear life so as not to disappear, but it was losing its grip–quickly.

Spencer let you get in the shower first, but when you got in, you had to stand there, contemplating just how exactly you would tease him for having only shampoo and a bar of soap. A. Bar. Of. Soap.

"There's not even conditioner," you threw your head back, groaning.

A knock came from the other side of the closed bathroom door, "you okay in there?"

"Yep," you shouted, "just..." another sigh, "...peachy..."

Ten minutes later you were stepping out, grabbing the towel Spencer had lent you, it was his spare. You should have grabbed the clothing you wanted to wear before, but a hot shower after a day of dead girls–yeah, you needed the shower.

You heard Spencer moving around in the kitchen, making alfredo with cilantro and broccoli–oh you could already taste the pasta on your tongue, its smell wafted toward your nose and your mouth watered. You hurried to his room, deciding to lotion your body after you were dressed.

You pulled on the bra you'd been wearing before and rummaged through Spencer's drawer's for a t-shirt. Of course, he only had two, the rest were socks.

Frowning, you headed for his closet to see if you could find something better, thankfully, you found rows of white collared shirts, and in pulling one over your head, you grinned at the thought of seeing his face crumble, so maybe you were a bit of a sadist when it came to him–it was only all fun, really. If it meant that much to him, you'd just buy him another tomorrow.

You were about to walk out when you realized you were pant-less. You thought about reusing your underwear, but that would just be gross, so, you would have to go commando.

But... you still needed pants. After a while you sat on his bed in silence, frowning at the disappointment of not finding anything comfortable, then–just like a lightbulb, it occurred to you he might have sweats hidden somewhere.

You began pulling open the rest of the drawers when another knock–this time on his door–came. "Are you decent?" His question muffled by the door.

"I'm about to be," you replied, standing with your prize. You shoved your legs into them, the length dragging past your feet, you had to manually knot them with the strings to keep them up, and even then it was still falling. You sighed, pulling the linen shirt over the pants. "Alright," you brushed your hair down, "come in."

His eyes caught the shirt you wore, then they dipped toward the grey sweats; he smiled, tilting his head as he let his eyes track back up toward your face, "new style?"

"Oh shut up," you glared, feeling a similar smile come over you, as you shoulder-checked him out of the room. "Is the pasta done?"

"Almost," he nodded, "hungry?"

"No, I'm perfectly full," you rolled your eyes.

His laugh sent a tingling sensation through your body and your stomach dipped, "I'm gonna get in the shower, okay? Feel free to finish cooking."

"Aye-aye captain," you saluted him, turned, and marched toward the kitchen.

Spencer stood there for a moment, he's known you for about three years now, and yet he still couldn't figure out what this was, what you were–to him... He was considered a genius by normal standards, but around you, he felt his whole world shrink until it was only big enough to hold a young woman, and then he wasn't such a genius.

He often grumbled idioms to himself whenever he found he was losing his shit–which is how he stepped into his shower tonight, uttering idioms under his breath, all while knowing they were pointless.

Rossi had taught Spencer how to cook–not just cook, but cook. He'd only been with the team a year, but he was quickly sliding into a nice rhythm with everyone and you thought he might even be helping Spencer in the way only Gideon used to...maybe.

You loved that zio.

Spencer was right, the pasta was almost done. Which meant you could start grabbing plates, "...left cabinet near the sink..." you mumbled to yourself, trying to remember where Spencer said he kept dishes.

"Hey, all done?" Spencer walked into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and an MIT sweatshirt.

Your smile dropped, "you were hiding that weren't you?"

"How could I?" He raised his brows, leaning his back against the counter in front of you. You had just turned off the iron holding the pot boiling the noodles, and now you turned around to mix the sauce, ordering, "poor the water out please."

He moved swiftly, careful to only hold the handles. You watched him from the corner of your eyes, though you couldn't see them with the sweatshirt he was wearing, the ease in which he tilted the large pot told you those muscles you'd noticed during your first overnight at the office with him, were still there, and possibly even growing.

You turned away and cleared your throat when he set the pot back down, "alright grab the plates."

He smiled, and it was almost like you were dancing with the way you spun to let him pass. He laughed and you couldn't help but smile, this was nice–this was fun.

After dinner, Spencer began cleaning the dishes and you began cleaning the table, when you finished before him, you hip-bumped him and said, "I got this, go find a movie we can watch–preferably horror."

He sighed, shaking his head, "yes Hotch."

You your jaw dropped, but he could see your smile through it, "you did not."

He laughed and it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard. It warmed your chest and for a second you felt lightheaded; dizzy.

Upon finishing the dishes, you found Spencer strewn across his couch, head leaning forward as he rubbed the back of his neck. The paused movie on the tv screen was parallel his long couch, waiting for you.

"It hurt?" You took slow steps toward him.

He jerked as if he hadn't known you were there until you'd said something. "Not really," he turned back toward the screen, "ready?"

You don't really know what it was that made you keep on your journey toward him, probably that unseen force from before. "Let me see."

He tensed when the buds of your fingertips prodded up and down his warm neck. Logically it was probably from the coldness, but you hesitated, almost pulling back for fear of making him uncomfortable.

"Sorry–"

"No, I–" he grabbed your wrist, holding it down on his neck, "it's fine...please?" It was so small, so quiet, so overwhelming in that space between you and him, and that question–that word–...it shrunk it even smaller.

"Yeah, okay," you spoke quietly, fearing if it were any louder the moment would turn to ruins.

You pulled away, breathing on your hands so they wouldn't feel so cold, then, you moved in, working the tenses muscles first, just like your dad had taught you. For a second you recalled the child labor he put you through during your childhood, nose scrunching at how he started giving you half a dollar every foot massage after you'd brought it up.

Spencer's groan yanked you to the present instantly, you smiled, "I'm no chiropractor, but I'm not completely clueless."

Spencer's snort earned him a smack on the shoulder, leading to you both laughing. A few passable seconds and you were now at the base of his neck, where his shoulders formed the arch. You were so focused on your work–a vein must've popped out–when Spencer turned his face and suddenly you had that loss of breath sensation again. Your mouth went dry and–unwillingly–your eyes ran over his lips, but when you blinked you forced them up again.

"Thank you," a boom in your chest, and you fell backward, onto your butt, your legs sprawled, but your knees somehow still tucked beneath you, Spencer of course was worried, jumping up immediately, and asking if you were alright.

The thing was, though, you weren't. Not in the mental sense, because your mind had spent years trying to figure out just what all the moments and feelings over the years meant. And yet, you couldn't put it into words until now.

You were absolutely, positively, irrevocably in love with him. Your coworker, possibly your best friend–and–and–how could you not know until now? You've had your fair share of crushes, you've had boyfriends, even, but have you ever been in love? No–this was a first. And–and you just couldn't grapple with what that meant. If it even meant anything at all.

You offered him a kind smile, "Yeah, sorry, I must have just...lost balance."

He looked at you for a moment, nodding, "If you say so, here, let me help you up."

You sighed, realizing you were still on your knees–get up girl, you're not freaking praying–

"Thank you," you murmured.

"You don't have to thank me," he replied cooly.

Your brows furrowed, "what?"

"I said you don't have to thank me," he led you to the couch, "I have free will, I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to, so, you don't have to thank me."

He held your eyes and for only a timid instant, you thought it may have been a confession, but no–there was no way. You nodded, "All right, then–the same goes for me."

After a tic, he nodded, "Right."

You blinked and suddenly you were in the coffee shop again, but Spencer wasn't in front of you. You nearly jumped up shouting his name before you noticed he was walking over to grab your drinks. That was odd, had they called it out? Why hadn't you noticed?

Your eyes tracked his movements when he reached out to grab your cups, his forearms hidden beneath the nerdy plaid sweater, one of many–you knew–were in his closet.

You smiled at your joke, recalling the first Christmas you'd spent with him–well, okay it was with the team and it wasn't on Christmas day, and yeah, it was for Secret Santa, but it was the first time you had pulled his name since joining the BAU and becoming part of their little but many traditions.

He spun around and started walking toward you, and you couldn't help thinking his eyes had that same glint that they did when he'd opened your gift.

You had tried to make it as uncommon and unexpected as possible, but still as about him in some way. His reaction...you felt sickly sweet thinking about it; like you might throw up. And the gift he'd given you–because he'd pulled your name from the bowl for the first time that year as well–you could feel your heart grow ten sizes...

The lights around the bullpen were dimmed so as to appreciate the blue weather outside. There was only one window, but Penelope brought a few candles so as to capture the very essence of the winter spectacle.

When you had retrieved Spencer's name from the bowl a week ago, you'd being thrumming with both excitement and nervousness, you'd gotten Gideon the first year, which scared you to absolute bits, but Hotch helped you...somewhat. Then Elle left and Emily joined the team, and you'd gotten her, last year it had been Penelope. This year, well–you just had to go all out.

You had felt it a few months ago, in his apartment, you'd even admitted it to yourself, but you couldn't tell him, nor could you let anyone else know. This was your secret, yours and yours alone.

You'd spent hours searching stores, but nothing seemed to fit, there were so many people out doing their annual gift shopping and it just all seemed too crowded to brave the storm of people again.

It was last Wednesday when you stumbled across the gem of a store, well, it wasn't much to the normal person, but as they say, 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder'–and though he hadn't been there, you knew the shop would have driven him mad with happiness.

Upon entering, multiple little trinkets had caught your eye, but you'd wanted to filter around for a bit, and you did just that until you came across a teddy bear wearing a plaid vest. Now, you didn't know if it had been fate, but the teddy bear was holding a small chess piece, the queen. You recalled Gideon constantly beating Spencer at chess when you first joined the team, and how Spencer had been humbled with each loss.

You now watched with anticipation as Spencer shook the gift in his hand, it was light and cheap, and a little old, but you were sure he'd love it, after all, what was all that ancient woodwork in his apartment? He grinned, clearly just as excited to open the gift as you were. "What is it?" Emily asked, glancing at you.

"Tell him to open it," you motioned toward him with a hand.

"Open it Reid," she turned toward him, the other's murmuring similar comments.

And he did. His eyes widening when they pulled out the small, plaid-vested teddy bear. "Is–is that a stuffed animal?" Morgan questioned, jumping when Penelope smacked him on the arm.

"It's holding a chess piece," Spencer ran his fingers along the tiny queen. His eyes caught yours in a manner that had you planted to the floor, you tried swallowing, but your throat was dry, you felt as if he were trying to communicate with you through his eyes. Like he was saying, "thank you," only that was too small, it was deeper than that and yet as simple as a smile. Your heart thudded and you had to turn away because if he saw you. He'd know.

You had no doubt. Not a single sliver of it–he'd know in an instant, and well, you don't know how he'd react, and you loved how things were now, so you turned away, not from your feelings, but from the damage that might ensue, should he find out. "Mmhmm," you rocked back and forth on your feet.

"Alright, who's next?" Rossi called, "Reid, who'd you get?"

His eyes flashed to yours as he set the small bear down. "Actually," he pulled a finely wrapped square gift, it was the largest of the gifts this year and you hadn't a clue as to what it could be nor who had brought it in.

As he slid the firm gift into your hands, he said, "be gentle, it's fragile."

Now, you were undoubtedly curious. It was skinny but heavy enough, so you set it down and began clawing at the wrapping, gently, just like he had said. When it was unveiled, your words caught in your throat. You looked up to him, holding it in between you two.

His smile grew bashful and he rubbed the back of his neck, "I know you don't, but I have a record player, and you're welcome to come over and use it any time."

Your jaw hung open and it was only when Emily shared a look with the rest of the team that one of them finally said something–it was Rossi–"Are we missing something?"

Your smile hurt with the way it stretched across your face. "Thank you," you set the gift aside stepping forward to hug him, but then remembered the rest of the team around you, so you awkwardly tapped his chest, but he looked like he knew your intent and for that you were grateful.

He had gotten you an André Rieu's Swan Lake record. How could someone be so–so perfectly him? As the gift-giving went on, you leaned over and whispered, "Thank you," again.

He stepped closer toward you, leaning over subtly, "remember what we said?"

The low tone in his voice sent shivers running down your spine. "Right..." you gulped.

"But," he continued, walking around you, pulling your gaze back to the record, in prime condition, you had no idea how he did it because you were pretty sure Rieu's Swan Lake did not exist on records, and yet here it was, in the very palm of your hands.

"But?" You asked, brimming with butterflies.

You swear you felt yourself beginning to tremble with them before he said, "if you ever need a dance partner, I'm always available, and I might be open to a little 'please'."

You smacked him laughing, thinking he was about to say something serious. He covered his chuckles with a hand, placing his other on the desk to hold himself up.

You both paused when you realized the chattering around the room had stopped, and when you looked up, everyone was staring at you, even JJ had her brows raised, Hotch–he looked like a dad catching his daughter with a boy in her room for the first time.

Spencer cleared his throat and asked, "What did everyone bring for the potluck?" His voice, once again, squeaky and high.

You smiled at him, with a few years of practice you had stopped saying thank you to each other, it was in your eyes; it was like saying I love you: pointless if you both knew it already, so why waste breath on something that could be better used for anything else?

"It's hot, so be careful," he handed it to you and your fingertips burned at where you touched his hand.

"So," you said, "what did you want to talk about? Why did it have to be tonight?"

He smiled, and to your surprise, it didn't falter. Although, should you really be surprised? You knew you loved him. You have for years now. You've known he's loved you since he pulled you out of that damned basement, it was so clear, not in the way he had reached for you, not in the way he had yelled, sounding both terrified and relieved for the paramedics to "fucking do their job", not even in the way he cried out your name, face contorted in something so close to agony–no. Not in any of those ways–but in the way his eyes had pleaded with you.

The way they had been the only thing you'd remembered after waking up, the only thing you saw clearly when you'd fainted when the world had gone black for the first time, suddenly disappearing all at once–like you were dying, though you might have quite literally have been.

The light was dim, you didn't know how long you'd been here, or where here even was. It had to have been days–days without light, days without food, you'd barely sustained enough water to keep you from dehydrating.

You tried remembering how you got to this point. You were undercover–God how long ago was that? You wanted to cry but you refused to give in, to let him see you like this. It would turn him on, you remember that–at least. You couldn't–you just couldn't give him what he wanted, and for that, he kept you alive.

It was both a matter of survival and of stubbornness and until you gave it to him, he'd keep you ailing, he'd probably torture you in the days to come. Gosh–you were so incredibly weak, you didn't want to waste energy on trying to recall anything else.

But moments would come to you in bits and pieces. You had offered yourself to go undercover, you were his type–the unsub–you were the youngest on the team, but they trusted you and you trusted them to have your back. Most of all, you trusted Spencer, you knew he wouldn't let anything happen to you, and you knew he was probably looking for you right now, probably not sleeping, maybe even torturing himself for losing you.

How long had you known him? Four years? You had no doubt. None. He was looking for you, doing everything in his power to find you, to locate this son of a bastard who was keeping you prisoner for his sick, twisted needs.

"All you have to do," his voice would croak through the speaker he had set in the top corners of the room. You were pretty sure he had a monitor on you as well but tried to disregard that thought as you squinted through your hazy vision. "Is submit yourself to me."

"And then you'll let me go?" You would sometimes ask when you had enough energy, though it was always sarcastic and accompanied by a dry laugh.

The chains he'd linked you to had enough room for you to move around in your tiny prison cell, but you never did, you were normally too exhausted. He wanted to wear you down, this was his tactic, the one Hotch or someone–you couldn't really remember now–had concluded in the profile.

How long had it been? Time either moved too fast or too slow. "I've already told you I would." But it was a lie and you knew it. It was the game he played: get the unwilling participant to confess their secret, undying love for him, you had been messaging him for a few days under an alias before meeting up. That was supposed to have been it, you'd had him, but he wasn't guilty of anything until he tried something.

You were at a club, Emily was stationed on the floor, Spencer was sitting at the bar, Hotch and Morgan were acting as bodyguards at the entrances and exits, and Rossi had been somewhere on the second floor–that was all that had come back so far, everything else was still a mystery.

Regardless, you knew for a fact the unsub wouldn't let you go, he'd get you to confess and then he'd torture you depending on the way he felt that day, then eventually kill and dump you somewhere.

It was the confession, to him it was like a green light to do whatever he wanted, it was like the consent to kill you was hidden behind what he referred to as "the submission".

You stayed in the makeshift bed most days, only moving to keep bedsores from appearing. Despite the lack of physical torture–if you took out the starving and lack of vitamin D–the mental obstacles you went through just to keep yourself sane were another kind of torment.

It had only been a day later, but it felt like weeks of agonizing solitude before they found you. You were still in the clothes you wore to the club. You recalled the bright light, that was the first giveaway, you thought he might have had enough, but then you heard it, your name, your real name, falling from the lips of the only person who could say it like that.

"Spencer?" Your voice was raw, you'd eaten a slice of bread and an egg the day before, at least, you think it was that, you'd been given a single glass of water, which in your state couldn't drink without throwing up.

Spencer had been going insane–and fast. The team had never seen him so erratic before, not even his addiction had made him so lifeless, he wouldn't sleep, he was working nonstop and it got to a point where Morgan had to slip a sleeping pill into a cup of his coffee.

They hated forcing it on him, but it came from a place of love–they would never tell him and if he started showing signs again, they'd take responsibility and work with him, help him–but the kid needed rest, and he wasn't going to get it willingly.

When Garcia finally–finally–obtained an address, they wasted no time. Spencer–not giving a damn about a warrant–shouldered the door down, surprising Morgan and even Hotch, he needed to find you, he needed to. You weren't dead, he could feel it in his heart, you couldn't be. They hadn't found a body–and as long as they hadn't found a body you were safe. You had to be–you just–had to be.

Tears sprang in his eyes and fell down his cheek when he saw you. It'd been a week, they'd never–never–spent this long on a case before, you were a wreck, a pile of almost nothing. His heart broke at seeing you in such a way. He called your name, hoping you were still there, hoping you hadn't given in, that you hadn't gone through all the things he'd seen the other victims–God he couldn't even think of you in that way–you were so much more. So much more.

He'd been trying to fight the feelings, it wasn't appropriate and some part of him was sure you didn't even feel the same, but now–at a time like this–he didn't give a damn about what anybody else thought. Not of you or his feelings, if you hated him afterward then he could live with that. What he couldn't live with was seeing you fucking dead.

"Spencer?" You called and his expression broke free of the mask he'd been wearing up until now. He didn't want the other's to worry so he avoided crying in front of them, whenever he had that urge, he'd hide in the bathroom. But now–now?

He was ugly crying, a beak down if you will. His face came into your vision and his eyes, his bright, sad, glossy, warm brown eyes. It was like a hug, and then he was actually hugging you, your face buried in his chest, you could hear other voices but they were all drowned out by the silence that came over you and you could see nothing but Spencer's eyes. The way they looked as if you built the sky and added the stars just for him.

When you'd disappeared from the bar–he had been right next to you–right bloody next to you, and when he blinked you were just–gone.

You might forgive him, but he knew he would never forgive himself. You had given him everything, and he didn't know it until this very moment that he didn't care about being professional as much as he loved you, and he knew you knew, he didn't say it, but in the silence shared between you too you knew, and you didn't say thank you when he found you, because you knew he could see that in your eyes too.

It was unspoken, but in the silence–it was enough.

"Let's...walk," he stood suddenly.

"Wait, what?" Your eyebrows dipped in confusion, but you scrambled to follow him nonetheless. "Spencer, it's snowing!" You shivered right as you stepped outside.

"I know," he replied, walking down the sidewalk, stores were closed at this time of night, and the coffee shop was no doubt about to close as well, it was almost midnight, you were actually surprised they were still open, today of all days, but perhaps it was good for business.

"Then–why?"

He stopped and began heading toward the park around the corner. It didn't have a big playground, but it had a large field that normally filled with snow around this time of year. The kids were more drawn to it, naturally, though no kids were in sight upon reaching the destination he seemed to have planned.

You sat on the stairs of the small structure, snow blowing around you in the dark atmosphere, only alight by the stars and the park lamps.

The parking-lot had been desolate, not a single car in sight and you almost regretted not driving as you would now have to walk all the way back to the coffee shop, but Spencer, well, he could make anything worth the struggle.

"You know," he spun closing his eyes, coffee cup in hand as the mini blizzard coated him and his attire. He'd grabbed the scarf from his scarf from the table and wrapped it around his arm, now it was loose, the wind pulling at it slightly, "we should make a snowman."

"Now?" You questioned with a lift of your brow. "I mean, it's kind of late."

"So?" He set his cup down, raising a brow at you, "scared?"

You sighed, succumbing to his stupid challenge, "Fine, I give."

"You always do," he grinned, and something about that grin made you want to forgo everything and just kiss him, but you were the one to drag this out, so perhaps you should play along.

You'd been beating around the bush all night, the both of you; it was as if you were so comfortable with each other, so easy with your current relationship, that it was uncomfortable talking about a change.

So, you built the damn snowman. Spencer wrapped his scarf around it afterward, admiring his handy work, though it looked more like a bear with its oval mouth and no carrot nose. You rolled your eyes and snapped a photo of the snowman. "He looks just like his dad," you muttered.

A strange look came over Spencer's face just then, and you knew–you just knew: he was in love–but haven't you always known? He didn't say it because he didn't have to, it was all in his eyes. With the wind swirling around you–you heard your feet crunch in the snow as you stepped forward–and with the moon being your soul witness, you kissed him.

...

Or he kissed you, it was all a blur really: you kissed each other, adoring eyes meeting over and over again like a silent declaration, thank you and I love you.

All this time scared by a change, your fingertips had always burned with the knowing outcome.

a/n:  any way to say ahhhhhhhh differently? i don't know, but thank you for reading, and be sure to check out the community radio (i'm actually so proud of it)