trashyyduckling

[trashyyduckling]

not me discovering pierce the veil because of that one song all over tiktok and now ive been seated for an hour listening to their discography

[trashyyduckling]

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 14

Summary: Spencer, Maddie and Y/N go to the aquarium. Things start getting really homely. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: fluff, Spencer being the best girl dad, kissing (yippie!) word count: 8.5k

Series Masterlist

Bioluminescence is the production and emission of light by a living organism. Typically a defense mechanism. Sometimes a lure. Always beautiful. I remember reading that it only works in the dark—that it takes darkness to make something glow like that.

And as I’m standing here, breathless and late, watching her silhouette framed by the soft neon of aquarium lights, I think maybe that’s what she is to me.

A creature that glows when the world goes dim. Not in a way that demands attention, but in a way that disarms it. And the worst part? She’s smiling like she still forgives me—for being late, for being complicated, for being me. I don’t know how to deserve that. I just know I’d follow the glow if it led me anywhere near her.

“You finally made it,” she sighs, all relief and softness.

“I’m so sorry. Work ran over, and then someone on the subway spilled their coffee on me, so I went home to change—but then I didn’t like what I picked, so I changed again, and then—”

“Hey. Hey,” she cuts in gently, a hand finding my wrist. “It’s okay, Spence.”

Her fingers are light on my wrist, but the touch short-circuits something in me. Not in a bad way. Just… like I was buzzing too loud and she found the off switch.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay. Right. I’m here.”

And then she lets go. And I miss it.

Before I can spiral again, a blur of pink jacket and pigtails barrels into me from the side.

“Spencer!”

Maddie’s arms wrap tight around my legs and I stagger just slightly—more from the shock of it than the force.

“There she is,” I breathe, crouching to her level. “How was school today, princess?”

She pulls back just enough to grin at me—one of those full-face, nose-wrinkled grins that makes her dimples pop.

“Miss Carla made us do a class spelling bee,” she reports gravely, like this is the most pressing news of the day.

“Oh really? how did you do?”

“I won!”

Her eyes sparkle with pride, and for a second, I swear the whole aquarium feels brighter.

“No way,” I gasp, dramatically placing a hand over my chest. “You won the whole thing?”

She nods so hard her pigtails bounce. “I spelled dinosaur and elephant and important and even vegetable.”

��Vegetable?” I echo. “That one gets me every time.”

She giggles. “You’re silly.”

I smile, but it’s soft. Barely there. I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to make it about me. But part of me—some smaller, broken part—can’t help thinking: If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like this. Loud. Smart. Unafraid.

“You must be so proud,” I say, glancing up at Y/N.

“She wouldn’t stop talking about you on the way here,” Y/N says softly. “Kept saying, ‘Spencer knows every word in the whole world. He’s gonna be so proud of me.’”

My breath catches. And I look back down at the little girl beaming up at me like I invented the alphabet.

I clear my throat. “Well then. As your official spelling bee wizard, I think this calls for a reward.”

Her eyes widen. “Like… magic?”

“Better,” I whisper, leaning in. “Three tickets to the sea otter show.”

She gasps.

“Come on,” I say, standing. She takes my hand without hesitation.

Maddie slips her small fingers into my other hand like it’s second nature. Her palm is warm and a little sticky—grape jelly, maybe, or aquarium gift shop candy—but I don’t let go. She swings our arms dramatically with every step, humming some tune she’s making up as she goes.

We move slowly at first, weaving through the aquarium's dim corridors. Blue light filters down from above, fractured by water and glass. It bathes everything in something quiet. Something gentle. I think about saying something—about the way this feels too good to be real—but then Maddie gasps.

“Look! Look, they’re glowing!” she cries, her voice echoing just slightly off the curved walls.

And just like that, she takes off. Still close, still within reach, but ahead now—drawn forward by some silent, shimmering current. The colorful fish.

I don’t call her back.

And then—so quietly I almost miss it—Y/N’s hand slips into mine.

She doesn’t make a show of it. Just a simple, steady motion. Like it’s normal.

I glance at her, but she’s watching Maddie, not me. Her expression soft—almost private, like she’s letting herself feel something she hasn’t admitted out loud yet. Maybe I am too.

Her fingers fit between mine so easily, it feels like this has happened before. Like it’s muscle memory. Or fate. Or maybe just something we both needed and didn’t know how to ask for.

She squeezes my hand, and we keep walking, just the two of us trailing behind the bounce of pink sneakers and wonder.

“How was work?” she asks, and her voice tugs me back to the surface.

“It was alright…” I hesitate. “Unfortunately, JJ told the team about you, and now they all want to meet you.”

“Unfortunately?” she echoes, glancing sideways with a crooked smile.

“Well…” I rub the back of my neck. “I told JJ about you in confidence. I wasn’t going to tell anyone yet.”

Her brow lifts, just slightly.

“Not because I don’t want anyone to know about you,” I rush to clarify. “I do. I swear I do. It’s just—”

“Honey, breathe.”

She says it so easily. Honey.

It’s the second time she’s called me that, and it hits just as hard. Like some long-dormant part of me perks up at the sound—hopeful, wild, unreasonably greedy. I want her to call me that again. Forever. Until it’s the only name I answer to.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “What I mean is… I don’t usually talk about my personal life at work. Not because I’m ashamed or hiding anything. More like… you two are special to me… and I’ve seen what that world does to special things.”

She doesn’t interrupt. Just listens. And in that silence, I feel myself spill open more than I meant to.

“Call it paranoia. Or trauma. Or both. But I guess I didn’t want to risk… pulling you into something messy.”

We pause for a second near the glass, Maddie’s laughter echoing through the dim blue glow as she presses her nose to the tank.

When Y/N finally speaks, her voice is gentle. Unshaken.

“Spencer,” she says, not unkind, “I think you might just be overthinking it.”

A soft laugh escapes her—just breath and warmth, like the kind that fogs glass.

“No harm in meeting your friends. I think I can survive a round of profilers.”

I open my mouth to respond—something about how she’d do more than survive, how they’d love her, how JJ already does—but then Maddie spins toward us, her face lit up like one of the exhibits.

“Mommy! Can you take a picture of me with the blue fishies?”

Her hands are already pressed to the glass, hair a little wild from static, smile too big for her face.

“Go get in the picture with her,” Y/N nudges, her voice low and teasing—but there’s something gentle under it. Something like trust.

I blink at her. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” she laughs. “You’re half the reason she’s glowing like that.”

I hesitate, glancing down at myself like I need to double-check I’m worthy of being seen, but Maddie’s already calling for me, her little fingers tapping the glass. “Spencer! Come see! Come see!”

And when I walk toward her—awkward, unsure—I catch our reflections in the glass. She’s grinning. I’m… soft-edged. Unarmored. Lit in blue.

She tugs me closer, small hand gripping mine again like it’s no big deal. Like this is normal.

Before I’m even ready, the flash hits us in the face—bright and clumsy and perfect.

I blink through it, still squinting when I turn to her. But she’s not squinting. She’s smiling. Beaming, actually. Like she couldn’t be happier about standing in front of a fish tank—with me of all people.

Something swells in my chest, sharp and full. I don’t know what to do with it, so I just hold it there. Let it glow a little.

“What are those called?” she asks, still pointing at the tank, her voice small but curious.

“Those are Cherub Pygmy Angelfish,” I tell her, leaning in a little. “They’re small, usually no more than three inches long, and they like hiding in coral reefs.”

She presses her nose to the glass again, breath fogging the surface. “They look like they’re glowing.”

“They do,” I nod. “It’s a kind of iridescence in their scales. They reflect light in a way that makes them look… almost electric.”

She hums thoughtfully, eyes tracking the flicker of blue and gold. “They’re really pretty.”

I glance at her—at the way her face lights up just watching them—and something tugs behind my ribs.

“They are,” I say. But I’m not looking at the fish anymore.

I’m looking at her.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go look at the rest of the fishies.”

Before Maddie can respond, I slide an arm around her tiny waist and lift her effortlessly onto my shoulder.

She squeals—pure delight—her laughter echoing through the dim, glowing corridor as her hands grab hold of my hair for balance.

“Higher!” she giggles, voice ringing out like a bell.

“You’re going to make me go bald,” I tease, steadying her legs with one hand. 

Her little fingers pat the top of my head like I’m her personal steed, and I can feel her happiness radiating through every wiggly bounce.

Y/N turns to look back at us—her smile soft, fond, a little in awe. Like she’s seeing something she didn’t know she needed until just now.

“Let’s go look at the pink fishies!” Maddie exclaims from above my head, bouncing slightly with excitement.

“Those are Squarespot Anthias” I tell her, adjusting my hold on her legs as we walk. “Very popular in coral reef ecosystems.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“They're so cool,” Maddie says in awe.

I feel my heart twist, soft and sudden.

“They’re usually found around reefs at depths of 10 to 180 meters,” I add, because I can’t help myself. Facts are my fallback when feelings start to rise too quickly.

But Maddie hums in response, like she’s genuinely impressed, and leans forward on my shoulders to get a better view ahead. Her small hands tighten in my hair, not painfully—just to stay close. Like she trusts I won’t let her fall.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Y/N watching us again. Not saying anything. Just… looking. Like maybe she’s memorizing something she never wants to forget.

Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something there that makes my throat go tight. Not because it’s overwhelming—but because it’s kind. Steady. Sure.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice low. Almost cautious. Like if I speak too loud, the moment might dissolve.

She nods slowly, then breathes out a laugh—soft and shaky in the way something honest usually is.

“Yeah,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. You’re really good at this.”

“At what?” I blink, genuinely unsure.

She lifts one shoulder, glancing toward Maddie, still perched on my shoulders, still humming under her breath. “Being with her. You just… get her. Like it’s easy.”

I swallow hard. “I… I think she’s the one who gets me.”

Y/N looks over, curious now. “What do you mean?”

I glance forward, pretending to watch Maddie’s little feet swinging gently by my chest, but the truth is I’m buying time. It’s not easy to explain—how much that tiny kid has somehow cracked open parts of me I didn’t know were still reachable.

“I’m used to people… shutting me up. Or dismissing me when I say—well, stuff. The facts. The science. The things that spill out when I’m nervous or excited or trying to connect,” I say, my voice quieter now, almost like I’m admitting to a flaw.

“But she doesn’t do that. She doesn’t make me feel like I talk too much or like I’m boring her. She listens. She asks questions. Like she’s actually amazed.”

I let out a soft breath. “I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like that before.”

There’s a pause.

“I think that’s ‘cause she’s as curious as you are,” Y/N says softly.

I glance at her, caught off guard by how much those words land. They’re simple. But something about the way she says them—calm, steady, like she’s not just talking about Maddie—makes something stutter in my chest.

Curious.

She could’ve said smart. Or kind. Or sweet. But she said curious. The same thing I’ve been called my whole life, usually as an excuse. A reason I don’t fit. A label slapped on like it’s a fault.

But Y/N says it like it’s a good thing. Like it’s something worth matching.

And in that second, I wonder—is she talking about Maddie… or herself?

I don’t ask. I just keep walking.

But the warmth in my chest doesn’t fade.

“Spencer! Spencer! Can we go on the fish tunnel?” Maddie calls, already wiggling in place on my shoulders like she’s halfway there.

“Oh?” I say, shifting her weight a little to keep her steady. “Are you sure, Mads? That tunnel has sharks. It can get scary.”

She gasps—not in fear, but in pure delight. “Real sharks?”

“Real ones,” I nod solemnly. “Sand tiger sharks. Sometimes they float right over your head. Rows of teeth and everything.”

“Cool,” she whispers with awe, like I just told her she was about to meet a dragon.

Y/N laughs under her breath beside me. “She’s braver than I am.”

I glance at her, smiling. “Well, you’re gonna have to be plenty brave too, ‘cause the only way out is through.”

She lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Are you trying to psych me out?”

“Absolutely not,” I say, but my tone’s already too light, too teasing to be convincing. “I’m just stating the facts. We’re entering a thirty-foot tunnel filled with circling apex predators. No big deal.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but she’s grinning.

And Maddie? Maddie cheers like we’ve just announced the next leg of an epic quest.

I adjust her on my shoulders and nod toward the entrance, where the tunnel dips under the tank, glowing blue and lined with ripples of reflected light.

“This way, brave explorers,” I say, slipping into that familiar rhythm I use when i’m with them. “Past the coral reefs, beneath the predator’s patrol, through the belly of the beast...”

And as we step inside, the world goes quiet. Water hushes overhead. Light bends.

For a moment, it really does feel like we’re somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

“Mommy! Mommy, take a picture!”

Maddie’s voice cuts through the stillness, bright and breathless. She’s already wriggling to get down from my shoulders, practically vibrating with excitement. I set her down gently, and she darts a few feet ahead, stopping right beneath a sand tiger shark gliding silently overhead.

She throws her arms out wide, face tilted up, bathed in shifting shades of blue and silver. “Look! He’s smiling!”

Y/N laughs softly behind me and lifts her phone. “Hold still, baby. That one’s definitely going on the fridge.”

I step back and watch—Maddie framed by glass and water and wonder, Y/N holding the moment still with a quiet kind of reverence.

“Get in the picture with her,” she says, voice warm, almost teasing.

I glance over, expecting the familiar flutter of panic, but… it’s quieter this time. We already did this once—by the fish. And the world didn’t fall apart. No one looked at me like I didn’t belong in the frame.

So I nod. Not awkward, not overthinking. Just… yeah.

Maddie beams and tugs me down beside her before I’ve even fully knelt. She wraps one arm around my neck and points the other straight up at the shark overhead.

“Ready!” she declares.

Y/N lifts the phone again, her smile impossibly soft.

“Perfect,” she murmurs.

The flash goes off, and this time, I don't flinch. I just stay there—under glass and glowing water, beside a girl who’s too brave for her size and a woman who keeps letting me in—and I let myself be part of the picture.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Maddie beams, already taking off down the curve of the tunnel. Her footsteps echo, light and fast, as she darts forward, eager to see every shark, every stingray, every flicker of movement through the glass.

“Slow down, baby,” Y/N calls after her, laughing lightly. “And remember to stay close!”

“I am close!” Maddie yells back, without slowing down at all.

Y/N shakes her head, but there’s no real worry in her eyes. Just that soft, maternal knowing—the kind that lives in practiced patience.

We walk side by side, the tunnel arching above us like the inside of a deep breath. Schools of fish dart past, silver ribbons in motion. A stingray glides overhead, casting shadows that ripple across Y/N’s face.

I glance at her—just a second too long.

The light curves around her features, soft and blue. Her mouth is slightly parted, her eyes reflecting some quiet thought I’ll never be brave enough to ask about.

And I realize I’m staring.

Too long.

Again.

I tear my gaze away just as we step out of the tunnel and into the next room—darker, quieter. The ceiling disappears here, and everything shifts into something slower, softer.

Jellyfish.

They float behind tall glass in pulsing clouds, their translucent bodies glowing in gentle waves of lavender, blue, and pale gold. No sound but the hum of the tank filters and the occasional shuffle of other visitors. It feels reverent, almost sacred. Like we’ve walked into a cathedral of light.

Maddie presses her hands to the glass, whispering, “Whoa…” like it’s too beautiful to speak at full volume.

Y/N moves beside her, close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I just… tried.

“They look like ghosts,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

I nod. “Jellyfish don’t have a brain, or a heart. They don’t even swim the way most creatures do. They just… drift. Glow. Survive.”

I step a little closer to the tank, my voice quiet, instinctive.

“These are moon jellies. One of the most common jellyfish species. Fun fact: they’re made up of about ninety-eight percent water.”

Maddie’s nose is nearly pressed to the glass now, her breath fogging a little circle in front of her.

“They’re glowing,” Y/n whispers, enchanted.

“Uh—well, approximately fifty percent of jellyfish species are bioluminescent,” I explain, slipping into that space I always go to when I’m overwhelmed—when things feel too big, too good, too close. “Bioluminescence means they can produce light through a chemical reaction within their bodies. Usually as a defense mechanism. Or as a lure.”

Y/N looks at me again. Not like I’m talking too much. Not like I’m a museum guide she didn’t ask for. She just listens. Really listens.

Like maybe I’m glowing, too.

“That’s really beautiful,” she murmurs, eyes still fixed on the drifting jellyfish.

I nod, then shake my head. “I think it’s sad.”

She glances at me, eyebrows raised. “Sad?”

“Not the bioluminescence,” I clarify. “That part’s… amazing. But the rest of it? They just float. All day, every day. No brain, no heart. No real control. They just go wherever the water takes them.”

She tilts her head, thinking. “I don’t know… I think that sounds kind of peaceful.”

I blink. “Peaceful?”

“Yeah.” She smiles softly. “They don’t fight the current. They’re not in a rush to get anywhere. They’re just… being. Existing. And still glowing while they do it. I think that’s kind of beautiful.”

I look back at the tank, watching the jellyfish pulse through the water like slow, weightless thoughts.

“To me, it feels more like surviving than living,” I admit. “No direction, no agency. Just drifting because there’s no other choice.”

She hums under her breath, not disagreeing—just considering. “Maybe. But I think there’s something kind of bold about existing quietly. About not needing to fight all the time to be worth looking at.”

That catches me off guard. Her voice. Her certainty. The idea that softness could be brave.

I glance at her again, really look.

“I never would’ve thought of it like that.”

She shrugs, a little shy now. “Well, you tend to think too logically,”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s… probably the nicest way anyone’s ever called me rigid.”

She laughs. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just… you see the world like a pattern to be solved. I don’t. I think some things are meant to be felt, not figured out.”

I want to disagree. Reflexively. Defensively. But I don’t.

Because she’s right.

And because I like the way she says it—not like a criticism, but like an invitation. To loosen. To soften. To wonder, instead of always needing to understand.

“I like that about you,” I say, surprising even myself. “That you don’t need everything to make sense.”

She looks over, smile still tugging at her lips, and for a moment neither of us says anything.

Then, without a word, she reaches down and takes my hand.

It’s not dramatic. Not a grand declaration. Just her fingers sliding between mine like they’ve always belonged there.

But it stops something in me—stills it. That buzzing under my skin, the constant thrum of needing to prove myself or protect something or pull away before I get hurt.

I don’t pull away.

I squeeze, just a little. She squeezes back.

And we stand there like that, quiet in the glow of drifting ghosts, different in all the ways that matter, and maybe for the first time…

not drifting alone.

“Maddie, you can’t take your shark with you to the bathroom, honey. Put it on the bed.”

She pouts from the hallway, cradling the plush like it’s a living thing. “But he’s scared without me.”

I arch a brow. “He’ll be fine for two minutes. I promise.”

With great dramatic flair, she sighs and gives the shark a little pat on the head before placing it gently on the bed—like she’s tucking him in.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispers to it.

Spencer chuckles softly from behind me, and I swear I can feel the sound in my spine.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing by the bookshelf, holding the jellyfish I picked out for myself at the gift shop—turning it over in his hands like he’s still trying to figure out why I chose it.

I’m not sure I could explain it to him even if he asked.

I just liked it.

The softness. The quiet glow.

Maybe I liked that it reminded me of something sad, but still beautiful.

Maybe I liked that he looked sad sometimes, and still beautiful too.

“I never said thank you,” I say, gently breaking the silence between us.

He looks up from the jellyfish, brows knitting together in that soft, confused way he does when he's unsure if I’m being serious.

“For what?”

“The other day,” I say, turning back toward the kitchen to busy my hands with the mugs on the counter. “When you came over to take care of little old sick me.”

“Oh,” he says, like he forgot. But I know he didn’t. “I think you did.”

“I didn’t…” I pause, fingers curling gently around the ceramic. “Thank you, Spence.”

I turn to face him, letting the words settle between us. “And thank you for today.”

He shifts slightly, still holding the jellyfish plush in both hands like it might float away if he lets go. His eyes flick to mine, then away.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, soft. Almost shy. “I wanted to be there.”

“I know,” I nod, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”

Something about that seems to catch him off guard—like he doesn’t quite know what to do with being appreciated so directly. Like he’s used to doing the caring, but not receiving the gratitude.

We just stand there for a moment. The kitchen feels smaller than it did before. Warmer. Like the quiet is holding both of us gently in place.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else—something important—but then:

The toilet flushes.

And just like that, the moment drifts.

“Mama, Can you tuck me in?” Maddie yells from the bathroom like it’s a code red.

I exhale a soft laugh through my nose, glancing toward the hallway. “One second, baby!”

I just touch his arm lightly as I pass, and say, “Come on. Help me tuck her in.”

He follows without a word, quiet footsteps padding behind me down the hall to Maddie’s room. The light’s low, casting everything in a soft golden haze. Her little shark plush is clutched tight in her arms, its face squished into her cheek like it’s part of her now.

When she sees us, she lights up—eyes still heavy with sleep, but joy unmistakable. “Spencer,” she whispers, like it’s a secret just for him. “Did you see my shark? His name is Thunder.”

“Thunder,” he repeats, crouching beside the bed with a smile so gentle I feel it behind my ribs. “That’s a very serious name for such a squishy guy.”

“He’s fierce,” she explains, yawning mid-sentence, “and cuddly.”

“That’s a powerful combination,” he says, and somehow I don’t think he’s just talking about the stuffed animal.

I sit on the edge of the bed, brushing a curl away from her forehead. “Okay, cuddly girl. Eyes closed.”

“But Spencer has to say goodnight.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He leans in close, voice a quiet warmth. “Goodnight, Maddie. Sweet dreams.”

She reaches out and touches his wrist, fingers barely grazing his skin.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

It’s soft. Sleepy. But it cuts right through the air.

Spencer stills. His eyes meet mine.

There��s a question hanging there.

So I answer it for him. For both of us.

“We don’t know, baby,” I whisper, tucking the blanket higher up her chest. “But he’ll see you really soon.”

She nods, eyelids drooping. “Okay. goodnight, Thunder. goodnight, Mommy. goodnight, Spence.”

Her voice fades with the last syllable.

And then she’s gone—drifting into sleep like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

We don’t move for a moment.

Just watch her breathing, soft and even, arms still wrapped around her ridiculous plush shark.

I reach for the nightlight and click it on. The room floods with a soft blue, and gentle stars all over the walls.

We step out into the hallway together.

And this time, when I close the door, I swear the whole world hushes behind it.

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It’s thick with something neither of us names. That almost-conversation still lingers between us—unspoken, but fully present, like the echo of a song that never finished.

Spencer exhales quietly beside me. His hands are in his pockets now, shoulders just slightly hunched like he’s unsure what to do with all this softness.

“She really wanted me to stay,” he says, voice low.

“I really want you to stay,” I say before I can second-guess it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true.

He looks at me like I’ve knocked the wind out of him.

Not because he didn’t want to hear it. But because he didn’t expect to. Like it never even occurred to him that he could be wanted that plainly.

I don’t fill the silence. I let it sit there—between us, warm and steady. An open door instead of a question.

“I…” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.” My voice is steady, but soft. “You’ve stayed before. Remember pizza night? It’s no different.”

His lips twitch, like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust the moment yet.

“Pizza night was different,” he says. “There was a movie playing. Maddie kept falling asleep on my shoulder. I was fell asleep too… It would’ve been really difficult for me to mess that up…”

I should tell him it’s not different. I should say that he couldn’t mess this up even if he tried. But instead I just look at him—at the hands in his pockets, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for rejection he hasn’t even been offered.

And I feel it rise in my chest like a tide I can’t hold back.

I want him to stay.

Not just for Maddie. Not just for the comfort of a third mug on the table or a voice reading bedtime stories.

I want him to stay because I ache for the feeling of his hands on my waist again—gentle, tentative, like he’s afraid I might break if he holds too tight. Because I’ve replayed the sound of his laugh from the other side of my couch more times than I want to admit. Because every night I lie in bed and imagine what it would be like to fall asleep with my head on his chest and his voice humming low against my ear—not reading, just being.

I want him to stay because when he leaves, the apartment feels too quiet. Too hollow. Like something essential walked out with him.

And I know what it’s like to be left. I know how to survive that.

But I don’t want to survive tonight.

I want to feel something.

I want to feel him.

My throat tightens. My fingers curl slightly at my sides. And when I speak, my voice is low and aching and raw.

“Please… stay with me.”

Spencer just stands there, frozen like he’s trying to convince himself he heard me right.

For a moment, he says nothing.

But his eyes—God, his eyes. They look at me like I just handed him something precious. Something he's not sure he deserves to hold.

And then he whispers, “You mean... tonight?”

His voice cracks on the last word.

I nod. It’s all I can manage.

He swallows hard. His hands leave his pockets, hovering slightly at his sides like they don’t know what they’re allowed to do.

“I don’t want to misread this,” he says quietly, “I’ve been wrong before. And if I get this wrong with you…”

“You’re not wrong,” I cut in, stepping closer. “You’re the only thing that’s felt right in a long time.”

His breath stutters.

“I keep thinking about your hands,” I admit, voice barely a whisper now. “On my waist. How they felt like... I mean, it was just for a moment, to help me up when I fell the other night… but… it was like something I didn’t know I was starving for.”

He closes his eyes like it physically hurts to hear that. When he opens them, they’re shining.

“I think about falling asleep on your chest,” I go on. “Not even for anything more. Just… to be held. To stay.”

For a second, I think he might cry.

But instead, he closes the space between us and brings one shaking hand to my cheek—light, like a question. His thumb brushes just under my eye.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” he breathes.

And then, finally—finally—he kisses me.

Not like he’s been waiting.

Like he’s been holding his breath for years.

He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

Like the moment his lips touch mine, everything fragile between us might crack open—so he starts gently. Reverently. Just a brush, feather-light, barely pressure at all. Testing. Asking.

I answer by leaning in.

My hands slide up his chest, feeling the subtle tremor beneath his shirt—like he’s holding himself together with sheer will. His heart is pounding. I can feel it in the space where our bodies almost touch. Not quite. Not yet.

The second kiss is deeper. He tilts his head slightly, adjusting, learning me like I’m something to be studied. There’s a kind of hesitance in him—his lips move with patience, like he’s trying not to ask for too much. But I can feel the ache beneath it. The hunger he’s too polite to let loose.

When my fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders, I feel his breath hitch.

That’s when he lets go.

His hands find my waist, slow at first, then firmer—still careful, always careful, but no longer afraid. His thumbs press into my sides like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still half-convinced this isn’t real.

I press closer, and that’s all it takes for something to shift.

He exhales into my mouth, the kind of sound people only make when they’ve been carrying silence too long. His lips part. Mine follow. The kiss deepens, warm and slow and wanting.

He kisses like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s afraid he won’t get another chance.

And I kiss him like I’ve already decided I’ll never let that happen.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frenzied. It’s tender. Intimate. Two people discovering, not devouring. His nose brushes mine. One of his hands slides up, fingers threading into my hair. And when I sigh against his mouth—soft, involuntary—he pulls me just the slightest bit closer.

Because he needs to know I’m real.

And I am. I’m here.

We both are.

When we finally pull apart, it’s not dramatic. There’s no gasp for air, no cinematic swell of music in the background. Just… quiet.

His hands linger on my waist. Mine on his shoulders. We’re close, still, like we’re not quite ready to let go yet.

And we just look at each other.

Really look.

His lips are a little pink from kissing. His eyes—God, his eyes—search mine like he’s still trying to figure out if this really just happened. If I meant it. If he gets to keep it.

I don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But something shifts between us—like the air just got warmer. Lighter. Less afraid.

Then, like we’re on the exact same wavelength, we both let out these little half-laughs at the same time. Not loud, not nervous. Just… soft. Disbelieving.

A beat passes.

“I’m probably a terrible kisser,” he says, deadpan, almost embarrassed.

I snort. “You’re the worst,” I tease, grinning now. “Absolutely terrible. I barely survived.”

His smile breaks through slow and stunned, like it’s climbing out of a place he forgot existed.

“…you’re a great kisser, Spence.”

“You mean that?” he asks quietly.

I nod, still smiling, but it’s softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

He breathes out through his nose, almost laughing, but I see the shift in him—like the compliment settled somewhere deep, somewhere that’s been starved for that kind of gentleness.

“You know,” he says, eyes flicking down for a second, voice suddenly a little shy, “I can probably count the number of people I’ve kissed with just one hand.”

There’s no bitterness in it. No pity. Just fact.

Honest and raw.

I don’t tease him. Don’t make light of it. I just watch him, and I see the flicker of vulnerability behind his glasses—like he’s bracing himself for me to pull away.

Instead, I step closer, until our fingers brush again.

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t good at it,” I say, quiet but certain.

His breath catches.

And then, almost inaudibly, “I didn’t know how badly I wanted it to be you I was kissing… until I was actually kissing you.”

I feel my heart twist in the best possible way.

“So,” I whisper, smile tugging at my lips again, “you gonna make me guess how many it was, or…?”

His cheeks flush.

“Less than five,” he says. “More than one.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Very specific.”

“It’s a statistic,” he deadpans, but he’s smiling again—soft and lopsided and completely unguarded.

And God, I want to kiss him again.

“I really want to kiss you again,” I admit, quiet but sure.

His eyes flick to mine, startled for a second like he wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud.

Then he exhales—relieved, maybe. Or maybe just undone.

“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it twice to believe it.

“Yeah.”

We’re so close now I can feel the warmth of his breath, the tiny pull in the space between us like gravity’s getting tired of being subtle.

“Okay,” he says, softer than before.

And I lean in.

This kiss is different.

It’s not hesitant like the first, or breathless like the second. It’s slower. More certain. Like we’re settling into something. Like we’re giving ourselves permission.

His hands slide around my waist again, more sure this time. My fingers find the back of his neck, and when I sigh into him, I feel his whole body soften in response—like he’s been waiting to exhale.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

It’s just him and me.

Wanting the same thing at the same time.

And this time, we don’t stop just because the moment ends.

We let it stretch.

Until—thunk.

We both jerk back at the same time, foreheads colliding in a soft but unmistakable headbutt.

“Ow—shit, sorry!” he blurts, one hand flying up to his forehead.

“Oh my God—Spence!” I’m already laughing, covering my mouth with both hands as I double over slightly.

He winces, blinking like he’s making sure he didn’t give himself a concussion. “Wow. That was… that was supposed to be a kiss.”

“Yeah?” I tease, breathless from laughing. “Because it felt a lot like a full-contact sport.”

He groans. “I swear I have decent coordination in literally every other area of my life.”

I step forward, still grinning, resting my hands lightly on his chest. “You okay?”

“I’ll live,” he mutters, cheeks flushed, hair slightly tousled, looking so adorably flustered I want to kiss him even more.

And somehow, that makes it even sweeter.

Because it’s not perfect.

It’s real.

And it’s us.

Two dorks, breathless in a hallway, trying not to fall too hard—and failing beautifully.

“C’mon,” I say, grinning as I reach for his hand. “You’re finally gonna get to see my bedroom.”

He blinks at me like I’ve just offered him access to a top-secret vault.

“Is this... a trap?” he deadpans.

I laugh, tugging him gently down the hall. “Don’t flatter yourself, Dr. Reid. You’re getting clean sheets and maybe a spare pillow, not a grand seduction.”

He follows, and I feel the hesitation melt from his grip. He’s still blushing a little—still stunned from the kiss and the headbutt and the fact that this is actually happening—but his hand in mine feels like a promise.

“I mean, I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says as we reach the doorway. “I’m just happy I got invited past the living room.”

“Yeah, well,” I murmur, glancing at him over my shoulder, “I think you’ve earned it.”

I open the door, flick on the bedside lamp. The light is warm. The bed’s a little messy. There’s a book on the nightstand and a hoodie draped over the footboard.

“I think I have some pajamas that can fit you nicely,” I say, heading toward the dresser.

Spencer pauses just inside the doorway, eyes trailing over the room like he’s trying to catalog every detail—like this, too, might be something he’ll want to remember.

“Pajamas, huh?” he says, brow lifting. “You have a stash for emotionally repressed men who show up in button-downs and sweater vests?”

I laugh, pulling open the drawer. “Actually, I have a stash for when emotionally repressed men finally decide to stay the night instead of running off after one kiss.”

He has the decency to look sheepish at that. “Sorry.”

"Don't apologize," I toss him a folded pair of soft, plaid sleep pants and one of my old T-shirts. It’s worn-in and slightly faded—navy, with a little white constellation graphic on the chest.

He catches it, holds it up like it might be holy. “Is this… yours?”

“Technically. But don’t worry, it’s seen many nights of existential crisis and leftover takeout. You’ll be in good company.”

He smiles at that. A real one. Small but bright, like he’s letting himself believe this is okay. That he’s okay here.

“I’ll change in the bathroom,” he says, still holding the shirt like it means more than it probably should.

And maybe it does.

Because tonight isn’t just about staying.

It’s about being welcomed.

“Yeah,” I say, backing toward my dresser, already tugging off my top layer. “I’ll change here, so don’t come out until I tell you.”

His eyes widen slightly, like his brain short-circuited at the implication, even though I’m halfway in pajama mode and he knows it.

He nods a little too quickly. “Right. Okay. I’ll just—bathroom.”

And then he’s gone, vanishing down the hall like he’s fleeing a high-stakes negotiation. I bite my lip, smiling to myself as I change into my softest sleep shirt—one that hits mid-thigh and smells like fabric softener and familiarity.

When I hear the door click shut behind him, I pause for a second—looking at my bed, now made for two.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel too big anymore.

“Okay, you can come out,” I call, voice light but a little breathless.

A few seconds later, the door opens. Spencer reenters the room wearing the constellation shirt and the plaid sleep pants—and looking every bit like he belongs in both.

And maybe, just maybe, here.

With me.

“Wow…” I chuckle at the sight of him, eyes trailing from tousled curls down to the constellation on his chest. “You look great.”

He shifts awkwardly in the doorway, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “It’s a little short.”

“It’s perfect,” I grin, stepping closer, tilting my head as I take him in. “You look like someone who drinks tea and stares out windows and has devastating thoughts about the moon.”

“I do have devastating thoughts about the moon,” he replies, almost defensively.

I snort. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s blushing now. Fully. And the way he looks at me—it’s not shy anymore. It’s open. Still a little uncertain, but undeniably present.

Like he wants this.

Like he wants me.

I walk past him to turn down the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of how intimate this all is—sharing a room, a bed, a night.

“You can take the side closest to the door if you want,” I offer, fluffing one of the pillows. “Just in case you need a fast escape.”

He laughs under his breath, stepping toward the opposite side. “Very funny.”

We climb in at the same time. Careful. Slow. Our movements quiet in the low light, like we’re both waiting for this to feel strange.

But it doesn’t.

It feels… calm.

Undeniably right.

The sheets are cool against my legs, the room quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling floorboards. He lies beside me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

I turn onto my side, facing him. He’s lying on his back, hands folded neatly on his stomach like he’s trying not to take up too much space.

“You always this tense when you sleep over at someone’s place?” I tease gently.

He glances at me, lips twitching. “You say that like it happens often.”

“You mean to tell me this isn’t a regular Thursday night for you?”

“No,” he says, voice dry but soft. “This is… new.”

“Yeah.” I nod, smiling. “It is.”

We go quiet again. It’s not awkward—it’s full. Like the silence has shape. Weight.

My fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket. I don’t know how long I lie there, watching him in the dark—his profile soft, his breathing steady—but at some point, the thought becomes undeniable.

I want to kiss him again.

God, I really want to kiss him again.

Not because I need to. Not because it would make the night more romantic or meaningful. But because I can.

Because he’s here, in my bed, and the way he’s looking at me like I hung the stars on his borrowed shirt makes my heart thrum in my throat.

We lie there, a few inches of space and a whole ocean of awareness between us. The sheets rustle gently when he shifts, turning onto his side to face me.

“I read once that people sleep better next to someone they trust,” he murmurs, voice low and a little hoarse from the hour. “It has to do with cortisol levels and body temperature regulation—there’s this study from 2018 where they tracked heart rate synchronization between couples sharing a bed, and apparently—”

I kiss him.

No warning.

No pause.

Just—him.

Soft and talking and warm and trying to science his way through something so achingly human, and I just can’t help it.

My hand slides across the sheets to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek as I press my mouth to his—slow, certain, reverent.

He goes still, for half a second.

Then exhales into the kiss like it’s the first breath he’s taken all night.

His hand comes up, fingers finding my waist under the blanket, tentative but grounding.

He kisses me back like he’s still catching up to the idea that this is real—but he’s trying. And the trying is what undoes me.

When I finally pull back, just a fraction, his eyes flutter open.

“…sorry,” he breathes.

I blink. “For what?”

“I was talking about cortisol.”

I grin, still close enough to feel the ghost of his breath on my lips. “You can talk about anything and everything… Just know, every time you start your little rambles, I get this huge urge to kiss you.”

His eyes widen, like I just flipped the stars inside him upside down.

“You do?” he asks, voice caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to wonder.

I nod, still smiling. “It’s endearing. And hot. But mostly endearing.”

He makes a strangled little sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well,” I murmur, my fingers tracing slow circles against the fabric at his side, “get used to it.”

His hand slides to rest over mine, warm and steady. And for once, he doesn’t ramble. He just looks at me like he feels every word I haven’t said yet.

And when he kisses me this time, it’s slower.

There’s no rush in it—just warmth, just care. His lips press to mine with a kind of quiet awe, like he’s still a little surprised I’m letting him. Like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment in case he never gets another.

His hand slides from over mine to my waist, fingers splaying gently, like he’s reminding himself I’m real. I lean into him, let him pull me a little closer across the sheets. Our legs brush. Our noses bump again—barely—but this time we both smile into it.

Previous Chapter |

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[trashyyduckling]

AAAAH my favourite tropeeeee

Hey girlieeee💃💃

How are you? Hope uni isn't killing yo ass(it's killing mine so😶‍🌫️)😭😭

Soo, I was thinking a fluffity fluff fluff, disgustingly cute fic with flirty!reader where she keeps flirting with Spence and he gets all shy and shit all the time and when he gets his boyband haircut and wears glasses and stuff and reader gets all heart eyed and keeps on gushing over him. But Mr. Doc here gets all insecure and tells her that she only flirts with him to be nice (she's genuinely in love him with, like down bad like we are for him - justified) and she consoles him and kinda accidentally confesses and it's all cute blushing ending.

Hope that made sense 😭😭😭

Love you girl! ♥️😘

flirty — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: flirty!reader, spencer being insecure for a moment a/n: hi hi !! such a lovely idea <3 hope you like this !

“Oh my god.”

That was all Spencer heard when you stepped into the bullpen. Just those three words, and he was already blushing, the warmth creeping up his ears, knowing exactly how red they must be. He didn’t even need a mirror to confirm it, the heat on his skin was evidence enough.

“Good morning,” he said, looking up from his desk, fingers pausing over the open case file in front of him. But you weren’t moving. You were just staring at him, lips parted slightly in surprise before curling into a slow, delighted grin.

“A haircut and glasses?” you said, stepping closer and leaning against his desk. “What did I do to deserve this?” His eyes darted away, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the file.

“I—uh, I thought the haircut was overdue,” he mumbled. “It was getting in the way of work.” He dared to glance back at you, only to find you still staring, your expression so openly affectionate it made his breath hitch.

“Well, you look very handsome,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag before stepping even closer. You hesitated for just a second, waiting for any sign of discomfort from him. There wasn’t any. So you reached out, fingertips brushing through the soft strands. “So soft,” you grinned. Then, you straightened his glasses, your touch lingering just a second too long before you finally dropped your hand.

Spencer, who had instinctively leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment, blinked up at you now, lips slightly parted.

“How am I supposed to focus on work now?” you huffed, pretending to be annoyed as you leaned back against his desk. “Are you trying to get me in trouble with Hotch?”

“W-What? No! No, not at all, why would I—” His voice pitched higher and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Spencer,” you said, shaking your head fondly. “I’m joking.” He exhaled, shoulders relaxing, but the blush didn’t fade. 

Throughout the day, you kept finding little ways to compliment him.

A soft “What have you got, handsome?” when asking about the geographical profile. Another moment where you reached over to adjust his glasses, grinning when his breath hitched. Each time, he responded with that same flustered blush, and you loved it, the way his eyes flickered away, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

But then, a few days later, Spencer finally spoke up.

The team had just wrapped up a case, and the two of you were among the last to leave the jet, trudging back into the bullpen to grab your things before heading home. As always, you waited for him while he gathered his mountain of books from his desk, because of course Spencer Reid couldn’t leave without at least five heavy tomes in tow. You leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile as he meticulously stacked them into his worn leather bag.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head, “most people just bring, like, a laptop home. Maybe a notepad. But you? You’re out here looking like a walking library.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but didn’t look up. You nudged his shoulder playfully. “Adorable and ridiculously smart? Unfair.”

And that’s when he froze. His hands stilled over the last book, fingers tightening slightly on the spine before he finally lifted his gaze to yours. There was something different in his expression, almost wary. You blinked, but didn’t back down, perching on the edge of his desk with the same flirtatious smile as always. Then, the words spilled out. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Your smile faltered. “Do what?”

“Compliment me.” His voice was quiet. “Just to be nice.”

For a second, you just stared at him. “What?” The word came out sharper than you meant it to, disbelief coloring your tone. Spencer didn’t reply. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

You jumped off the desk, closing the distance between you in one quick step. “Spencer.” His name left your lips softer this time, almost pleading.

He still wouldn’t look at you. Gently, you reached out, turning him toward you by his arm. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m not complimenting you just to be nice,” you said, your voice quiet. Your eyebrows furrowed, a pang of hurt twisting in your chest at the thought that he’d believed that all along. That he’d been dismissing every word, every glance, as nothing more than polite kindness.

Spencer finally met your eyes, just for a second, but it was enough. And you saw it. The doubt. The disbelief that anyone could mean it.

“I think you’re very handsome,” you said, your voice dropping, stripping away the playful tone you usually used. “And I’m not just saying that.”

Spencer stared at you, his brown eyes wide, still shimmering with that heartbreaking disbelief. So you continued, your thumb rubbing slow circles against his upper arm through the soft wool of his cardigan. "I meant every compliment I've ever told you." The fabric was warm from his body heat, and you could feel the faint tremor running through him. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You pressed on, giving him a small, crooked grin. "You really think I'd risk getting in trouble with Hotch for staring at you," you teased gently, "just because I wanted to be nice?"

That finally broke through.

A startled, breathy laugh escaped him and the way his face lit up made your own grin widen uncontrollably. Encouraged, you ran with it, your voice dipping into playful exaggeration. "Seriously, that was not funny. He gave me this look once , all stern and disapproving, it was terrifying." You shuddered dramatically, watching with delight as another quiet laugh shook Spencer's shoulders. The words kept tumbling out. "I like you so much that I'd get in trouble with Hotch for-"

Oh.

Your brain caught up with your mouth a second too late. The playful tone died in your throat as realization crashed over you. Your fingers stilled against his arm.

Oh no.

You just confessed.

Spencer's breath hitched audibly, his eyes widening further. His lips formed a silent "oh" of his own, and you could feel the sudden tension coiling through his body where your hand still rested on his arm. Your pulse roared in your ears as panic set in. This wasn't how you'd planned to say it, if you'd ever planned to say it at all. Time seemed to slow as you waited for his response, every second stretching unbearably. You could practically see the gears turning behind those beautiful, bewildered eyes.

"Okay well... yeah," you mumbled, more to yourself than to him, your words tumbling out. Your hand dropped from his arm like you'd been burned, fingers curling into your palm. "Guess I just... said that."

Spencer blinked rapidly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "You... like me?" The question came out breathless. Then, true to form, his brain kicked into overdrive. "As in romantically? Or in a friendship way or-" The words spilled faster, "-or in a professional admiration capacity, or-"

"Romantically." You cut him off with a blunt, flat delivery. There was no teasing tone. For one terrifying heartbeat, Spencer just stared. Then something miraculous happened. Slowly, so slowly, a smile began to spread across his face.

"I..." He started, stopped, then huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "I've been trying to work up the courage to tell you the same thing for... well. An embarrassingly long time, actually."

Your lips curved into a delighted smile as you leaned just slightly into his space. "How long are we talking, Doctor Reid? Weeks? Months?" You tapped a thoughtful finger against your chin. "Should I be flattered or concerned about your procrastination skills?"

Spencer's eyes darted away, then back, that adorable blush deepening. "If we're being statistically accurate... 7 months, 17 days since I first considered-"

"Seven months?" Your eyebrows shot up as you interrupted his precise calculation. You reached out to straighten his already-perfect tie, fingers brushing the warm skin at his throat. "And here I thought geniuses were supposed to be efficient."

He swallowed hard under your touch. "I was... compiling data."

"Oh?" You let your hand linger, smoothing the fabric of his tie. "And what conclusions did your research yield?"

Spencer's breath hitched as your fingers trailed down to his chest, coming to rest just over his racing heart. "That..." He cleared his throat. "That you have a 92% probability of saying yes if I asked you to dinner tonight."

Your grin turned downright wicked. "Only 92%? Those are rookie numbers, Reid." You gave his tie a playful tug. "Tell you what, skip the probability analysis and just ask me properly."

For a moment, Spencer looked like he might short-circuit. Then, with a sudden burst of courage that made your own pulse skip, he caught your retreating hand in his, his long fingers intertwining with yours.

"Would you," he started, then paused, his thumb brushing over your knuckles nervously, "let me take you to that Italian place you mentioned last week? The one with the... the homemade pasta?" His voice gained strength as he added, "Tonight. Just us."

You bit your lip, pretending to consider even as your stomach fluttered. "Hmm. I don't know... will there be dessert?"

"The best," he deadpanned, that shy smile playing at his lips.

"Then it's a date," you declared, giving his hand a squeeze. "But fair warning" You stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of his shampoo, close enough to make his breath catch. " I fully intend to steal at least one bite of whatever you order."

Spencer's laugh was bright. "Noted. Though statistically speaking, you're 98% more likely to steal two."

"Smart and pretty," you sighed dramatically, finally releasing his hand to grab your bag. "How's a girl supposed to resist?"

[trashyyduckling]

they're just babiesssss🥹

IN WHICH spencer is surprised when you sit next to him on the bus

౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ spencer reid x sweetheart reader (highschool AU)

it had only been an act of kindness.

that was the sentence echoing in spencer’s head throughout the past week. the mantra he kept repeating himself in order not to let himself hope for more.

you had only helped him out of pity. that day in the hallway, when the guys from the football team were picking on him, a very common occurrence for him. you had only helped him because you happened to be walking by, and you also happened to be the nicest girl to ever walk this planet.

yes, that’s what it must’ve been.

but still, spencer hadn’t been able to forget about that day. and suddenly, you were everywhere. it was as if his mind was playing tricks on him, the way he began noticing you in every crowd. walking past the science lab in the mornings, heading to the cafeteria right when he was on his way to the library, he couldn’t spend a minute at school without seeing you.

after another monotonous day of studying by himself and keeping a low profile - to avoid the jocks, not you of course - he got on the bus, walking to the back to sit alone next to the window.

public transportation wasn’t really his thing, but at least he knew he wouldn’t see undesired faces in here. the bus was for the poor, and the people without friends, who wanted to leave school quickly after classes. not the ones who hung out at the mall in big groups, laughing loudly and spending money without a care in the world. spencer wasn’t a part of that category. but you were.

“i wish we’d met before”

still, your words couldn’t leave his head. how come a girl like you, who had everything she could possibly want, say something like this ? your life was all planned out to the tiniest details, and the silver spoon that you’d been fed from had your initials carved on it.

he couldn’t believe you’d ever want anything to do with him.

but something snapped him out of his thoughts - someone, actually.

“is this seat taken ?” a sweet voice he’d recognised anywhere asked, and he had to stare at you for a couple of seconds to make sure you were real.

way to go, spencer. you definitely don’t look like a creep.

“uh- no, yes i mean…” he managed to stutter out, grabbing the messenger bag he’d carefully placed there to avoid this exact type of situation. he didn’t want anyone sitting beside him.

anyone but you, of course.

“here…” he said, allowing you to sit down and thank him. the proximity between the two of you reminded him of that day in the hallway, and he ached for your touch again.

“what are you doing here ?”

his words were bold. more accusatory than usual, and came out a little too soon. but if you picked up on it, you didn’t make it known. you simply looked at him and shrugged, leaning back casually against the seat.

“my brother was supposed to pick me up but he got detention… and all my friends are already gone, they skipped last period.”

spencer raised a brow, curiously. “what did he do ? your brother, i mean…”

he didn’t care for your brother, really. apart from his name and the fact that he was captain of the football team, he was just another guy for him. truth is, he just wanted an excuse to keep the conversation going.

“oh, he got in a fight.” you answered simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“a fight ?”

you nodded, avoiding eye contact with him. “yeah. with some guys from the team. they’re all jerks anyway, so they deserved it.”

spencer only nodded, not being sure what he was supposed to answer to that. knowing he was pretty oblivious to social cues, it didn’t particularly strike you.

the chattering going on in the bus made the lack of conversation seem comfortable. everyone was talking, debriefing the day and going on about the latest gossip they’d heard.

spencer didn’t tell you how happy he was to be acknowledged by you. he felt like a stranger to his own feelings when it came to you, and he didn’t understand why sitting next to you on this stupid bus made him so giddy.

you didn’t tell him that you were on the bus because your brother beat his bullies to the pulp. he didn’t need to know that, you thought. he should be left alone now, and that’s what mattered for you.

“spencer ?” you asked when the bus was about to make a stop around your block.

he turned to you, brown eyes glittering with hope. “yes ?”

“i’m uh… probably going to be grounded when i get home.” you explained, the undertone of your voice letting him know you wouldn’t explain. “do you think maybe… we could hang out at school ?”

hang out ? as in, spending time together ? he almost asked you to repeat it again, to make sure he’d heard you right.

you grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder and noticed his surprised expression. shoot, maybe that came out wrong.

“i didn’t- i’m not looking for an excuse to stay at school. i really want to hang out with you.” you rectified, but you could see he was still thoroughly confused about the meaning behind your words.

“spencer. i want to hang out with you. like, as friends. i know you spend a lot of time at school even when classes are done, so… maybe…”

you were right, he did chase any opportunity not to go home, and had a habit of staying in the library by himself until late in the afternoon. while other kids were enjoying their teenage hood, and living real lives. the condition of his mother, the responsibilities he had, he never told you any of it. but somehow, you knew.

“as friends ?” he repeated like a broken record, just as the bus stopped. a smile crept up your lips and you nodded.

“yeah. as friends.”

you reluctantly got up, fighting hard not to drown in his mesmerising eyes, and he observed you like you were the most mesmerising thing in the world.

as friends. you wanted to be his friend.

with one last wave, and a dozen of things unsaid, you turned walked to the door and got off the bus while he sat there, staring at you from the window and trying to put a word on the warmth he was feeling in his stomach.

because something had changed within him. he was still spencer reid, the science obsessed guy with the mismatched socks. his routine would still be the same, boring one he’d had for as long as he could remember.

but now, he had a friend.

a/n : i love highschool au spencer so much !!! love you all, and remember reblogs are the only way to boost a fic, so please interact if you enjoyed it <3

moodboards : nerd spencer //sweetheart reader

[trashyyduckling]

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 13

Summary: When Y/N falls sick on the day of their planned aquarium visit, Spencer steps in to help with Maddie — managing soup, coloring time, and a chaotic bath. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Lots of fluff, Spencer giving Maddie a bath (she wears a swimsuit) word count: 5.3k

Series Masterlist

We were meant to go to the aquarium today.

Spencer had insisted — heavily. Said he had a lot to make up for, and that taking us there was just the beginning. One of many things he planned to do to make things right. I kept telling him he had nothing to make up for. That I was just as faulty — if not more.

But he’d shake his head and smile that stubborn little smile of his. “Besides,” he’d say, “I know Maddie likes looking at fish.”

He probably got that from the library. Maddie wouldn’t stop begging us to see the fish after we made up there. So we took her to the back corner tank, where she pressed her hands to the glass and named every neon blur that swam by.

Spencer wouldn’t stop rattling off fish facts, and Maddie wouldn’t stop gasping — wide-eyed, delighted, trailing every “whoa!” with five new questions. And the whole time, I just stood there beside them, cursing myself for letting my fear ruin things. For pushing him away from us… from her.

She needed him — just as much as I did. And my stupid fear got in the way of that.

But now that he was back in our lives, I was determined to never let him leave again.

Which is why I agreed to the aquarium visit. I’ll take each and every interaction I can get from him — every soft moment, every shared glance, every time he lets Maddie tug on his sleeve like she’s always known he’d stay.

Maddie had been counting down the days until Aquarium Day. She even made up a song for it — one she sang far too often and with zero shame:

“All the fishes in the sea! I’ll meet all the fishes in the sea! I love all the fishes in the sea! And all the fishies love me!”

She sang it in the car. In the bath. Once, in the middle of Target. I caught Spencer humming it under his breath last night while packing snacks.

Unfortunately, After Spencer left, I fell asleep, and somewhere between then and this morning, my body betrayed me.

I woke up aching and feverish, throat raw and nose already stuffy. The kind of sick that feels like your bones have been swapped out for bricks. Maddie was at my bedside in full glittery aquarium gear — her sparkly sea skirt, a shirt with a smiling octopus on it, and her little field bag slung across her chest like she was leading the expedition herself.

“Good morning, Mommy!” she chirped.

My head was pounding, and her excited exclamation only made it worse — sharp and bright, like a cymbal crashing inside my skull.

Still, I pushed through a groggy smile. “Good morning, Princess.”

She tilted her head at me. “Why do you sound like a frog?”

I would’ve laughed if my throat didn’t feel like sandpaper. It was a fair question. I did sound like a frog — or a broken record player. Or maybe both.

There was a beat of silence while I tried to sit up, every muscle in my body screaming. And that’s when the weight of it hit me — today was aquarium day.

I looked at her — all glitter and hope and tiny, sparkly shoes — and my heart just sank. I couldn’t do it. There was no way I’d make it past the front door without collapsing. But how do you explain that to a child who’s been singing about fish for a week?

I reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Mommy’s not feeling very good today.”

Her smile dimmed, just slightly.

“Like… not even juice and cartoons will fix it,” I added gently.

Maddie blinked at me, confused. “So… we’re not going?”

I shook my head, slowly. “Not today, baby. I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t cry, but her mouth trembled like she was deciding whether or not she should. She looked down at her sparkly skirt, smoothing the fabric with one small hand.

“I already packed my notebook,” she whispered.

That’s when the guilt really hit.

“We can go next week, baby,” I said quickly, trying to keep my voice soft despite how raw it felt. “The fish will still be there.”

She gave me a tiny, uncertain nod, but her shoulders were still hunched.

I reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Hey… how about we bring the aquarium to us today?”

Her eyes lifted, wary but curious.

“We’ve got coloring books, right? You can draw all the fish you would’ve met. And I’ll help you name them — from the couch,” I added, because standing up felt like a distant dream.

“Yes!” she cheered, excitement blooming back across her face like it had never left.

“Why don’t you go set up everything? I’ll be right there.”

She nodded hard, spun on her heel, and bolted out of the room — singing her little fish song at full volume, completely unaware of the emotional whiplash she’d just given me.

And now… I had to break the news to Spencer.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand, eyes still bleary, head still pounding. A couple new messages lit up the screen.

Spencer: Good morning, sleepyhead.

Spencer: I’ll be there in thirty minutes, I just have a minor thing to take care of.

Of course he was already planning to come early. Of course he was making room in his day for us. That ache in my chest wasn’t from the fever.

I swallowed and started typing.

Y/N: I’m so sorry to do this, but I think we have to raincheck the aquarium. I woke up sick — like really sick.

Y/N: I didn’t want to cancel but I can barely keep my eyes open. Maddie’s heartbroken, obviously.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back again.

Spencer: Don’t apologize, It’s not your fault.

Spencer: Stay put, I’m bringing soup.

I stared at the screen for a moment, blinking hard. He didn’t even hesitate.

Y/N: Spencer, you really don’t have to.

Spencer: I want to.

Spencer: Besides, You’ll definitely need help with Maddie.

Spencer: I’m not implying that you can’t take care of her, I know you can.

Spencer: You’re an amazing mother, I just want to help.

Spencer: And I make excellent soup.

Spencer: …Well. I make decent soup.

Spencer: Okay, fine. I’m buying the soup on the way there. But I’m bringing it.

Despite the fever, I laughed — really laughed — then winced and immediately regretted it. My whole body felt like it was wrapped in a bruise.

Y/N: Can’t wait :)

I set the phone down and let my head rest against the pillow for just a second — just long enough to pretend the room wasn’t spinning.

“Mommy! I set up everything!” Maddie’s voice rang from the living room, bright and proud and way too loud for the current state of my skull.

I groaned softly and peeled myself off the mattress, dragging the blanket with me like a cape. Every step felt like a negotiation with gravity. But I forced myself out, because she had that voice — the kind that only comes from glittery excitement and blind faith that I’d show up for her, sick or not.

I was halfway down the hall when I heard her humming again.

“All the fishes in the sea… all the fishies love me…”

I sit on the couch next to her on the floor, but it doesn’t take very long for my body to get tired and I end up lying on my side, head sinking into a throw pillow that smelled faintly like strawberries and toddler shampoo.

“That’s really pretty, baby,” I murmured, voice rasping more than I intended.

Maddie didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy giving blue crayon stripes to a creature she swore was a rainbow shark. Her tongue peeked out in concentration, tiny brows furrowed as she filled in its fins.

“You can name this one,” she said, still coloring. “It’s a girl.”

“I think we should name her Mystique,” I smiled weakly, chest warming in spite of the fever. “Since she’s blue.”

“Are there any blue fish, Mommy?”

“Yeah, there’s blue fish…” I trailed off, brain foggy. “I don’t know what they’re called. Maybe when Spencer gets here, he can tell you all about it.”

Her head whipped around, eyes sparkling. “Spencer’s coming?”

“Yeah,” I croaked, “said he’s bringing soup.”

“Yay!” she squealed, kicking her feet against the carpet. “I’m gonna show him my drawing! And my ocean song! And maybe he can help me finish the drawings—”

She gasped mid-sentence, as if suddenly remembering something very urgent, and took off toward the hallway, abandoning the blue fish mid-draw.

I let my eyes fall closed, just for a second.

Then the doorbell rang.

I tried to get up, but it was harder than I expected. My body felt like a bag of wet sand — heavy, clumsy, uncooperative. With a grunt, I managed to push myself off the couch, gripping the armrest for balance as the room briefly tilted. I nearly slipped right back onto my ass.

Graceful.

Real elegant.

Still, I shuffled to the door, blanket draped over my shoulders like I was the world's saddest superhero.

And when I opened it, there he was — Spencer. Hands full, curls wind-tossed, and a crease of concern already etched between his brows.

I let out a smile of relief before managing to croak out a small, “Hi.”

His eyes swept over me — the blanket, the flushed cheeks, the heavy eyes — and he immediately shifted the bag in his arms so he could step inside.

“You look terrible.”

He deadpanned it. No hesitation. And then, immediately, his face contorted with regret, eyes going wide like he wanted to rewind the moment and start over.

“I mean—you look like you feel terrible. You don’t look terrible, you—uh, you look…”

I raised an eyebrow, lips twitching despite how awful I felt.

“…like a very beautiful Victorian ghost?” he offered, helplessly.

I laughed — a real, wet, painful laugh — and then immediately started coughing.

He grimaced. “Okay, maybe no more jokes until after the soup.”

“God… you actually brought soup?”

“Of course I did,” he said, like it was obvious. “You’re sick, and soup is clinically proven to help relieve cold symptoms. Warm liquids—especially those containing sodium—can help loosen mucus and reduce inflammation in the upper respiratory tract.”

I stared at him, deadpan. “Did you bring me chicken noodle and a peer-reviewed citation?”

Spencer blinked. “...Actually, I brought vegetable soup. With alphabet pasta.”

I let my head fall against the doorframe with a groan. “You’re the sweetest,” I rasped, meaning it more than he probably realized.

He paused, just for a second — like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. His eyes flicked to mine, then down to the thermos in his hands.

“I thought… if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well have something that spells.”

That made me smile, even through the fog in my head. “Soup that spells. You really do know the way to a girl’s heart.”

Spencer cleared his throat, setting the thermos gently on the counter. “It also has carrots and celery, just so you know. For nutritional balance.”

“Of course it does.”

I turned to head back toward the couch, hoping to collapse into the cushions with some shred of grace, but my legs had other plans. The dizziness hit first — a quick tilt of the room — and then my feet just… gave out.

I slipped.

And this time, I did fall on my ass.

Hard.

Spencer was at my side in seconds, the thermos clanking against the counter as he abandoned it mid-unpacking. “Are you okay?” he asked, breath short like he had taken the fall.

“No,” I groaned. “I think I broke my dignity.”

He hovered, unsure if he should laugh or call an ambulance. His hands twitched like he wanted to help me up but wasn’t sure where to touch me without either catching my flu or dislocating something.

“Don’t move,” he said, tone full of gentle panic. “I read somewhere that sudden collapses can lead to spinal injuries and—”

“I’m fine,” I interrupted, though my pride was very much not. “Just dizzy. And cursed.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed, lips parting like he was calculating the probability of that.

“I mean it,” I added. “You bring alphabet soup and I immediately fall on my ass. That has to mean something cosmically.”

He blinked. “Correlation doesn’t equal causation.”

I stared up at him.

“Sorry,” he added quickly. “I’m helping now.”

And he did.

He put his hands on my waist.

And everything in me went still.

Not because it hurt — not because I was dizzy — but because Spencer Reid’s hands were on my waist.

Warm. Careful. Steady. Like I was something fragile, but not broken. Like he knew exactly how to hold me — not possessively, not clinically, just… present.

His touch was light, barely there through the fabric of my shirt, but it sent a ripple straight up my spine. My breath caught. My fingers clenched reflexively in the blanket still slung over my shoulders, and I cursed my body for reacting like this while I was sick, gross, and wearing socks that absolutely didn’t match.

I tried not to think about it — the way his thumbs pressed in just slightly for leverage, the way his touch was firm enough to lift but soft enough to ask permission.

I tried not to think about the fact that he hadn’t touched me like this since… ever. Not really. A hand brushing mine, a quick hug, maybe a palm on my back when Maddie ran too far ahead — but this?

This was intentional.

My heart was pounding so loud I was convinced he could hear it. That maybe he’d look at me — really look — and see everything I was trying so hard to keep still beneath the surface.

But he didn’t.

He just helped me stand. No words. No big moment. Just his hands — strong and sure and kind — guiding me back to my feet like I mattered.

Like I was worth steadying.

And when he let go, I hated the way my body already missed him.

“Thank you,” I whispered, barely trusting my voice.

“It’s the least I can do,” he said softly, and for a moment, his eyes lingered on mine like maybe he had felt it too — that subtle shift in gravity, that charge under the skin.

And then—

“Spencer!!!”

A blur of pink and glitter exploded around the corner before either of us could react. Maddie sprinted into the room at full speed and threw herself against his legs like a little wrecking ball in glitter tights.

“You’re here!” she squealed, arms wrapped around him in a hug that nearly knocked him off balance.

He let out a startled laugh, steadying himself. “Hi, Maddie,” he said, smiling down at her like she was the center of the universe. “Nice to see you too.”

“Mommy was helping me name my fishies,” she announced proudly, her voice already veering into tour-guide mode.

As she said it, I quietly slipped back toward the couch, each step a slow negotiation with gravity. My legs still felt like jelly. I sank down onto the cushions with a sigh and curled onto my side, wrapping the blanket tight around me like a burrito of regret and mucus. The fever was creeping back in — or maybe it never left — but I didn’t want Maddie to notice. I just needed a minute. Maybe ten.

“Well… I’m going to heat up some soup for mommy to feel better. How about after that, I help you with the fishies so mommy can rest a little?”

Maddie tilted her head, skeptical. “Just a little rest?”

“Just a little,” he promised. “She’ll need energy later so you can show her all the fishies,”

I smiled at the sight of them — the way he knelt beside her so easily, like he belonged there. Like he wanted to be there.

God, how they make my heart melt.

There was something about watching them together that made everything inside me ache in the best way. Not the fever kind of ache — the longing kind. The soft, pulsing kind that blooms behind your ribs and spreads through your chest like warmth from a fireplace. The kind that says, this is what home looks like. This is what it could feel like. Again.

Maddie looked at him like he held the keys to every make-believe kingdom she’d ever dreamed of. And Spencer — awkward, brilliant, impossibly tender Spencer — looked at her like she was the most important story he’d ever been part of.

And I? I just watched from my blanket cocoon, half-sick, half-smitten, and entirely helpless against the quiet swell of love creeping in like tidewater.

I reach out, fingers sluggish and a little shaky, and rest my hand on his shoulder.

Not to get his attention. Not to say anything.

I just wanted to touch him. To feel close, even for a second. As close as I could get without it being too much. Without making it obvious just how badly I wanted him to stay — not just for today, not just because I was sick — but because everything felt better when he was near.

Still, he turned his head, brows pulling together in that soft, curious way of his. Like he wasn’t sure if something was wrong, or if I just needed something he couldn’t name yet.

I didn’t say a word. Just gave his shoulder a small squeeze and smiled.

That’s all I could give him right now. But God, I hoped he knew what it meant.

“I’ll go get you your soup,” he said softly. Really soft. Like he was trying to answer me with tone alone — like he was trying to mimic my feelings and actions with his voice.

And maybe he didn’t say I understand or I feel it too or I’m not going anywhere.

But it sounded like all of those things.

“You’re a godsend,” I murmured, too tired to filter the warmth in my voice. “Like… actually. I hope you know that.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me with that unreadable something in his eyes — the kind that made it hard to breathe if I stared too long. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and disappeared into the kitchen.

And I sank a little deeper into the couch, letting the weight of that moment settle in my chest like something sacred.

I could hear the soft sounds of him moving around — the fridge opening, the low hum of the microwave, the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. Nothing loud. Nothing rushed. He moved like he was afraid to wake the house. Like we were a secret he didn’t want to break.

Maddie must’ve followed him in, because I heard her whisper something about the alphabet pasta. Something like, “can you spell my name in it?” and Spencer answered with a soft chuckle, “I can try.”

The sound wrapped around me like another blanket.

I blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight, eyes stinging — not from the fever this time. Just from the quiet realization that this? This is what it felt like to be taken care of. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity.

But because he wanted to.

“Is the soup any good?” I asked as I heard the faint glug of him pouring it into a bowl.

“I believe so,” he called back.

I blinked, half amused. “You don’t know if the soup is good? You bought me soup you’ve never tried.”

There was a pause. Then:

“My friend Penelope said it cured her flu once in under twenty-four hours, that and I trust her judgement for good food.”

“Who’s Penelope?” I asked, eyes still closed, voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause. A small one. Just enough to feel him hesitate.

“She’s one of my closest friends,” he said finally. “She works with me. Technical analyst.”

“Oh,” I murmured, cracking one eye open. “The one you call ‘a walking algorithm wrapped in glitter’?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh from the kitchen. “That’s the one.”

“She sounds like someone who’d pick magical soup.”

“She also bedazzled her own flu medicine once, so… take that as you will.”

I smiled again, sinking further into the blanket. “I already trust her more than my last doctor.”

“I’ll let her know she’s finally surpassed Western medicine.”

“Tell me more,” I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could think twice.

There was a pause, soft but full of something unspoken.

“About Penelope?” he asked, careful.

“About your friends.”

He didn’t answer right away — and for a second, I thought maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe it was too much, too personal, too close for a sick day and alphabet soup. But then I heard him exhale, slow and thoughtful, like he was sorting through names in his head, deciding which pieces he could give away.

“Okay,” he said gently, voice rounding the corner before he did. “You’ll like them, I think.”

And I looked up — just as he walked into the room, holding a steaming bowl like it was something sacred.

He hands the bowl to me carefully, fingers brushing mine for the briefest second — just enough to make my heart stutter — and then he sits next to me on the couch, close but not too close. Like always, he gives me space. But part of me wants to lean over and fill it.

“Well,” he starts, settling in beside me, “there’s seven of us. Three of them are relatively newer, but they’re still friends.”

“So eight including you?”

“Yep,” he nods. “Me, Penelope, JJ, Emily, Rossi, Luke, Tara, and Matt.”

I take a slow sip of the soup — warm, salty, alphabet-shaped comfort — and glance over at him. He’s looking ahead, not at me, like saying the names out loud pulls him somewhere else for a second.

“You sound like a superhero squad,” I murmur, half teasing.

He hums a soft laugh. “Sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes it feels like we’re barely holding it together.”

I don’t push. I just sip the soup and wait, giving him room.

Because the fact that he’s even sitting here — telling me names, sharing pieces of himself — feels like something he doesn’t do often.

And I don’t want to scare him back into silence.

“JJ, Emily, Penelope, and Rossi have been around the longest,” he said, his voice settling into something quieter. “They’ve known me since my early twenties.”

“What were you like?” I asked.

He paused — and for a moment, I saw the flicker of memory in his eyes. Not nostalgia, exactly. Something gentler. Something sadder.

“I think I was… softer,” he said finally. “Not that I’m not still— I mean, I just— I didn’t know anything back then. Not really.”

I stayed quiet. Let him go at his own pace.

“I read a lot of books about people. About feelings. About how to connect. I could tell you how dopamine worked, or what tone of voice increases trust in children, or the average number of seconds people maintain eye contact during a lie.” He paused. “But I didn’t really understand people. Not in the ways that mattered.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I was eager. Not in a social-climber way, just… desperate to be good. To belong. I thought if I was helpful enough, smart enough, maybe they’d keep me around. Maybe I’d stop being the weird kid and start being someone worth keeping.”

I swallowed hard, the soup forgotten in my lap.

“And were you?” I asked softly.

He looked up, just for a second. That same quiet flicker behind his eyes.

“I think they loved me before I figured out how to love myself.”

“I can’t think of any reason as to why anyone wouldn’t love you,” I murmured.

I didn’t mean to say it. Not out loud.

But I did.

And maybe I meant it too much. Maybe it slipped because I was too feverish to hold it in — too tired to lie, even to myself.

And he caught it.

I could see it in the way his eyes lifted — just barely. The shift in his expression, soft and uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.

Still, he didn’t say anything. Not really. Not about the meaning underneath. Not about me.

“I could think of a couple,” he said quietly instead, the words landing heavy, like they didn’t quite belong to this moment — but to all the ones before it. All the versions of him that had convinced himself he wasn’t worth loving.

“Spencer!”

Maddie’s voice rang down the hallway like a siren. There was the unmistakable sound of socked feet scrambling across hardwood, then she appeared in the doorway, arms full of crayons, frustration radiating off her in waves.

“You didn’t come help me name the fish!”

Spencer blinked, as if he’d forgotten he was expected to report for aquatic duty.

“I—uh—I was assisting your mom,” he offered carefully, gesturing toward me like he was pleading his case in court.

Maddie was unmoved. She marched forward, set the crayon box down with dramatic flair, and pointed to the blue fish on the page. “This one doesn’t have a name yet.”

I raised my soup in mock salute. “Your case just got reassigned, Agent Reid.”

He gave me a flat look. “Actually, It’s D—”

“Spencer,” Maddie said again, drawing out every syllable.

He sighed, defeated, and turned to her little self, now sitting in front of us on the couch. “Okay, alright. Let’s see what we’re working with here…”

And just like that, he was gone — absorbed into her world of glitter pens and ocean creatures, mumbling Latin names and fun facts while she nodded like a tiny, glittery professor.

“This one’s yellow,” she declared, pointing to a lumpy fish she'd colored in with bold, crayon-streaked strokes. “She’s a mom.”

Spencer tilted his head, squinting at the page like it was a rare fossil. “Well… she looks a little like a dusky dottyback. Pseudochromis fuscus. Very territorial, very small, very fierce.”

“She’s not small,” Maddie said, affronted.

“Right, sorry. Emotionally large.”

She grinned. “Her name’s Bubbles.”

“An excellent name for a dottyback.”

I shook my head, weakly amused, watching the two of them go back and forth like they did this every day — like he was hers as much as she was mine.

And maybe… maybe he was.

She was falling asleep. I could tell by the way her head lolled slightly against the back of the couch, the soup cooling in her hands, the rhythm of her breathing starting to even out — slower, heavier. She tried to hide it, but her body was giving her away.

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare interrupt the moment.

Maddie sat beside her like a little guardian, legs tucked under her, crayon in hand, determined to finish coloring her fish even though it was half off the page. Her brow furrowed with purpose. It was the same look her mother got when she was concentrating — like the whole world disappeared except for what was right in front of her.

She looked up at me suddenly. “Do fish get tired?”

I blinked. “Well, some do. Sharks have to keep swimming to breathe, but reef fish usually rest in crevices or float in place.”

She nodded like that made perfect sense. “Bubbles is tired. I think she needs a nap too.”

I glanced over at Y/N again. Her head was now tilted to the side, cheek pressed into the cushion. She was fully out. Hair messy, lips parted slightly, the thermos still resting precariously in her lap.

I gently took it from her hands, trying not to wake her.

There was something about seeing her like this — soft, unguarded — that did things to my chest I wasn’t equipped to process. A pang of something that wasn’t just affection. Something closer to awe. Or longing.

I turned back to Maddie, who was now humming her fish song under her breath while she doodled bubbles around Bubbles.

“I think your mom needs a nap too,” I whispered.

She nodded solemnly. “She’s sick. Like, froggy-sick.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling faintly. “Froggy-sick.”

“Can you do bath time?” she asked, suddenly — like it was a sacred question.

I blinked. “I… yes. I can try.”

“Okay,” she said, already hopping down from the couch. “But I get to pick the bath bomb.”

Naturally.

I hesitated, watching her bounce away down the hall, trailing crayon smudges and sparkles like fairy dust. Then, more to myself than anything, I called after her, “How would you feel about bath time with a swimsuit on?”

There was a pause — then a delighted gasp from the hallway.

“That’s so silly!”

“It is,” I called back, smiling despite myself, “but it’s fun, isn’t it?”

Another burst of giggles echoed from the bathroom.

“Okay! I’m picking the pineapple bath bomb!”

God help me.

I glanced back at the couch. Y/N hadn’t stirred. Her breathing was still deep and steady, lashes soft against her cheeks. She looked peaceful — like sleep was the only thing anchoring her to this planet right now.

I rubbed my palms on my jeans and took a breath.

I’ve profiled serial killers. I’ve interviewed terrorists. I’ve been shot. But none of that prepared me for solo toddler bath duty.

When I stepped into the bathroom, it looked like a pastel war zone. Maddie had already dragged in three towels, a pair of swim goggles, and two plastic cups I was fairly certain belonged in the kitchen.

She stood proudly in her polka dot swimsuit, one hand on her hip, the other holding up a neon yellow bath bomb like she was about to conduct a ritual.

“I’m ready.”

I nodded solemnly, as if I were entering negotiations with a very tiny, very confident diplomat. “All right, Professor Maddie. What’s the procedure?”

She grinned. “First, we do the bubble potion. Then the fizzy bomb. Then I swim.”

“…In a bathtub?”

“Yes.”

Of course.

I turned on the water, adjusted the temperature three separate times until she approved it, then carefully poured what I hoped was an appropriate amount of bubble bath mixture under the faucet.

Too late.

The bubbles erupted like a science fair volcano. I reached to turn the faucet off and my sleeve caught the edge of the tub — soaked instantly. Maddie clapped like I’d just pulled off a Broadway performance.

“Good job!” she chirped. “Now the pineapple!”

Before I could stop her, she tossed the bath bomb in like a grenade. Yellow foam exploded across the bubbles, releasing a smell so aggressively fruity it actually made my eyes water.

I stepped back, blinking.

“This is going to stain something.”

“No it won’t,” she said confidently, slipping into the tub with a dramatic splash that doused the front of my shirt.

I looked down at myself. Drenched. Pineapple-scented. Bubbles climbing up my arm like vines.

And for a moment—just a moment—I froze.

Not because of the mess. Not even because my shirt was clinging to me like a second skin.

But because this was the kind of moment I never let myself imagine.

Soft. Stupid. Ordinary.

A tiny child in a bathtub, a too-sweet smell in the air, a puddle soaking through my socks. And somehow, instead of recoiling, instead of panicking like I would’ve even a year ago, I was… here.

Willing.

Steady.

Warm water dripped from my elbow, and all I could think about was how right it felt.

Like maybe I wasn’t the dangerous thing in the room anymore.

Like maybe the electricity in me wasn’t built to burn—it was built to light up small, important things.

I glanced toward the bathroom door, back toward the living room where she was sleeping.

“Your mom’s gonna kill me,” I muttered, wringing out the end of my sleeve.

“No she won’t,” Maddie said breezily, leaning back into the mountain of bubbles like a tiny queen. “Mommy really likes you.”

I blinked.

“What?”

She shrugged, nonchalant. “She talks about you all the time. Even when you’re not here.”

My stomach did something I wasn’t ready to name.

“She says you’re too smart for your own good. And that you fold your laundry like a robot.”

“I—what?”

Maddie nodded, matter-of-fact. “She said you smell like books and lavender. And that she thinks you’re really pretty when you’re talking.”

I felt my brain stutter.

“Okay—hold on—”

“And she always does her hair, and puts on her favorite perfume—the one she doesn’t let me touch when she knows you’re coming,” she added, dunking a foam starfish like it was punctuation. “Even when she’s mad at you.”

I sat down on the closed toilet lid, dazed, bubbles still climbing up my arm.

“She does?” I asked, more to the air than to her.

“Yeah,” Maddie said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She says it makes her feel pretty. I think that’s silly, ‘cause Mommy’s already the prettiest.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. My throat felt tight.

She put on her perfume. Even when she’s mad. Even after all of it — the silence, the hesitation, the almosts that never quite made it into anything real — she still tried.

For me.

And now her daughter was in a bubble bath, casually peeling back the layers I never thought I’d be allowed to see.

“I think she likes your curls the best,” Maddie added thoughtfully, holding up a rubber duck to examine it. “She calls them soft when she thinks I’m not listening.”

My heart thudded once, hard.

“Do you think she’d be mad if I told you that?”

I shook my head slowly, voice soft. “No, sweetheart. I think… I think she’d forgive you.”

She smiled. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that,”

She set the duck on the edge of the tub, then looked up at me with a quiet kind of curiosity — not mischievous, not teasing. Just… open.

“What do you think about Mommy?”

I froze.

No build-up. No warning. Just the question, placed carefully at my feet like it wasn’t a live wire ready to short out everything I thought I had under control.

My first instinct was to deflect — to give her a vague answer, redirect the conversation back to fish or bath bombs or literally anything else.

But she was still watching me, eyes wide and honest, the way only a child’s can be.

So I exhaled, slow and careful. And I told the truth.

“I think she’s the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

Maddie nodded like she already knew that.

“And I think she’s… kind. And funny. And she’s really pretty.”

That part slipped out before I could stop it. It just fell — soft and unguarded, like the truth so often does when I’m not paying close enough attention.

Maddie tilted her head, curious.

“Do you like my mommy?”

My breath caught.

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t teasing. It was just… a question. Simple. Earnest. The kind only a child can ask — with no understanding of how much weight it could possibly carry.

I looked at her, really looked at her, and suddenly I wasn’t sitting on a toilet lid in a pineapple-scented war zone anymore.

I was aware — of everything.

Of how she trusted me.

Of how Y/N trusted me.

Of how terrifying and precious that trust was.

“I do,” I said softly, like I didn’t want the moment to shatter. “I like her very much.”

Maddie beamed. “Good. She needs someone who does.”

I felt something crack wide open in my chest.

“You think so?” I managed.

She nodded. “Sometimes she gets sad in the kitchen when she thinks I’m coloring.”

My voice failed.

“She’s happy when you’re here,” Maddie added, softer this time — like she wasn’t entirely sure if she was supposed to say it out loud. Like maybe it was a secret, but an important one. One I needed to hear.

I looked at her — this tiny, messy, brilliant little mirror of her mother — and I felt everything at once.

The sting of guilt. The heat of hope. The ache of wanting something so badly it makes your hands shake.

I didn’t deserve this. Not the trust. Not the softness. Not them.

But I wanted it.

God, I wanted it.

“Thank you for telling me,” I said quietly.

Maddie nodded again, proud now, like she’d delivered a very important message and the universe was back in order.

“Now can I have the purple towel?” she asked, holding up her arms with a dramatic splash. “The fluffy one. Mommy says it’s the best.”

“Of course.”

My foot hit a slick patch of pineapple-scented bathwater, and before I could correct my balance or even register what was happening, I went down. Hard.

A full-body, soaking-wet, knocked-the-air-out-of-me kind of fall.

The thump echoed off the bathroom tiles like I’d just lost a wrestling match with gravity.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Maddie, blinking at me from the tub: “That was so loud.”

I groaned from the floor, one hand splayed against a soggy bath mat. “Yeah. I noticed.”

She leaned over the edge of the tub, making more water slip over the edge of the tub and land on me, her eyes wide with awe. “Are you dead?”

“Not yet,” I muttered.

And that’s when I heard her.

Y/N’s voice — groggy and hoarse, but alarmed — calling from the living room. “Maddie? Spencer?”

I didn’t even have time to answer before she appeared in the doorway, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, her hair mussed from sleep.

She took one look at the scene — Maddie in her polka dot swimsuit, in the tub surrounded by floating sea creatures, and me sprawled out like a crime scene reenactment on the tile — and blinked.

Twice.

“Do I even want to know?” she croaked.

I lifted the towel I never managed to hand off and gave it a weak wave from the floor. “I tried to provide quality service. The bathroom disagreed.”

Y/N pressed her lips together — trying not to laugh, and failing miserably.

“You’re a disaster.”

“I know,” I said, letting my head fall back against the tile with a dramatic sigh. “But your daughter hasn’t fired me yet, so I’m assuming I still have the job.”

She huffed out a laugh, low and scratchy from sleep, and leaned against the doorframe. Her blanket had started to slip off one shoulder, and she looked utterly exhausted — but there was something in her eyes that stopped me cold.

Softness.

Pride.

A little amusement, yeah — but mostly just that quiet, steady kind of affection I didn’t think I deserved.

And maybe something just shy of hope.

“You really did all this?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded from the floor. “Swimsuit and everything.”

She looked at Maddie, who was now humming to herself and pouring water from one plastic cup to another. Then back at me.

“You okay?”

“Define okay,” I muttered, wincing as I pushed myself upright. “Because I think I bruised something I didn’t know I had.”

She smiled. “I’ll go get you a towel, and maybe some clothes if I can find anything.”

I met her eyes again, and for a split second, I almost said it.

The thing.

The whole truth.

That I’d do this a hundred times over if it meant staying close. If it meant being part of the mess.

But instead, I just stood and held out the towel properly this time.

“Still the best job I’ve ever had,” I said.

And I meant it.

She smiled — soft, quiet, a little tired — and held out her hands for me to take, to help me back up.

I stared at them for a second longer than I should have. Her fingers were small, pale, the edges of her nails chipped from the week, her blanket slipping more from her shoulder with the movement. She looked like someone who didn’t realize she was glowing.

And she was offering me her hands. Like it was nothing. Like it was safe.

I reached for her.

Her grip was gentle, but steady. Warm. She pulled me up with more strength than I expected, and for one breathless moment, we were face to face. Closer than we probably should’ve been. Bubbles still clung to my sleeve. She smelled faintly like tea and sleep and the perfume Maddie definitely wasn’t supposed to know about.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But something passed between us anyway — something quiet and electric.

“I should probably get her dried off,” I said finally, my voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Okay.”

But she didn’t let go right away.

Neither did I.

Her fingers lingered in mine, soft and trembling just slightly — whether from the fever or something else entirely, I couldn’t tell. And maybe I didn’t want to.

We stood there, hands clasped in the middle of a puddle of pineapple-scented chaos, just looking at each other. Not with uncertainty. Not with fear.

Just… knowing.

Then Maddie cleared her throat.

Loudly.

“Hello? I’m still a fish.”

Y/N let out a quiet breath, a half-laugh slipping from her lips, and finally released me. She stepped aside so I could reach for the towel.

“I’m going, princess,” I said, reaching down and scooping it up.

Maddie sat in the tub with her arms outstretched and her goggles pushed up on her forehead like a tiny deep-sea explorer. “I’m a royal fish,” she corrected. “Royal fish get wrapped in the fluffy towel.”

“Of course,” I said, draping it around her carefully and lifting her out of the tub. She immediately curled into my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You smell like pineapple and soup,” she mumbled into my shoulder.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s cause I was multitasking,”

She giggled softly, her arms wrapping around my neck, and I carried her down the hall, one of the towels trailing behind me like a soggy cape.

Y/N was already in Maddie’s room by the time I stepped inside. She moved slowly, but there was that familiar steadiness in her hands — turning back the comforter, reaching for pajamas, soft as ever despite the fever.

“Alright, royal fish. Time to trade the ocean for pajamas.”

Maddie grumbled something about being “mid-transformation,” but let go of me anyway, curling into her mother with a wet sigh.

I stood there for a moment, awkward and dripping, water pooling beneath my feet.

“I’m gonna, uh… run down and grab my go bag,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Get changed before I ruin more of your floors.”

Y/N looked up at me from where she was crouched next to the dresser. “Probably a good idea. You look like a drowned librarian.”

I smirked. “That’s generous.”

She smiled, then turned back to Maddie. “We’ll be here.”

Those words hit harder than she probably meant them to.

I nodded once and stepped into the hall, heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with the fall, the bubbles, or the soup.

The elevator ride felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the way my clothes clung to me — damp, sticky, wrinkled. My collar was cold against my skin, my socks made that awful squish with every shift of weight, and there was a smear of bubble residue dried across my arm that I hadn’t noticed until now.

I looked ridiculous.

I felt ridiculous.

And yet—there was something grounding in it. In the mess. In the way my hands smelled faintly like baby shampoo and alphabet soup, like I’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s life… and hadn’t been kicked out.

By the time I reached the car, I was already shivering. I popped the trunk, grabbed the go bag, and slung it over my shoulder.

The hallway outside their apartment was quiet when I returned. I unlocked the door softly, out of habit. Like the walls would notice if I was too loud.

Inside, the lights were low. The kind of low that meant pajamas had been pulled on and bedtime stories had either just finished or been cut short due to yawns.

I stepped into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and finally let myself exhale.

I looked like hell.

My shirt was clinging to my spine, my sleeves still damp, and I smelled like soup, shampoo, and the faint tang of bubble bath chemicals. There was glitter in my hair. And somehow… that didn’t feel humiliating.

It felt earned.

I peeled off the soaked layers and toweled off with one of the extras from my bag. My skin was flushed pink from the chill, but my chest — my chest was warm. Still carrying the weight of Maddie’s small hands around my neck. The echo of her voice saying her mother liked my curls.

I dressed in clean clothes — soft sweater, slacks. No suit. No badge. Just me.

The me that I recently learned Y/N seems to really like.

I still didn’t know how to feel about it.

There was something disarming about that realization. Not uncomfortable, not painful — just unfamiliar in a way that made my chest feel too tight and my hands too still. Like I’d stepped into a version of myself I wasn’t sure I deserved to be, but one she looked at like he already existed.

And I didn’t know what to do with that kind of grace.

I’d spent so long proving myself useful. Useful was safe. Useful didn’t require softness. It didn’t require being liked — especially not for things I hadn’t curated or controlled.

But then there was her.

With her tired eyes and ridiculous fish songs and the way she looked at me in the hallway, wet and dripping and ridiculous, like I was still worth something.

And I didn’t know how to hold that. Not yet.

So I just kept breathing.

Ran a hand through my damp curls. Checked for lingering glitter.

Opened the door quietly, barefoot now, and stepped into the quiet warmth of the apartment — soft lights, soft air.

I head back to Maddie’s room, where Y/n was tucking her in

I padded down the hallway, careful not to let the floorboards creak too loudly, and stopped just outside Maddie’s door.

Y/N was inside, her back to me, bent gently over the edge of the bed.

She was tucking the blanket beneath Maddie’s chin with the kind of softness people usually reserve for things that might break. Maddie was already half-asleep, eyes fluttering, her fingers tangled in the collar of her pajamas and one hand loosely gripping the tail of her favorite stuffed dolphin.

Y/N smoothed her hair back, brushing a kiss to her forehead before whispering something I couldn’t quite hear.

She was still wrapped in her blanket, hair a little frizzy from rest, voice hoarse from being sick — and I couldn’t stop looking at her.

She turned then, sensing me. Her eyes met mine, a little surprised but not startled. Like she already knew I’d be there.

“You look beautiful,” I murmured.

I didn’t know where it came from. Sure, I was always thinking that about her — constantly, obsessively, in ways that made my brain short-circuit — but I never had the guts to say it.

Not until now.

She blinked, the faintest flicker of something uncertain passing over her features. “You sure about that?” she rasped, voice still scratchy from the cold. “I thought you said I looked like a Victorian ghost.”

“A beautiful Victorian ghost,” I corrected instantly, before my brain could talk me out of it.

Her lips parted — halfway between a smile and disbelief — and then she shook her head, just barely, the corners of her mouth tugging upward anyway.

“Do I look beautiful?” Maddie’s soft voice came from under the covers.

I walked further into the room, standing next to Y/N so I could see the little princess — drowsy, her curls messy and cheeks flushed, barely holding on to being awake.

“You always look beautiful, Princess,” I said gently.

Her eyes blinked slowly, like the compliment settled into her bones. “Even when I’m wrinkly like a raisin?”

I smiled. “Especially then.”

I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Mads.”

She murmured something soft — maybe a thank you, maybe just a sleepy sigh — and let her dolphin slip from her arms to the pillow beside her.

Y/N reached across her gently to switch on the nightlight — a soft, warm glow that scattered star shapes across the ceiling and walls in slow, quiet rotation. It filled the room with a kind of magic I hadn’t realized I’d been missing until now. A galaxy, just for her.

We stood there for a moment, both of us watching her.

Maddie shifted slightly, rolled onto her side, and was gone — fully surrendered to sleep, her little fingers curled against her cheek like she was dreaming of something safe.

Y/N tugged her blanket up just a little higher, then backed away slowly, and I followed her, careful not to let the door creak when we pulled it almost shut.

The living room felt dim and still when we returned. The kind of still that made you whisper even if you didn’t have to.

She dropped onto the couch, letting her blanket gather around her knees, and I sat down beside her — not too close, but not far either.

“You really think I’m beautiful?” she asked after a beat, her voice low — not teasing, not coy. Just… genuine.

I glanced over at her. Her blanket had slipped again, exposing one bare shoulder, and her hair was a little wild from the day. Her eyes were tired but steady, searching mine like she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer — or maybe like she already knew it, and just wanted to hear me say it.

“Yeah…” I said softly, surprised by how easy it came out. “I do.”

She looked at me for a long second. Like she was trying to figure out if I meant it — if this was one of those flippant things people say when they’re trying to be kind.

But I wasn’t trying to be kind. I was just telling the truth.

I leaned in a little, voice quieter now. Not for secrecy — but because anything louder might have broken the moment.

“That day in the library,” I said, “when you found Maddie with me… I swear I thought I saw an angel.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“And well,” I went on, heart pounding now, “it was you.”

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look away either.

Just stared at me like the air had gone still. Like the words hit some fragile place in her that no one had touched in a long time.

I started to worry I’d said too much — made it awkward, crossed a line, ruined something—but then she smiled.

Soft. Shy. Almost sad.

“Spencer…” she breathed, like my name was a question and an answer all at once.

I leaned in, slowly. My body was moving on its own, and for once, I didn’t want to stop it. For once, the fear wasn’t louder than the want.

But she stopped me.

A hand gently pressed to my chest. Not pushing me away — just holding me in place.

“Honey,” she whispered. Honey.

She called me honey.

“I’m sick… I don’t want to get you sick, plus, I know how you are about germs.”

Her voice was raspy. Honest. Not embarrassed — just trying to protect me. Even now.

I paused, breathing shallow and close, eyes on hers. I could feel the heat of her hand through my sweater. The heat of her everywhere.

“I don’t care,” I said, barely above a whisper.

She smiled again — soft, pained — and shook her head just slightly. “You will tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, exhaled slowly, and leaned my forehead against hers instead. Just that.

No kiss.

No crossing the line.

Just the contact.

Her breath caught. I felt it.

And for a moment, we stayed like that. In the space between almost and not yet. Wrapped in the quiet promise of something we both wanted, but neither of us would rush.

Not yet.

Previous Chapter |

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[trashyyduckling]

The Elevator Incident

Summary: After stuck in an elevator and teased relentlessly by Morgan, Spencer seek support from his favorite person, you. a/n: based on the S3E3 Criminal Minds my first ever using "You" instead of "I", no use of y/n!

Ding!

The BAU elevator dings as Spencer, Morgan and Hotch walk out of it.

Derek and Spencer argued about something, their voices overlapping while Hotch walked straight to his office.

“You literally squeal like a chick! Screaming HOtch!” Derek went on and on while Spencer denies everything

“No, it wasn't a squeal! My voice heightened because of the lack of oxygen, and I didn’t scream for Hotch, you are!” Spencer's hands moved frantically as likely to support his statement. “Reid, admit it, you're scared and you called mom!” “Oh I remember how you shut your eyes off and prayed, Morgan!" “And you rambled about emergency stuff like I don't know about it!” “You can't even find the emergency button!” “Reid, the building is hundred years old! The emergency button might be screaming!”

“There are six elevator related deaths per year, not to mention 10.000 injuries that require hospitalization!” 

“Whoa boys…what is this? What happened?” You interrupt their arguments Derek turned around and smile, ready to go again and teased the boy genius. “Hey, Pretty Girl. Look at your boyfriend here, he was scared to death that the elevator is going to crash!” “No, I didn’t, don't listen to him, he's too traumatized about the event, he doesn't even remember clearly” Spencer explained with wide eyes trying to be assured “Spencer you're okay?” You cut with genuine worry. “Yes I'm fine, Honey”, His voice softened then he glared at Morgan.

“Oh I remember you screaming for Hotch, Pretty Boy.” Derek teased relentlessly, still argue about every statement from spencer “No—” Spencer tried to say something, but you were faster. “Okay…okay.. Alright, I'm glad both of you were alright, we have a case. We should be focused on that, and I think I'll head to the briefing room to get an update from Hotch, you guys are coming or not?” You rolled your eyes and were not waiting to walk away from them to the briefing room. The teams start to continue working the profile with Morgan and Reid still exchanging glare. The day went on until you got dismissed to go home.

At home You and Spencer arrived at your shared house. The place is full of everything screaming both of your personality, His books are everywhere and your paintings scattered on the walls. Both of you entered the house quietly not wanting to make unnecessary noise. Coats were discarded and hung up, shoes neatly put on the rack, and soft feet shuffled against the rug. Spencer dropped himself on the couch and you followed on his side. Both exhaled the tiring day, trying to get relaxed before getting ready to bed. “Are you hungry?” Spencer asks, head turning on you. “Not really, I’m just soooo tired, Spence”. You yawned and rested your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes. “Yeah, me too, it was a pretty long day for us. But we always have long days and all, huh”. Spencer agrees with a little laugh on his voice. “Can you help me get up, Spence?” You pouted looking slightly up to his face, cheek still glued to his side. “Of course, Sweetheart. Come on get ourselves ready for bed”. Spencer smiles and slowly stands up, holding your hands and pulling you up to stand. Now you were standing up face to face, and you grinned. “Hi”. 

He smiles, looking goofy with his glasses a little tilted down his nose. “Hi, should we go and brush our teeth?” His hands are still on yours, thumb brushing, soothing on your skin. “You would brush my teeth for me?” You giggled, finding the question funny. “I would do anything for you,” Spencer replied, with a sheepish smile and huff laugh.

Then you both walk upstairs, get changed, brush your teeth, wash your face side to side, exhausted but in love.  You were standing in front of the mirror, applying skincare when Spencer came up from behind and put his arm around your waist, hugging you from behind. He left kisses on your shoulder, looking at you through the mirror then he said,

“I almost died today, you know..” he said with pout.

You tilt your head to see him and smirk, "I thought Morgan was telling bullshit?”

“Yeah, I mean, No, I really was in danger” He said, nodding on your shoulder, trying to convince you to believe him.

His face frowned, lifted his head from your shoulder, stood up straight while still holding you as he started to ramble.

“The elevator just stopped, started shaking, and none of the buttons worked! Even if the building is hundred years old, the most simple emergency system should have been installed. The emergency elevator system was invented in the 1850s, and in the early 20th century it was already an established system.  Meanwhile the communication system started with something simple like an alarm or bell which the elevator has, but I don't understand why couldn’t Morgan make the building manager get there instead we both have the need to shout for help to Hotch, which was weird that he didn't take the elevator. Wait, do you think Hotch knew about the elevator?” He looked at you, with a serious face, and the most unserious question.

You rolled your eyes, “Yes, Baby. I think Hotch knew that it's ridiculous to take the elevator to the third floor, and he clearly knew you and Morgan are ridiculous." You scoff, still applying skincare, while spencer pouts at your answer.

He tightened his hold and put his head back on your shoulder. “You almost lost me. Can you show some empathy?” And now he is clearly overreacting.

You sigh, put the skincare down and turn to face him. “Im…really glad that you're okay” You smile fondly, looking at him, hands on his shoulder. “I never dare myself to think about losing you, and it's better to stay that way, because you wouldn't go anywhere, right?” Spencer smiles and melts as he hears your words, and feels your hands cupping his face with a soothing touch.

“I wouldn't want to be anywhere else” His face softened, and eyes glassy, he's such a softie.

“And…you should promise to never be ridiculously stupid about a clearly suspicious building, okay?” You tapped his cheek twice, breaking the romantic atmosphere.

Pulling away of his hold and grumbling about how stupid it was to be trapped in a clearly mishap elevator in an old building.

You both walked back to the bedroom while Spencer continued to pout and defend himself saying it wasn't that stupid, and the elevator was efficient. He would never win the argument.

[trashyyduckling]

this is soo beautiful and I'm screaming 🤯

𝜗𝜚 Notes In The Margin.

Spencer Reid x Lawyer!reader

main masterlist

Summary: If you counted all the times you've had to work with Dr. Reid, you'd lose your mind. You never expected this time to be different, nor did you expect him to drive you crazy in a good way thanks to books and bad habits.

Words: 6,5k (It got out of hand, sorry).

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of various legal terms and sexism (not explicitly mentioned but implied). reader is VERY avoidant and a little mean at first, but love her anyway. please forget the canon of the series and the reality of the justice system in your country because it is probably not the same as in mine, and i mix a little bit of everything here. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Name a fanfic more self-insert than this one (impossible level).

I. Brain

The courthouse was colder than usual that morning, not a dramatic cold, not something that warranted a shiver or a complaint. It was the other kind. The slow kind. The institutional kind that filtered in like judgment itself: unnoticed at first, then seeping under your collar, curling around the seams of your blazer like smoke. It crawled down your back in careful spirals, not enough to make you flinch, just enough to remind you this place was not built to comfort. It was the kind of cold that clung, quiet and bureaucratic, designed to numb.

The fluorescent lights above cast a sterile, humming glow, flickering once every few seconds in that way no one ever fixed. The walls were that government-issue beige that had been chosen by someone who hated color or feeling. A clock ticked somewhere behind you, precise and unyielding, and the smell of legal pads and yesterday’s coffee hung faintly in the air like dust no one could quite clean.

You didn’t have time to be cold.

Or tired.

Or anything else that might dull your edge, crack the veneer you wore like armor.

Your coffee, the third of the day and fifth attempt to restart your nervous system, had died sometime between the parking lot and your last voicemail. A voicemail you didn’t have time to return. You’d left the travel mug behind in the backseat during the chaos of parallel parking, wedged tight between a double-parked delivery van and a meter maid with no patience for witness lists or your flashing badge. What remained in the cup was lukewarm sludge, burnt and bitter, but you drank it anyway.

That was the job. That was life. You learned early: ideal conditions are for people with less to prove. You took what you were given, and you kept moving.

This was your third deposition in as many days. Your calendar was a battlefield of overlapping red ink, blocked out hours, and hastily scribbled times stacked on top of each other like broken bones. Your last witness, a man with slicked hair and a smug tie, had interrupted you twice to correct your pronunciation of restitution. As if you hadn’t been speaking the word in courtrooms longer than he’d been wearing cologne. You hadn’t slept more than five hours since Tuesday. Your blood was running on borrowed espresso and something meaner, something forged in exhaustion and expectation and the impossible need to never, ever crack.

Today, it was Arthur Kellerman. Mid-forties. Crisp jawline. Watch that cost more than your first car. His suit fit too well. His posture slouched just enough to communicate he didn’t need this. The type who thought charm could be weaponized and that money could make testimony bend. The courtroom equivalent of a wolf in a silk tie. His cologne, cedarwood with a chemical undertone, something vaguely oceanic and expensive, hung in the air like smugness made visible.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was fine. You didn’t need his eyes. You’d burn him alive with your voice instead.

You adjusted your blazer, the navy one with the padded shoulders and the cinched waist that made you feel ten feet tall on even your smallest days, and clicked your pen against the legal pad. The paper under your fingers was already full of notes, underlines, and arrows pointing like accusations.

“Mr. Kellerman,” you said, your voice steady, crisp enough to slice. “You stated, under oath, that you arrived at the warehouse at approximately 9:15 p.m. on the night of June 12th.”

He hesitated. Just long enough to confirm he was lying.

“Y-Yes,” he said, like he wasn’t sure which answer would keep him safe.

You didn’t blink. You slid the photograph across the table with a cool sort of grace. A still from the warehouse security camera, timestamped in red digits so bright they practically bled.

“This footage,” you said, tilting your head, “shows your car pulling into the lot at 10:07 p.m.” Your voice didn’t raise. Didn’t sneer. Just asked. Crisp as broken glass. “Would you like to amend your statement?”

You didn’t smile. Smiling, in rooms like this, was weakness. It was an open door. A welcome mat. It told men like Kellerman there was still room to negotiate. That was not the story you were telling today.

He blinked, faltered. His hand twitched toward his collar.

“I—I might’ve been off by a few minutes…”

And then.

He spoke.

“That kind of inconsistency is actually common,” came a voice from the far end of the table. Calm. Cerebral. Thoughtful in that infuriatingly gentle way. “High-stress situations impair the prefrontal cortex. It’s called weapon focus effect. Especially in environments with perceived danger.”

Your entire body locked.

Not visibly, never visibly. You were too well-trained for that. But internally, your spine straightened further, and your jaw tightened. Your hand relaxed slightly, only so you wouldn’t snap the pen in half. Because you knew that voice. You’d always know that voice. You could have picked it out from the white noise of a packed hearing or a midnight press conference with three hours of sleep and a broken heel.

Dr. Spencer Reid.

Agent. Neuroscience savant. Statistical oracle.

Bureau-appointed expert and living encyclopedia with a PhD behind every syllable.

You’d endured enough joint investigations with him over the past two years to map his vocal patterns like a chart. The way he emphasized soft consonants. The way his mouth sped up when he got excited, like his thoughts might outrun his breath. The way his tone stayed civil even when you were unraveling from the inside out.

He wasn’t on every case. Just the messy ones. The ones that needed translation from trauma to courtroom. Where the law bent, and psychology had to catch what spilled.

The first time you met him, he corrected your Latin citation in front of the judge. You hadn’t forgiven him since.

Now, you turned your head slowly. Deliberately.

He sat near the corner of the room, fingers laced loosely over his folder, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His curls were falling into his eyes again. Of course they were.

He looked up.

And met your gaze like it didn’t burn.

“I wasn’t aware we were accepting outside commentary during a live deposition,” you said, your tone like ice hitting marble.

He blinked, not in offense, just like he’d been caught off guard. “I was only trying to clarify.”

Clarify.

He always clarified.

Unprompted facts. Peer-reviewed observations. Brain chemistry breakdowns that no one asked for, layered over your carefully structured argument like helpful seasoning.

And the worst part? He didn’t even sound smug when he did it.

He sounded sincere. Thoughtful. Like he really thought he was helping.

You crossed your arms. Slowly.

“You’ve clarified three times this week,” you said, crossing your arms. “Once during the Miranda reading. Twice during sidebar. And now, during sworn testimony.”

Spencer’s mouth opened, just slightly. You could see the counterargument forming in real time.

“But—”

“Dr. Reid.”

You leaned in. Quiet. Controlled.

“Unless the FBI is expanding into courtroom stand-up,” you said, voice like ice over steel, “I’d suggest you save your lecture on the prefrontal cortex for your next conference keynote.”

A long, frozen beat.

Even the court reporter looked up.

The judge cleared his throat. Dry. Disapproving. “Counsel. Agent Reid. We’ll break for lunch. Forty-five minutes.”

Kellerman slumped like a man who’d just narrowly avoided public execution.

The court reporter stopped typing.

You didn’t acknowledge either of them.

You snapped your folder shut, not loud, but loud enough.

And then you stood.

Straight-backed. Blazer immaculate. Pulse hammering at your throat like a gavel.

You didn’t wait for protocol. You didn’t wait for Reid. You didn’t say a word.

You turned.

And walked out.

Your heels clicked down the hallway like gunshots, so clean. Controlled. Final.

And somewhere behind you, Spencer Reid watched you leave with that same unreadable look he always wore when he knew he’d pushed too far without knowing why.

˙✧˖° 🧠 ⋆｡ ˚

The hallway was colder than the courtroom you’d just left, not by degrees, but by kind. A different species of chill. This cold didn’t settle in your bones or brush along the exposed skin of your neck. No, this one curled deep into your throat, quiet and suffocating, like swallowed regret. It echoed less, too. Gone was the rustle of legal paper, the droning cadence of judicial fatigue, and the performative clack of someone making a point with their shoes. Out here, everything was hushed. Dim. It was like the courthouse itself was exhaling after holding its breath too long.

You leaned back against the wall, cool plaster against your spine, and let your eyes fall closed for just a second. Not to rest. You weren’t that lucky. Just to stop seeing. Stop calculating. Stop unraveling.

Your jaw ached, an old, familiar throb from clenching too long. Your shoulders were locked in their usual high-and-tight posture, a muscle memory of vigilance you couldn’t seem to break. You could still hear the deposition ringing in your ears, every clipped syllable bouncing back like ricocheted bullets. And beneath it all: exhaustion. A deep, relentless kind. Not from lack of sleep, though there was that too. But from holding yourself together, minute after minute, room after room, as if your entire existence depended on staying taut as piano wire.

God, you were so tired.

Tired of the constant proving. The impossible expectation that every room you entered came with a demand: be sharper. Be faster. Be unshakeable. Don’t falter. Don’t sweat. Don’t break. Be iron in a skirt suit. Be both the sword and the scalpel. Make them believe. Every word, every glance, had to be calibrated, controlled. There was no space for mess. No margin for softness.

And then there was him.

Dr. Spencer Reid.

The only person in that room who didn’t see the courtroom as a battleground, but as a map. A series of logic puzzles to solve. Perfectly polite. Painfully brilliant. Helpful in that way that felt like someone handing you a scalpel when you were already bleeding out. As if facts and clinical precision could suture over everything raw.

Why did he get to sound like that? So calm. So maddeningly collected. His voice was always soft, even when he was interrupting you. Especially then. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like he thought his interjection was a gift. Just a helpful observation. A benign clarification. Not the undermining it felt like. Not the quiet, surgical incision he made in the middle of your arguments.

You pressed the back of your head harder into the wall. Let the pain at the base of your skull remind you where your body was. If he were smug, this would be easier. If he were arrogant or dismissive or even a little bit cruel, you could box him up and shelve him with the others. The men who interrupted you mid-sentence just to restate what you’d already said. The ones who smirked when they corrected your pronunciation or looked over your shoulder at your notes like you couldn’t be trusted to cite precedent on your own.

But Spencer wasn’t like that.

And that was the worst part.

He brought his own pens to depositions. Quiet colors. Fine-tipped. Labeled. He listened when people spoke, not the kind of listening that waits to speak, but the kind that digests. He held doors open but never lingered for credit. He drank chamomile tea, wore mismatched socks, and sometimes whispered to himself when he thought no one was listening. He was gentle. Sincere. Thoughtful. And somehow, still, utterly, unknowingly, and infuriatingly.

You didn’t know if he realized how condescending he sounded when he stepped into your testimony like a detour sign. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe that was what made it worse. Because if he did know, if he was aware, it meant he saw your work, your argument, and your voice as something that needed correction. But if he didn’t know? Then he wasn’t even trying to take power away from you, he just didn’t see that it was power to begin with.

And still. You couldn’t bring yourself to hate him.

You were still standing there, arms folded across your chest like armor, head tilted back like it might hold the ceiling up, when the heavy door creaked open behind you. You didn’t have to turn. You knew the rhythm of his silence by now. The way his presence entered a space without shoving. The way he approached deliberately, cautiously, as if worried he might set off a trap.

His footsteps were soft. Rubber soles on tile. Slow and measured, like he’d practiced them. Or like he’d rehearsed what he wanted to say in his head five times already and still wasn’t sure how to start.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You waited.

And, as always, he filled the silence.

“You’re good,” he said.

The words were simple, but his voice wasn’t. It carried that same quiet depth, that undiluted sincerity that he wore like a second skin. Like the truth was something he didn’t know how to dilute. His voice was gentler out here, without the echoes of courtroom formality to scaffold it. You could tell he meant it. Not as flattery. Not as an apology.

Just…as truth.

“At your job,” he added after a beat, a little softer. “You’re really good. I just thought…maybe the cognitive factors could help. Sometimes people lie because they’re scared. Or confused. Or they don’t know what the truth means anymore.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t breathe.

Just clenched your jaw harder and kept your eyes shut against the feeling crawling up your throat. Behind your ribs, something buzzed. Not anger. Not quite.

Just too much.

He shifted closer, close enough that you could smell the quiet earthiness of his soap: mint, pine, and something almost floral beneath it. Not cologne. Just him. Clean and careful. The scent of someone who thinks too much and speaks too softly and has no idea how much space he takes up in a room just by being kind.

The light above flickered once, then settled.

It cast him in soft gold and worn grey, warm where it struck the curve of his cheekbone, cool where it caught the shadow beneath his jaw. His stubble was uneven. A few days old. His curls had fallen forward again, too stubborn to tame. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired you could fix with sleep. The kind that lived in the lines around your eyes.

You hated that you noticed.

Hated even more that part of you wondered if he’d noticed you.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” you said, sharp and sudden, your voice clipped as a snapped thread. Your eyes stayed closed. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He froze.

There was a pause. The kind of pause that stretched so long, you felt the weight of it in your lungs.

And then, quietly—

“…Okay.”

That one word. Gentle. Respectful. A retreat without ego.

You finally opened your eyes. Turned just slightly. Just enough to see him without surrendering your stance.

He was looking at you the way he looked at evidence. Not to poke holes. Not to disprove. But to understand. To study what he might’ve missed. His expression didn’t ask for forgiveness. It didn’t carry shame or pride. It just…was. Still. Open. Watching.

“I’ll let you have your lunch break in peace,” he said softly, and there was something crooked about the way he nodded, like he wasn’t sure whether to bow out or just disappear. “I’m…sorry.”

He turned. Didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t expect a reprieve. Just walked away, as quiet as he’d arrived.

You didn’t thank him.

Didn’t stop him.

But you watched.

Watched the way he moved: shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller, curls swaying gently with each step, one hand brushing through his hair halfway down the hall like a nervous tic he couldn’t unlearn. You watched him reach the stairwell, pause, not dramatically, not with hope, just long enough to make you wonder if he was waiting.

He didn’t look back.

Neither did you.

Not then.

But later, when your pulse had stopped pounding and the bitterness in your throat had faded, you’d think about the way he’d looked at you.

Like he saw you.

Not the sharp edges. Not the armor.

You.

And that would be worse than everything else.

II. Heart

You arrived early the next morning.

Earlier than necessary.

You told yourself it was to get ahead on your caseload, catch up on briefs, reorganize exhibits, and maybe finally respond to that backlog of unread emails you kept swiping away like flies. You told yourself it had nothing to do with the hallway yesterday. Nothing to do with the way Spencer Reid had looked at you, not like a man placating a difficult colleague, but like someone listening with the kind of stillness that made you feel…seen.

You didn’t believe yourself.

Still, you wore your armor like usual: structured blazer, dark lipstick, not a hair out of place. Routine was power. If you looked impenetrable, they’d believe it.

The courthouse was hushed at this hour, suspended in a breath not yet exhaled. The echo of your heels against polished marble was softer, lonelier. The early light clawed its way through the dust-caked windows, laying crooked shadows across the tiled hallway like spilled ink. You loved it best like this, before the voices and verdicts, before the air turned to steel and sharpened your spine. Before anyone expected anything of you.

Your office door creaked open with its usual resistance, the latch sticking just enough to remind you it hadn’t been repaired despite three maintenance requests. You juggled your keys, your bag, and your briefcase.

Then stopped.

Your hand hovered at the light switch.

There, on your desk, was a cup of coffee.

Small. Simple. White cup. Brown paper sleeve. No logo. No note.

Just there.

Waiting.

Still faintly steaming in the muted gold light.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

No one else was in the building yet. Maybe a clerk or two, buried in filing rooms. But not anyone who would do this. No one who knew you that well. Not your order. Not your timing.

Not your walls.

Your heart picked up its pace, faint but real. You approached like it might detonate, each step cautious, calculated. Your fingers hovered above the lid before touching it, like testing the heat from a flame.

The scent was sharp. Familiar.

Black. No sugar. No cream.

Exactly how you drank it. Not because you liked it, necessarily, but because it kept you alert. Because you liked the bite. Because it never let you forget this job wasn’t built for softness.

Your hand curled around the sleeve.

Still warm.

Still intimate in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for a paper cup.

Your name wasn’t written on it, but you didn’t need one. There were only a few people who knew your coffee order, and none of them gave a damn about you before 9 a.m.

None of them were Spencer Reid.

You stared at it for longer than you meant to. Let it sit heavy in your hand like an unsent letter. Like a quiet rebellion.

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a retreat.

It was…a gesture.

Soft. Subtle. A truce without terms.

You took a sip.

Close your eyes.

Goddammit. It was perfect.

˙✧˖° 🫀 ⋆｡ ˚

The next morning, it was a book.

Not just any book, a first-edition casebook from the ‘70s. Trial Tactics and the Art of Persuasion. Brown leather cover, spine faded to honey gold, the edges of the pages feathered with time. You froze the second you saw it.

It sat square in the center of your desk like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting.

You knew the title. You’d mentioned it once, during a chaotic prep session three days ago. Between slamming folders and barking at your associate to stop printing double-sided, you’d made a passing joke about how your old professor swore by it, claiming it was a lost art, something too few people in court understood anymore. You hadn’t seen a copy in years.

And now…there it was.

You opened the cover with something close to reverence. Dust stirred faintly from the pages. It smelled like old paper and law libraries and your own youth, too many sleepless nights spent squinting at footnotes under flickering desk lamps, highlighters worn to nubs.

Inside the front cover, a post-it:

“Thought you’d appreciate the footnotes. —S.R.”

You sat.

Slowly.

Turned the first page.

And found his handwriting in the margins.

Red ink, neat, precise, impossibly small. Reid’s brain committed to paper in the form of corrections, connections, questions, and musings. Not arrogant. Not overwriting. Engaging.

He’d treated the book like a conversation with you.

Page 64: a circled paragraph on cross-examination tone. In the margin, in sharp script:

“Reminds me of your Simmons deposition. Still brilliant.”

Still.

Still.

As if it had lingered in him.

Your breath caught, something in your chest tightening with that word. You smoothed your palm over the page, as if that might steady the way your pulse was beginning to trip.

You didn’t know whether to scream or blush.

Instead, you closed the book, rested your hands on it, and stared at the desk.

This wasn’t casual.

This wasn’t playful.

This was Spencer Reid mapping the inside of your brain and leaving flowers there.

˙✧˖° 🫀 ⋆｡ ˚

The third day, he crossed a line.

Because on the third day, you found your law school thesis on your desk.

Not referenced. Not scanned. Not excerpted.

Printed. Bound. Annotated.

Your breath left you in a sudden, violent gust. You stumbled back a half-step, like it had teeth.

The cover sheet was familiar, painful. Times New Roman, double-spaced, your name in all caps, bolded and centered like it mattered. The title: “Coercion, Capacity, and the Elasticity of Consent.”

You hadn’t touched it in years. You weren’t even sure you’d saved the final draft. That thesis had come out of the ugliest stretch of your academic life: two ER visits, three caffeine overdoses, and a panic attack in the middle of your Evidence final. It was angry. Raw. Idealistic in a way you’d forced yourself to forget.

But now, here it was.

And inside?

His pencil marks.

Soft. Graphite-gray. In the corners, in the margins. No corrections, just notes. Tracing your thoughts. Offering parallels. Asking questions. Engaging you in the one place you’d never expect him to look.

On the title page, in the top corner, he’d written:

“You were right. About all of it. Especially the part about coercion and consent. —S.R.”

You sat hard.

Then stood again.

Then stared.

This wasn’t thoughtful.

This wasn’t charming.

This was intimate in a way that left you bare.

Because it meant he’d gone digging.

Not just into your past, but into your mind. Into the version of yourself you’d buried with graduation robes and redacted ambition. The version who once believed she could change how justice was understood. Who’d written in fury and fear, with trembling hands, and no backup plan.

And Spencer had read it.

Seen it.

Seen you.

Your throat tightened.

This wasn’t coffee.

This wasn’t kindness.

This was a mirror, held steady in his soft, infuriating hands, and you didn’t want to see your reflection there.

You shoved the chair back hard enough to scrape tile.

Stormed out without grabbing your bag.

Didn’t stop until the elevator doors swallowed you whole.

And as the floor numbers ticked up past your blurred reflection in the chrome, you pressed your fingers against your temple and cursed the part of yourself that had wanted another cup of coffee that morning.

Because this wasn’t admiration anymore.

This was the start of something messy.

And you weren’t sure you could survive it.

˙✧˖° 🫀 ⋆｡ ˚

Finally, you found him in the records office.

Of all places.

It was tucked into the back corner of the courthouse basement, where old case files went to gather dust and be forgotten. The air was dry with old paper and recycled air, humming faintly from the overhead vent. The lights flickered every few seconds, like even they didn’t want to be here.

And there he was.

His tall frame folded over a stack of manila folders, elbows on a table too small for his height. His tie was slightly askew, and his glasses had slipped halfway down his nose. His curls were a mess. His lips moved soundlessly as he skimmed through each file with rapid, deliberate flicks, like he was dealing cards. His fingers were ink-stained and methodical. He was muttering to himself.

Like he always did.

And for a moment, just a breath, you stood frozen in the doorway, arms limp at your sides, watching him. Something about it felt unfair. That he could look like that. Unbothered. Brilliant. Entirely in his element while you were barely keeping your ribs from cracking open.

Then—

“Reid.”

Your voice hit the room like a slap.

He looked up fast, startled. His hands stilled. The corner of one folder crumpled slightly under his palm.

Then: a flicker of something in his eyes. Something hopeful. His mouth curved, almost shy.

“Oh, hi…did you get the thesis? I found it in—”

“I’m not a charity case.”

The words came out sharper than you meant. Sharp enough to echo off the file cabinets.

He blinked.

You stepped inside, the air between you too thick to breathe.

“Or a puzzle,” you went on. “Or a project for you to solve with coffee and books and fucking nostalgia.”

He stood up slowly. Not defensive. Just deliberate. Careful. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to.” You folded your arms tight, knuckles white. “Do you think I don’t see what this is? The coffee? The thesis? The footnotes? You’re dissecting me like one of your case studies. Like you’re trying to understand why I bark and snap instead of saying thank you.”

“I’m not dissecting you.”

“I don’t need your pity, okay?” You snapped. “I don’t need your little post-its. I don’t need to be figured out.”

Something in you trembled. You hated how close to the surface it was. How raw. How unguarded.

He placed the file down. Gently. Like it might break.

His face didn’t change. Not angry. Not upset. Just…still.

And then, softly, like it had taken him hours to find the right version of the truth—

“I didn’t bring you things because I thought you needed them.”

You crossed your arms tighter, like it might shield your chest from what was coming.

“Then why?”

He looked at you fully.

No blinking.

No searching.

Just seeing.

And said, in that voice, so quiet, low, and impossibly sincere:

“Because I admire you. Deeply. And I don’t know how to say that without sounding like a footnote in your memoir.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The words sat in your chest like something sacred and dangerous all at once. Like he’d just handed you a live wire and trusted you not to flinch.

You felt something shift.

Inside you. Around you. In the air itself.

And that terrified you.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You turned.

And walked out.

Your heels echoed down the hallway like an afterthought.

You didn’t look back.

But god, you wanted to.

III. Brain vs. Heart

You didn’t see him for two days.

Not in the hallway. Not in the archives. Not even in the courtroom, though you were certain he was still somewhere in the building, likely tucked into a back corner of a hearing room three floors down, seated with patience beside a junior prosecutor who probably welcomed his interruptions like divine intervention rather than tactical interference.

You told yourself it was better this way. Easier, cleaner.

That the absence gave you room to think. But the truth was, the silence did nothing but echo, widening like a hallway without end, filling itself with the phantom imprint of his voice. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d memorized it until it started replaying in your head: soft consonants, thoughtful pauses, the way he always sounded like he was working through something even when he was standing still. The echo carried weight now. Not the kind that bruised, but the kind that lingered, like pressure behind the eyes just before tears.

It wasn’t the words that had haunted you, not exactly. It was the way he’d said them, without armor, without agenda. Just…honest. The kind of honesty that didn’t demand a response. Which, of course, made it harder to give one.

Because you hadn’t known how to hold what he offered. Not then. So you did the only thing you knew how to do. You ran.

Now, you sat alone in your office, long past the hour when even the workaholics had packed up and retreated into the blur of streetlights and subway noise. The courthouse had gone still around you, suspended in that hush unique to government buildings after dark, quiet, but never silent. There was always a hum, a flicker, a distant creak. Somewhere far off, a copier whined in protest. The hallway fluorescents buzzed intermittently, and the weak glow of your desk lamp cut a halo of gold over the scattered papers, illuminating the faint oil-smudge of your fingerprint on the corner of your laptop screen. Outside the window, the city was no longer a landscape, just a vague reflection ghosted across the glass, your own face layered over it like a watermark. The air was dry and institutional. Cold in the way linoleum is cold. The kind of cold that didn’t reach your bones but made its home instead in your breath.

The book sat on your lap, heavy, square, and quiet. Not a file. Not a deposition. Something older. Warmer. Wiser. Criminal Psychopathology: Case Studies and Clinical Approaches. Third edition. Its forest-green cover was faded unevenly, softened at the edges with time and fingers and lives. The spine cracked faintly when you opened it, like a door you weren’t sure you had permission to walk through. You ran your palm over the worn cloth surface as if it could tell you its story, who had held it, where it had lived, and what shelves it had occupied in what forgotten corners of which library.

The pages smelled like paper and memory: that dry, fibrous scent that always made you think of exam nights and overhead lamps and dreams you no longer admitted out loud. You had found the book after two hours of insomnia and obsessive keyword searches, your cursor blinking like a heartbeat in the middle of the night. You remembered how he’d mentioned it—only once, and only barely—while you were both stuck in that godforsaken elevator with the flickering light and no signal. His tone had been offhand, casual, like he didn’t expect you to care.

“I used to check it out when I was sixteen,” he’d said, flipping a pen between his fingers, eyes watching the numbers flicker on the panel. “I never bought a copy. I guess I just never got around to it.”

You’d said nothing in response. Just logged the information somewhere behind your ribs, like cataloging a data point.

You hadn’t expected to remember it. But you had.

Now, you traced the inside cover with your finger, feeling the softness of time where the binding had stretched. You slipped a sheet of paper inside, smooth, white, and unforgiving in its blankness. You’d rewritten it five times. Typed, no cursive. No metaphors. Just facts. Like that would make it safer. But the words still burned on the page with a quiet vulnerability you couldn’t disguise.

“I reread my thesis after you returned it. I hated it a little less this time. Thank you for that.

—P.S. You were right, too. About memory under trauma. See page 214.”

It wasn’t eloquent. It wasn’t profound. But it was real. The closest thing you had to a truth without barbs. You folded the letter and tucked it against the title page with careful precision, pressing it flat like you were sealing something shut. Not a peace offering, not really. You weren’t ready for peace. But this…this was a bridge. A fragile, deliberate beginning.

You didn’t wrap the book. No ribbon. No clever note. Just a plain envelope, clean and unadorned, the kind used for internal correspondence and things no one was supposed to notice. You printed his name at the top with surgical clarity:

Dr. Spencer Reid.

FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Nothing else. Because what else was there to say?

You dropped it off the next morning just after sunrise. The building was still shaking off its sleep, its marble floors chilled from the night. The mailroom clerk looked half-asleep, his coffee sloshing precariously as he fought with a jammed drawer of interagency forms. He didn’t look at you twice. You didn’t linger. You slid the envelope into the outgoing bin and turned away before you could think better of it, your coat collar pulled high, your hands shoved deep into your pockets like you might find nerve tucked between your fingers.

You walked out without looking back.

You told yourself you didn’t care what he’d think. You told yourself it didn’t matter whether he read it today, or tomorrow, or ever. You told yourself you had done your part.

But your pulse betrayed you. Fast and hard in your throat. Like footsteps on stone.

And every beat whispered the same thing:

You lied. You cared.

God help you, you cared.

˙✧˖° ⚖️ ⋆｡ ˚

It took him less than twenty-four hours.

Late the next day, somewhere between the courthouse steps and the brutal echo of your own heels against polished tile, you came back from a deposition that had frayed your nerves down to exposed wire. Your throat ached from too many objections, too many redirections, and the kind of barbed cross-examination that left your voice just sharp enough to cut and just brittle enough to crack. Your blazer felt too tight at the shoulders. Your briefs, still clutched beneath your arm, felt heavier than usual. There was ink on your palm. Someone else’s lie still echoing in your ears. You weren’t expecting anything, because days like this didn’t offer grace. They offered paperwork and headaches and the stale aftertaste of coffee left too long on the burner.

But then, your hand on the doorknob, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs, you saw it.

Something on your desk.

Not a file. Not an exhibit binder or one of those urgent sticky notes your clerk always left in a panic.

A napkin.

That was all.

A single square of folded white paper, creased delicately down the middle, pristine and absurd in the middle of your chaos. It didn’t belong there. Which meant, of course, that it did. Your heart gave one slow, unfamiliar beat, like it was working its way through molasses. Like your body was preparing for something it didn’t know how to hold.

You stepped inside slowly. Carefully. Your fingers hesitated above the edge of your desk, hovering an inch above the napkin’s corner like it might startle. You already knew the handwriting. You would’ve known it even if you hadn’t been the one who typed his name into a shipping address field the day before. Even if you hadn’t memorized the way his lowercase fs looped like they’d been drafted by hand in another century.

Every letter was precise. Controlled. The kind of script that belonged in the margins of a museum archive or a love letter never sent.

You picked it up like it might tear under your fingers.

Unfolded it slowly.

Inside, only four lines. Four. That was all.

“Page 214 made me think of you.

But so did 147.

And 68.

And all the ones I haven’t read yet.”

You blinked once. Then again. Like that might steady the sudden, impossible weight of the air.

It didn’t.

The breath in your chest caught, staggered, lodging somewhere high and hot in your throat, like a gasp you’d forgotten how to release. The napkin trembled slightly between your fingers, and you realized it wasn’t the paper. It was you.

It was your hands.

Your pulse.

Your careful, courtroom-hardened composure unraveling at the edges, thread by thread.

You sat down slowly, lowered yourself into the worn leather of your chair like the room had shifted its gravity, and stared at the napkin again. Each word thudded through you like a heartbeat. It wasn’t what he said. It was how he said it. Without flourish. Without defense. Without expectation. Just…there. Quiet. Unarmed. Laid bare like a secret handed over in silence.

And that last sentence—

God.

All the ones I haven’t read yet.

It reached places you’d spent years bolting shut. Not metaphorically. Not politely. Viscera-deep. Because you knew he wasn’t talking about the book anymore. That wasn’t a sentence about research or a case study. That was about you.

The parts you didn’t put on paper. The parts you barely let yourself remember, let alone offer. The chapters you’d redacted so long ago you’d convinced yourself they weren’t worth returning to. The soft ones. The wild ones. The reckless footnotes of yourself scribbled in margins no one else had ever taken the time to read.

He had.

Worse, he wanted to.

Not to analyze. Not to fix. Not to categorize or put into one of his twelve-thousand-box taxonomies of behavior and pathology. No. He wanted to know. To learn your voice in its rawest form. To read the version of you that bled into sentences when no one was watching.

You leaned back in your chair, spine curving for the first time all day, and let your head tilt toward the ceiling. Not to cry. Not to break. Just to breathe. Just to make space for the ache swelling up beneath your ribs like light through a half-closed door. Your eyes closed, lashes damp, the napkin still trembling in your lap.

Because for the first time in what felt like years, you weren’t alone in the unraveling.

You weren’t fighting to be seen from across a courtroom, screaming into the silence of polished wood and blank expressions.

He saw you.

And not just the polished, armor-strapped version you’d spent years refining like a weapon. Not the litigator in the navy blazer. Not the closing-argument firebrand.

You.

Your mind. Your memory. The contradictions and corners. The parts still trying to unlearn the idea that being known was dangerous. That being readable was a weakness.

And what he gave you, what he offered in ten words on cheap paper, was the possibility that someone might want all of it.

That someone might want to read you cover to cover, even if your pages were worn and stained and scrawled in pencil with passages crossed out in rage.

That someone might linger on the chapters you hated.

Might turn them slowly.

Might underline them.

And his name, Spencer Reid, was there, written softly into the metaphor of it all. Not a puzzle solver. Not a walking footnote.

A reader.

And maybe, God help you, your favorite one.

[trashyyduckling]

i love it so much🥹🥹🥹🥹 aaaaaargh

stars — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: a late night talk with spencer turns emotional content warnings: established relationship, just two lovesick fools to be honest a/n: this is me coping with having rewatched surface tension

You stared at the ceiling filled with night light stickers. Your finger lifted lazily, tracing an invisible line toward one of the glowing shapes.

“That one’s my favorite,” you mumbled, pointing at the star-shaped sticker.

Spencer, lying beside you on the bed, tilted his head just enough to follow your gesture. His shoulder pressed warmly against yours. He smiled. “I like that one,” he said, nodding toward the sticker near the corner.

You turned your head. “How did you even get that one up there?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Magic,” he said. You gave him a flat look, and his grin widened.“Fine,” he relented, shifting slightly. “I used a ruler.”

You huffed a laugh, deciding you didn’t need the full explanation, knowing him, it probably involved some overly elaborate method involving tape, a step stool, and a bunch of mumbles about physics. Instead, you let your gaze drift back up, fingers brushing against the sheets before finding his hand. He laced his fingers through yours without hesitation.

“They help, right?” you asked softly, tracing the back of his knuckles with your thumb. Spencer exhaled. “Yes,” he admitted.

You’d bought them for him, the moment you found out he had a fear of the dark. Lifting his hand, you studied the veins beneath his skin, the faint blue lines standing out against the pale canvas. “Your hands are veiny,” you remarked, pressing a fingertip lightly along one.

“Well,” he began, “men’s hands tend to appear more vascular due to a combination of factors—lower subcutaneous fat, higher muscle mass, sometimes even the effects of aging.” His words stuttered slightly as your touch ghosted over his wrist, goosebumps rising on his skin. You smiled, lowering your joined hands between you before turning onto your stomach to face him. He stayed on his back, but his head tilted toward you, eyes. Gently, you brought his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“That’s interesting,” you murmured against his skin.

"Mhmm," he rumbled, watching you with a smile. Then, a loud engine roared outside, rattling the windowpane as some driver revved their car down the street. The noise lingered for a good ten seconds.

"Show-off," you mumbled, wrinkling your nose. Spencer chuckled. "I wonder where they're going," he mused.

You shrugged, thumb tracing circles over his knuckles. "Maybe they just had a fun night out and are heading home."

"Or," he countered, a playful glint in his eyes, "they just left the night museum."

You snorted, but before you could retort, he turned your hand in his, studying the spot where you’d kissed it earlier. Then, he lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss right over the same place.

"You just kissed your own hand," you pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I didn’t," he said, far too seriously for such a ridiculous argument. "I kissed your lip imprint. Even if it’s not visible, you left behind epithelial cells. Traces of your DNA." He tapped the spot for emphasis.You stared at him. Then burst into laughter, your shoulders shaking with it. Soon he was laughing too, his free hand covering his eyes as if he couldn’t believe his own nonsense.

"You can just ask for a kiss, you know," you giggled, shuffling closer, still lying on your stomach. "You don’t have to kiss my cells." Spencer smiled softly, his cheeks tinged pink.You waited, grinning, until he squirmed under your expectant stare.

"…Can I have a kiss?" he finally mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped a hand behind your ear. "Sorry, what was that? Didn’t quite catch it."

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Just—come here," he muttered, tugging you forward by the wrist.

You went willingly, because, honestly, you’d been waiting for this too. Leaning in, you brushed your lips against his in a slow, sweet kiss. He hummed in satisfaction, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking along your cheekbone. "Are these new earrings?" Spencer mumbled against your lips as you pulled back. His fingers lingered near your jawline, brushing the curve of your ear.

You smiled, touching the earring lightly. "Yes," you said. He scrunched his eyebrows together, suddenly sitting up straighter. You mirrored him, legs crossing beneath you as you faced each other on the bed. Spencer leaned in again, his fingers carefully tucking both sides of your hair behind your ears. You watched him, lips twitching as he focused intently on the earrings, tapping one with his fingertip to make it sway.

"I didn’t notice before," he admitted, his voice laced with genuine dismay. "It’s my first time wearing them," you reassured him, shifting to drape one knee over his. "Garcia recommended the store she goes to. Total impulse buy."

But Spencer was still pouting, his fingers still tracing the earring. "I didn’t notice all day," he muttered, more to himself than to you. You bit back a laugh. He prided himself on knowing you, every freckle, every habit, every tiny change. Like the time you’d worn two rings instead of three, and he’d noticed before you’d even stepped fully into the room.

"Well, that’s okay, Spence," you said, patting his knee in consolation. "I had them hidden under my hair all day." His eyes narrowed, but before he could protest, he switched tactics, tilting his head. "Did you like anything else in the store?"

"Nope, you are not buying me more jewelry," you said, shaking your head firmly, which, of course, made the necklace he’d given you (the very expensive one) shift against your collarbone.

"Why not?" he pouted.

"Because—" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "You spoil me too much."

Spencer leaned back, uncrossing his legs as he flopped onto the mattress, arms folded behind his head. "There’s no such thing as spoiling you too much," he declared. You did your best to hide your flustered expression at his sweet words.

You stayed perched above him, still cross-legged, grinning down at his sulky expression. "You’re a sweetheart, Spencer Reid," you said, your voice softening. "The sweetest of all the sweethearts in the world."

Then, just to surprise you, he raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking. "There are other sweethearts besides me?"

His flirty line caught you off guard, leading you to burst into laughter. You doubled over so hard you nearly toppled onto his chest. Spencer caught you by the shoulders, his own laughter rumbling beneath you as you gasped for breath, clutching at his shirt. You finally managed to sit upright as your laughter subsided, though your shoulders still shook with residual giggles. Spencer watched you with a proud grin, happy that he made you laugh this hard.

"Of course there aren't," you conceded, smiling softly down at him. Your fingers instinctively found their way to his hair, combing through the soft brown strands. "My apologies. You're the only sweetheart ever."

He nuzzled into your touch. "Your sweetheart," he mumbled.

Your heart squeezed so tightly you thought it might burst. "My sweetheart exactly," you confirmed. The love radiating from you was nearly palpable, and Spencer soaked it in like sunlight, his fingers giving your thigh an affectionate squeeze.

"You know," he began, "you're going to have to tell me what jewelry you liked, or I'm going to end up buying everything in that store." His thumb traced idle patterns through the fabric of your pants.

You groaned dramatically and let yourself collapse onto him in one fluid motion, knocking the air from his lungs with an "oof" that made you grin against his chest. Spencer recovered quickly, his arms coming up to cradle you as you draped yourself over him, your legs tangling with his until you were barely touching the bed at all.

"I know. I know," you murmured. His hand moved in soothing circles across your back.

"I'm glad you're here," Spencer whispered into your hair after a long silence.

You lifted your head from his chest, propping your chin on folded arms to look up at him. "Where else would I be," you murmured, smiling as you reached to boop his nose, "if not here with my favorite person in the entire world?" Spencer's blush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as soon as he heard the two words 'favorite person' .

"Why?" The question slipped out in a whisper before he could stop it, his neck craning awkwardly to maintain eye contact. Seeing his discomfort, you slid off his body and sat up. "Why?" you repeated softly, giving him space to explain.

Spencer stared at your lap as he gathered his thoughts. "Yes," he admitted finally, carefully shifting to lean against the headboard. "Sorry. You don't have to answer that. I didn't mean to—" He trailed off, uncertain what exactly he hadn't meant to do, to ask, to need, to crave your affirmation so visibly.

You shook your head, that same soft smile playing on your lips as you scooted closer. Crossing your legs beneath you, you gathered both of his hands in yours, cradling them in your lap His fingers trembled slightly against yours.

"You're my favorite person because—" you began, watching as his breath caught, "—you have the kindest soul in the world, Spencer." You shook your head slightly, marveling at him. "I don't know how anyone could meet you and not immediately consider you their favorite person."

Spencer huffed a disbelieving chuckle, his eyes darting away. You tightened your hold on his hands, waiting until his gaze reluctantly met yours again. "I'm serious," you insisted. "The way you remember little things about everyone you love, even when they've only told you once. How you—" His thumb brushed across your knuckles, a silent plea. You gave him mercy.

"I hope you know how lovely you are," you murmured, the silver chain of your necklace catching the light as you shifted closer. "You deserve to feel so loved." You said it with certainty because you understood why he'd asked. You knew the doubts that sometimes haunted him, the way he struggled to believe someone could choose him, stay with him, love him this completely.

"And I'm more than happy to be the one doing it," you continued. "It's an honor, really." A soft giggle escaped you. "You deserve the absolute world, Spencer Walter Reid."

The silence that followed was long enough that your smile faltered slightly. Had you said too much? Overwhelmed him? "Too much?" you asked hesitantly. But Spencer shook his head almost imperceptibly, his voice barely above a whisper. "No." You nodded, giving him time, your hands still cradling his. The seconds ticked by, until he finally broke the silence.

"You said—uhm—" He stumbled over the words, uncharacteristically hesitant. "I deserve the world," he repeated slowly. "You're my world." His gaze dropped to your joined hands. "But you're still too good for me."

Your mouth fell open in mock outrage, though your heart fluttered at his words. "Well, I think you're too good for me," you countered immediately.

Spencer's eyebrows knitted together in instant protest. "No—"

"Nope." You disentangled your hands only to press a single finger to his lips, silencing him effectively. His breath was warm against your skin as you held his gaze. "We both know we're never going to agree on this," you said with a soft chuckle, your finger dropping from his lips. Spencer sat in silence for a second.

"I love you." The words tumbled out, and for some reason his voice broke halfway through. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, lashes fluttering against suddenly damp cheeks.

"No tears, Spence, please," you whispered, even as you felt your own vision blurring. "Otherwise I'll cry too." Your voice cracked on the last word, betraying you completely.

Spencer laughed then. "Sorry," he murmured, swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. "But I really do love you so much." A pause, then softer: "Thank you."

Thank you for what? For loving him? For seeing him? For simply existing in his orbit? He wasn't entirely sure himself, but you understood.

"I love you more," you countered, using both hands to brush away your own tears. For a long moment, you simply sat there, two lovesick fools wiping each other's faces, until the absurdity of it all struck you simultaneously. You both started laughing.

"This turned emotional," you sniffled, watching as Spencer sat up straighter. "Yes, but it's necessary," he declared, carefully tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Being emotional builds trust, strengthens intimacy, and..." His voice trailed off as he caught your expression, that look of adoration and love that never failed to undo him.

"And what?" you prompted, leaning into his touch.

Spencer's thumb brushed away the last traces of tears from your cheek as he murmured, "Increases the likelihood of a lifelong relationship."

Your breath caught. "Well," you whispered, nuzzling your nose against his, "I already know I want to spend the rest of my life with you." A smile tugged at your lips. "Guess it just depends on you now."

Spencer's answering smile could have powered entire cities. "We're on the same wavelength," he whispered back.

Spencer hated to delay a kiss, especially when you were this close, his pulse already quickening at the thought of your lips on his. But he couldn’t help himself. "Look up," he murmured, pulling back just far enough that your noses no longer brushed.

You gave him a confused look but obeyed, tilting your head toward the ceiling where the night-light stars glowed. He guided you gently, turning you both until your backs rested against the headboard, his hands warm on your shoulders.

"I put them up in a certain order," he admitted. He lifted a finger, tracing a path between the stickers. "They’re in the shape of Cygnus. Swans symbolize eternal love," he whispered, watching your face as realization dawned. "Which is what I think we have."

Your breath hitched. Slowly, you turned to face him, eyes glistening. "I thought we were done crying," you rasped, but Spencer didn’t give the tears a chance to fall.

He cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks as he kissed you. You melted into him, fingers curling into his shirt. When you finally parted, it was only far enough to whisper, "We do have eternal love."

Spencer didn’t answer with words. Just a happy hum, as he kissed you again, and again, and again, each press of his mouth a promise beneath the swan’s outstretched wings.

[trashyyduckling]

The Rebound

Plot: Rossi recommends a book binding service to get Spencer to stop complaining about his broken book. Maybe you can fix more than just the broken spine of his book. Warnings: None, fluff. I will preface this with I know the bare minimum about actual book binding though, unfortunately! ㅠㅠ A/N: I'M BACK! Did you miss me? Unfortunately I lost any belief I had in love for a while there, but I found myself thinking about this little fluff idea for a while, and couldn't get it out of my head so I had to write it. It's been almost two years since I began writing, and I decided I want to put this first as a hobby at least once a week, so you will hopefully be hearing from me more often as well. I got a lot of inspiration from the request box too, so thank you to everyone who requested <3 Enjoy~

To say that Spencer had taken this book everywhere would be an understatement. The tattered heap of papers could probably be legally recognized as a member of the BAU the amount of case hours it had seen. It probably had a degree or two of its own as well. 

Spencer always justified it in one way or another. It was in Russian and he needed to practice. It was an incredible book. His mother gave it to him as a child, and she still recognized it sometimes, so he had to take it when he visited her. It was just a really good book. 

In short, over the years it had been through a lot.

It had seen gunshots, stabbings, a drug addiction, multiple spills and drops from high areas, and yes, probably some book eating insects at some point, but it still stood the test of time. 

Until, ironically, a prison sentence meant it hadn’t been cracked open in months and it had decided to disintegrate overnight. 

Spencer had spent the best part of his first week back at the BAU grumbling about it that it was beginning to disintegrate his team mates nerves. Yes, they were all sympathetic to the struggles of the newly free man, but there was really only so much Russian literature one could take before losing it. And for the members of the BAU, that was pretty much none. 

“Kid, why don’t you just go out and buy a new copy. Same words, same meaning, same book, just without the bullet holes,” Rossi sighed, trying to effectively end the same conversation he’d been having for the last 6 days straight. 

“It’s a rare copy, it was published in the 50s. You of all people should know they don’t make books the same way anymore, Rossi.” 

“Me? Of all people? How flattering, Spencer.” 

“No-” the man sighed, jogging to catch up with the still prime older man as he walked brusquely down the hallway. “I just mean that as a fellow enjoyer of literature, that you would share my appreciation for…”

“The elderly?” 

“Antiques. Come on Rossi, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Spencer sighed again. 

“I just don’t want to buy another copy.” 

Rossi stopped his march finally, letting Spencer catch up with him as he finally turned around and gave his last suggestion. 

“Then you just have to get it fixed, Spencer.” 

He shut the door to his office behind him before the open door could invite any other literary debates to his doorstop, but he did put the kid out of his misery later over text. 

“I had a collection of Joy’s articles bound by this company for Christmas last year as a gift. Local business, give them a call.”

A week later, a free enough day rolled around, and Spencer - ever willing to avoid technology at all costs - decided that going to the shop's location and hoping for an on-sight consult would work. He assumed people still talked to each other. 

You definitely still talked to people. 

When you could see them, hear them and knew they were there. But you also liked to work with a set of large headphones drowning out the world, and everyone else had gone home for the day, so to say that you screamed when you saw the 6 foot something slenderman out of the corner of your eye was an understatement. 

“FUCK!” You screamed, clutching at your heart that you thought was definitely still having an attack of its own. You weren’t sure if this was what fight or flight felt like, but you were quickly disappointed to find that your own trigger reaction was ‘fuck.’

“I’m sorry, the door was open, I assumed…” Spencer started, holding his hand up to show he wasn’t a threat, even if he’d spent the last phase of his life being just that to a lot of people. 

“Yeah..yeah… sorry, heart still racing, I’ll be with you in just a second.

You made a mental note of not listening to any more horror audiobooks while at work and pulled a smile back onto your face. 

“Welcome to The Rebound, I guess,” you said, coming around the counter to greet the man. “Are you here to pick up or deliver a package?”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably as he stood before speaking. 

“Actually neither. I was hoping for a consultation? I need a book rebound.” 

You let out a sigh so loud you almost felt bad for the man. “Okay, so thank god you’re not a serial killer.”

You tried to laugh off the joke, but the man’s eyes bugged out of his head as he scrambled for something. 

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m out of practice with this I guess,” he laughed a little, doing absolutely nothing to dissipate the awkward tension as he pulled out his FBI creds.

“Huh. FBI. Would you hold it against me if I said I feel a little bit less safe again?”

“Considering I spent that last few months in prison, not at all.” 

You laughed again and then stopped again as you saw he wasn’t laughing. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little off-putting?” you asked, completely innocently as you grabbed your coffee mug, leaning back on your work counter. 

“Many, many times,” he smiled, finally relaxing. 

“Wonderful. So what can I do for you today, Mr….?”

“Doctor.”

“Perfect. What can I do for you today Mr. Doctor?” 

He smiled shyly again, and you finally took the lull in conversation to look him over again. He was maybe a few years older than you, but he still looked young. Every item he wore seemed like it came fresh from a copy of Grandpa’s Weekly, or whatever Vogue was doing in Men’s fashion in the 50s, which almost made it annoying how well it draped on him. His hair was brown, and curled cutely around his face in a very ‘needs a haircut’ way, but you almost appreciated that more. 

He was handsome. 

“Fuck.” you thought again, realizing that the man had been talking for the last few seconds as you’d oggled him anyway. 

“Fuck?” He repeated. “I mean, I know it’s in bad condition, but I didn’t think it’d be that hard…” His eyebrows furrowed as he stared down at the book you now only just noticed was in his hands. 

“Sorry, no that’s not what I meant!” You scrambled, combing your hair back roughly in your hands, and clipping it in place before walking back closer to him.

He even smells fucking good, you grumbled to yourself as you held out your hands for your next project. 

“I’ve had it for about 25 years now, and it was definitely second hand when I got it, so…” 

“So you want me to resuscitate it. Cool. Let me take a look at it quickly.” 

You gently pried the book from the pouting man's hands and took it back to your work station as he played with his fingers, and you found yourself bumping into pieces of furniture you’d practically grown up with. 

“So, Mr. Doctor, is there any specific damage you want us to take care of?” You asked as you forced your attention onto the book. “Missing pages, rips, that kind of- Is this in Russian?”

“It’s Dostoyevsky. There’s no missing pages, but there are a lot of tears around a third up on the pages,” he blinked, pointing a single finger at the edge of the page, where there were in fact small tears. 

Ignoring that his fingers were also somehow attractive, you grabbed your glasses from the top of your shirt and pushed them onto your face and up your nose, getting closer to take a better look. 

“These are pretty even across all the pages, how did you even manage that?” you laughed, flicking the pages as you searched for any particular mildew marks or signs of wear. 

“Gunshot,” he said with such practiced nonchalance that you almost accepted it as a regular answer. Almost.

“WHAT?” You said looking up, noticing a beat too late that Mister Doctor was also leaning over the book, as if scared to let it out of his sight.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing in his sight was now you, as you’d come up so passionately you found yourselves nose to nose, a breath the only thing between you. 

You felt the heat in your cheeks, just as you saw it in his, before you hastily looked back down to the book. 

He straightened and looked away, taking a deep breath. 

“I work for the FBI, remember.” 

“I’m sorry, I assumed you were in a paperwork-diplomacy-tax-evasion department, not a pew-pew-bang-bang department.” 

“You know I think those are the official titles, but we usually just call my team the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m a profiler.”

“Huh. Do I get three guesses which Dostoyevsky this is?”

“Wouldn’t most of his works fit in this scenario?”

“Touche, Mr. Doctor. Touche.” 

You finished up your consultation on the book, which, gunshot aside, wasn’t in bad shape for a book over half a century old. You carefully catalogued the book's information in your system, and then turned back to him. 

“As I assume Mr. Doctor isn’t your real name, can I try again at asking what it is? No sarcasm this time, and I promise that my hands aren’t crossed behind my back currently.” 

“Spencer Reid.” 

“And the Doctor part was real, or have I been out-maneuvered?”

“If a PhD is real, then yes. Three times over.” 

You took another look at him again and then smiled widely as his breath caught in his throat.

“Doctor Reid, you look like the exact kind of person that would have three PhD’s. Congratulations, you’ve worked hard.” 

Unable to respond to the sudden kindness, Spencer returned a tight smile of his own before taking a shaky breath to steady himself. 

“Okay, so luckily we can fix the damage on this copy for you. We can try and salvage some of the cover details as well, but it will need a new spine, which usually means a complete overhaul of the cover. Do you have any specific design in mind, or would you like something similar?” 

“As close as you can get it, please.” 

“Of course. Now about the binding. Would you like it tight, or a little looser so it reads easier, like a floppy paperback?” 

“Loose is good for me. I read it pretty regularly.” 

“I mean this in the nicest way possible: I can tell,” you said, looking up from your computer again for the minute. “Between us, these are always my favorite projects, but I’m never allowed to work on them because I always want to keep the books at the end.” 

Spencer smiled at that, picturing you pouting handing over his book finally when it was done, refusing to let it go. There was something playfully childish about you that he found endearing. 

Endearing? He cleared his throat again before he found himself in further trouble. 

“Please don’t steal my book,” he requested in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly dangerously. 

“Don’t you worry about that Mr Doctor,” you said, smiling at him. “I have absolutely no impure intentions for your book whatsoever.” 

Spencer wanted to bury the disappointed feeling that popped up in the pit of his stomach at that moment. You were talking about the book, and this was a business transaction, and really he’d only just gotten out of prison, so he most likely didn’t need to feel disappointed by anything at all, whatsoever. 

“I, myself, cannot read Russian,” you smiled at him, handing him the receipt and guiding him back to the door he’d so innocently walked through about an hour earlier. 

Just as Spencer was feeling relieved - relieved? - and ready to move on from this exciting albeit distracting visit in his day, you spoke again. 

“So you’ll just have to read it to me if I get very attached.”

Clutching the receipt in his hand, and soon to realize that you’d scribbled your phone number on it in a hail mary, Spencer smiled to himself and made a mental note of thanking Rossi the next day. 

Even if the other man wouldn’t appreciate the new topic of conversation that Spencer would find himself unable to escape for a while. You.

[trashyyduckling]

aaaah thank youu, thank you! the first ever fic I read to end and it's sooo beautiful🥹

SOFT ANIMAL ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part xiii

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: spencer comes in from the rain, soaking wet and holding soup and endless apologies. after everything, love arrives as quiet belonging — a lazy day, a soft question, a future that happens not all at once, but surely.

genre: hurt/comfort, FLUFFFF, smut | w/c: 3k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, aftermath of the fight from pt 12 (picks up exactly where it left off), then a time jump (3 months), morning sex (p in v), cuties on their anniversary, happy happy ending, inspired by the poem “wild geese” by mary oliver, tbh not much plot after the time jump but i just wanted it to feel like a soft cushy landing after all the hard stuff

a/n: the final part of the soft animal series is here and I truly cannot believe I just typed out those words. see the end for my full author’s note this time 🫶🏼

series masterlist

The sky was dark before I heard the knock.

Not his key in our door — a knock. I felt that knock in my spine.

I dropped my phone on the couch beside me in the middle of drafting a long-winded text and bounded towards the door. I opened it, and there he was. Spencer. Rain-damp hair curling at the edges. Dark circles under his eyes. A wilted paper bag in one hand, clothes dripping as if he’d been walking in the storm sans umbrella for hours — and maybe he had been.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough.

“You knocked.”

“I… I thought I should.”

His eyes flicked toward the floor, like he wasn’t sure if he’d be let in. Like he’d shown up prepared to leave again. I didn’t move.

“I brought you soup. And tea. And mini M&Ms. I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for.”

I sighed and stepped aside, and he walked in quietly.

He put the bag down and turned. “I thought I was doing the right thing. Leaving. You deserve so much better than someone like me dragging you down.”

I swallowed. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve, Spencer. That’s up to me.”

His voice cracked. “I know. I just… I thought I was protecting you.”

“I know that’s what you thought, but you weren’t. You were protecting yourself from the idea that someone might love you, even like this.”

He stared at me.

“I do, you know,” I said. “Love you. Even like this. Especially like this.”

He blinked, and the air between us trembled with everything he wasn’t saying. That he hadn’t believed it. That maybe, still, part of him didn’t.

He stayed quiet for a long beat before responding. “What I said to you… that night. Accusing you of wanting to play nurse and fix me — that wasn’t fair. I know you were coming from a good place, because you love me and want me to be okay. I know you don’t see me as a patient. It was wrong of me to say that.” He paused and steadied himself before continuing. “And calling you the woman I’m sleeping with…” He swallowed, jaw tight. “That was cruel. And reductive. And I knew it the second it came out of my mouth.”

I stood still.

“I was angry and ashamed and spiraling,” he said. “But none of that excuses saying something that small about someone I love more than anything.”

My breath caught.

His voice was raw now, stripped down to the bone. “And that’s not how I see you. You’re not a warm body in my bed. You’re… you,” he said. “You’re the person who made my life feel like it was worth living again. Who taught me how to breathe after I forgot how. You’re not even just my girlfriend — you’re my partner. My future. You’re my entire world, honestly. I love you, and I’ve never, ever seen you like that. I can’t take back the fact that I said it, but I’m so unbelievably sorry that I did.”

Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I swallowed. “I didn’t mean to push you so hard.”

“I know.” He stepped forward, slowly, then added, quietly, “But you were right to push me. I do need help, and I am scared.”

“I know, Spence.” My voice broke, and he reached up instinctively, brushing his thumb along my cheek like muscle memory.

“I don’t want to lose you. I don’t actually think we aren’t ready for this. I don’t actually want to break up,” he said quietly.

“I was never going to let that happen anyways. When you knocked, I was halfway through drafting a text to Penelope asking her to hack your phone’s GPS so I could come confront you, wherever you’ve been hiding.”

He let out a quiet sound almost resembling a laugh and closed the remaining distance between us, pulling me in. We stood in the kitchen, his rain-drenched clothes soaking mine as he held me, his arms around my waist, my face in his shoulder.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I choose you. Even when I’m a mess. Even when I’m not okay.”

“I choose you too,” I whispered back. “Every version.”

”I missed you every second,” he murmured. “JJ and Will’s couch might’ve permanently realigned my spine into an S-shape.”

I huffed out a breath of laughter and buried my face deeper against his skin. “I missed you too. Every single second.”

He pulled back to look at me, eyes soft and finally looking like his own again. Then, tentatively, achingly slowly, he began to lean in. I tangled my fingers in his wet curls, pulled him down the rest of the way, and kissed him, soft and true.

There’s no tidy solution to trauma or grief. No final answer you can circle in ink and get a gold star for. But this was how we found our way back: with honest conversation and rain-soaked embraces.

Later, in bed, skin still warm from where we’d found each other again, he traced numbers and shapes along the bare curves of my body. Fibonacci spirals. Möbius strips. All the patterns that don’t quite make sense until you stand back far enough.

“I’m going to try therapy,” he said quietly. “Not just because you asked, but because I want to. I think I need to.”

I kissed his forehead, his temple, the corner of his mouth. “I’m proud of you.”

He looked at me then — really looked — before speaking again. “And I think I want to spend the rest of my life figuring out how to be with you forever.”

Tears burned, but I smiled. “I’d like that. A lot.”

I let myself imagine our future: slow mornings, stupid arguments, soft reconciliations, nights spent knowing his body better than my own, and all the quiet moments in between. Not perfect, but perfectly ours.

—

3 months later:

Rain fell softly outside, a quiet insistence — not mournful, not loud, just steady. Like something true repeating itself. It sounded the way belonging feels — that was the second thing I thought of when I woke up. The first was Spencer. It was always Spencer. My Spencer.

He was curled beside me, one arm slung over the blanket we shared, hair damp with sweat at the temple, breath slow and even. His limbs were gathered close, body curved toward the center like a sleeping cat in a patch of light — a soft animal. I watched the rise and fall of his shoulders and let the weight of the moment settle.

Today marked one year since the night he called me. That first night after his release, when he asked — quietly, hopefully — if I’d come see him. We hadn’t been anything official then, not in name. But we’d already been something real. Spencer and I had never really settled on a proper anniversary, but that night always made the most sense in my mind. It was the beginning of the life we had now built together.

It had been a few months since the worst of it — the fight and distance that felt like the beginning of the end. Since then, things had softened. Spencer was teaching a little more and traveling with the BAU a little less, and he’d started therapy, quietly but consistently. The weight he carried began to lighten and shift in ways I could feel more than I could see. And every few sessions, I joined him. It was good for us — we’d learned how to argue better. How to step away and come back. How to hurt each other less and heal each other more.

Beside me, I listened to Spencer breathe. I didn’t want to move — not yet. The air was cool, the light was golden, and Spencer — safe and warm and mine — had that expression he only wore in sleep. A kind of innocence, but deeper. Like trust. Like a peace, hard-won.

I felt a soft ache in my thighs, ghosted reminders of last night’s closeness — hands, mouths, bodies. He stirred with a sigh, lashes fluttering, mouth twitching in a sleep-dumb smile. “Hey,” he mumbled in that gravelly morning voice I adored so much.

“Hi.” I shifted closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He hummed.

We didn’t say anything else for a while. There was no need. Our legs tangled like instinct, and I tucked my head beneath his chin while his hand found the curve of my waist. The window blurred with rain. A few birds called in the distance. And the world, impossibly, kept going.

His hand slid up beneath the hem of the t-shirt I wore — his t-shirt, the one with FBI Academy across the chest in faded screen print, the same one I’d worn that very first night — fingers dragging slowly along the bare skin of my thigh. A quiet question.

I turned to face him fully, brushing the hair back from his forehead, and nodded.

We didn’t rush. There was no urgency, no script. Just the slow unfurling of touch, of breath, of want. His mouth found mine with reverence, and the heat that bloomed between us was steady and sure.

He undressed me like he was unwrapping something fragile, not because I’d break, but because he wanted to savor it. I did the same. He whispered my name like it was the only word he knew. I kissed the scar on his palm, the one I’d first seen when he was still learning how to sleep with the lights off.

We moved together like we’d done it a hundred times, because we had. But this time felt different — softer, deeper, threaded through with memory and meaning.

He always touched me like he was still a little in awe that he was allowed to. Like every pass of his hands over my skin was both permission and prayer. His hand cradled my hip as he slid inside me, and we both stilled for a moment — just breathing, just being. His forehead rested against mine as we started to move, lazy and deep, like we had all the time in the world. Like we’d made it, finally, to the soft middle of our story.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer, letting my legs fall open around him. Our bodies moved together like a tide, steady and slow. Every rock of his hips made my breath catch, made my hands grasp for more.

He kept whispering things — my name, yes, but also small, ridiculous things that made me smile or laugh and then moan or gasp. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” and “I miss you even while I’m inside you, like I can never get enough,” and “I think my IQ drops at least twenty points when you do that,” and “I never want this to end.” His voice broke on that last one, and I kissed it back together.

When I came, it was with a soft cry against his shoulder, my hands buried in his hair, my whole body arching up to meet his. He followed seconds later, gasping my name like it was the only word he remembered, burying himself deep as he spilled inside me.

Afterwards, we didn’t move for a while. Our legs tangled, our chests rising together, our skin slick with sweat and love and everything we hadn’t needed to say out loud. He pressed a kiss just under my jaw and I held him tighter, just because I could.

“I love you,” he murmured, eyes closed.

I kissed his shoulder. “And I love you.”

—

After we finally pulled ourselves out of bed and shared a shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed a book, and settled back against the headboard. His thumb dragged across the page as he read. I rested my cheek on his shoulder.

Eventually, I asked for a random fact to break up the silence.

“Sloths,” he said immediately without even looking up, “can hold their breath longer than dolphins. Up to forty minutes.”

I snorted. “Liar.”

“It’s true.” He looked over, eyes bright. “They slow their heart rate so much they barely use oxygen.”

“Survival through stillness,” I said quietly.

He nodded. “It’s efficient.”

But I didn’t see it as only efficiency. I thought about stillness as resistance. As hope. As the wild, quiet insistence that you deserve to be here — even if you move slowly, even if it’s hard.

—

The kitchen smelled like citrus and coffee. I wore his Caltech hoodie, sleeves swallowing my hands, and he handed me a mug with both palms like it was something sacred. In a way, it was.

Breakfast was slow. Toast. Fruit. A hard-boiled egg that refused to peel properly. He cursed under his breath and I pretended not to laugh until he caught me holding it in. His expression — affronted and mildly betrayed — made me want to climb onto his lap and kiss him right there at the table with jam still on my fingers.

He refilled my coffee without being asked. I handed him half my toast, and he gave me some of his grapes. We bumped knees under the table.

Later, he leaned against the counter while I sliced apples and tried to sneak one, only to flinch back when I playfully raised the knife in faux-threat.

“You’re ruthless,” he said, half-smiling.

“You tried to steal from the chef,” I replied, laying my weapon down.

He pulled me in by the hips and kissed my temple. “Happy anniversary, by the way.”

I looked up. “You remembered?”

“You know I remember everything,” he teased. “But even if I didn’t, I’d always remember that night.”

—

The rest of the day passed in pieces. Brushing our teeth together. Crosswords on the living room floor. A kiss pressed behind my ear when he thought I was dozing. I noticed him watching me like he still couldn’t believe this was real — that we were.

At one point, he touched my ankle under the blanket on the couch and said, “Do you think we’ll ever mess this up?”

I looked at him for a long time, then shifted until I was leaning against him.

“In some small, human way, maybe. But not in the ways we can’t come back from. We’ll always find our way back to each other, I know that much for certain.”

He leaned his forehead to mine. “You make it easier.”

“You make it worth it.”

He didn’t answer — just cradled my chin between his fingers and kissed me softly, slowly. Like we had time. Like we always would.

—

Later, while he diced carrots and celery and onion with absurd precision for the bolognese sauce we were making for dinner (Rossi’s recipe, of course), I leaned against the counter and watched his hands. And for just a moment, I remembered the version of him I first met — the one who flinched at loud noises and slept facing the door. The one who told me he didn’t need to be fixed, just carried.

He still wasn’t totally okay, but he was healing. And I got to witness it. I got to love him through it.

I stole a carrot from the cutting board, and he swatted my hand.

“You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

“Oh, I’m exactly as stealthy as I think.”

He said my name like it was a full sentence, and I said his back. We grinned at each other like idiots.

Once we finally stopped distracting each other long enough to finish cooking dinner, we ate with our legs touching under the table. He told me about a new academic journal he was reading. I told him about a coworker who made me laugh. He offered to do the dishes, then pulled me along to sit on the counter while he did.

I watched him with a full chest.

This life — soft, boring, beautiful — was one we built together. And it didn’t scare either of us anymore.

—

Dusk settled in cool and forgiving. The rain thinned a bit, so we cracked a window and let the breeze in. I lit a few candles. He curled behind me on the couch, tracing patterns on my back — sometimes spirals, sometimes words, sometimes nothing particular at all.

His voice was low. “Feels like it’s been longer, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “In the best way.”

“Sometimes I can still picture you in the doorway that night,” he murmured. “The way you looked at me before falling into my arms. I think I knew right then and there that you were it for me.”

I leaned back into him. “I think I knew it, too.”

Outside, the sky darkened into bruised violet and deep indigo. The familiar sound of the calls of wild geese moving in formation echoed through the breeze — sharp and certain. The kind of movement you don’t question.

We didn’t talk about the past. We didn’t need to. It was all there in the shape of him beside me, in the way his body curved towards mine like I was his home.

And when he shifted to grab another blanket, I saw it — the unmistakable shape of a ring box outlined in the pocket of his sweatpants. Not quite hidden, but not flaunted, either. Just there, ready, waiting for the right moment. He didn’t seem to realize I’d noticed it. Just smiled, kissed my temple, and curled around me on the couch again like it was any other night. My heart skipped a beat, and I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to. But I knew.

Some promises arrive quiet and certain: like rain at the window, like breath in the dark. Like a love real enough to wear on your finger.

Together, we were exactly who we needed to be — soft animals, learning how to love what we loved.

the end.

ᝰ.ᐟ

author’s note: do you guys forgive me for part 12 now? lol. but on the real, I don’t even know what to say for this one. part 13, the end of the soft animal series, now belongs to you 🫶🏼. to anyone who came along this ride with me — I couldn’t be more thankful.

post-reading soft animal manifesto can be found here!

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[trashyyduckling]

TW: vague description of typical CM cases, violence, bomb/explosion, character endangerment, physical injury, emotional distress, nightmares, relationship conflict, physical restraint (wrist-grabbing), trauma/PTSD themes, panic/anxiety, crying, and mentions of fear of death.

A/N: i think its not my best because its hard to describe "action", but like, please let me know what i can improve

also, I use a lot of the f word here because I just watch The Bear and it's kinda stuck on me :)

_

Talk to me

It's been a few days and Spencer is absolutely beating himself up in the back of his mind. I know for sure because he’s been pulling away from me and starts saying he’s fine when he’s clearly waking up from a nightmare at 2 AM and couldn't go back to sleep every single night. Everytime I try to ask, to check on him, his answer is short, clipped, like I just added a new burden to his shoulder. He just wouldn't talk, so I retreated. He wants space, I got him space, I stop talking to him about anything unless it's work related, even refuse to share a room at the motel in Texas where we are now, working on a case. It's not that I don't miss him, god, I miss him so much, and it pained me that he thinks he couldn't talk about his worries to me.

It's been two days since we arrived. We fell behind the unsub because he got another victim. The unsub leaves nothing sort of communication other than a picture of a room, with a hostage, and a countdown for us to crack the case. Garcia sent us a few addresses with a similar room in its blueprint and we split up to check the building. I walk with Derek and JJ to the SUV while Spencer, Hotch and Emily gather up themselves.

The drive is filled with tension, we know the clock is ticking, but no one really knows what's gonna happen if the time is up. Parking in front of the building we step out of the car, gun’s up, walking precisely inspecting the building. The three floor tall building looks dimly lit, no sign of life anywhere other than the fact that the front door is ajar. I try to focus, walking close following Derek’s lead, we sweeped the first floor,

“Clear” Derek’s stated.

The time is ticking. We need to move faster.

“I’ll check the third floor”, JJ nods at my admission before sauntering to the second floor, I’m moving forward to the third floor before noticing something.

A bomb.

A freaking bomb in this building with a countdown, line of numbers that keeps blinking down, exact time left the unsub gives us.

“Fuck” I breathed, making a step back to the second floor.

“JJ! There’s a bomb! This place is going to explode! Fuck! Derek! Calls back up! There is a bomb in the building!”

I made a hurried step towards the exit then I heard a faint scrape sound of movement from the third floor. My heart pounding, glancing at the countdown.

50 seconds.

I ran before I heard JJ and Derek screaming telling me to get back out. I'm not going to leave anyone dying in this building. I ran as fast as I could screaming back to JJ and Derek, “I heard something! We still have time!”

45 seconds

My life flashes before my eyes, and I focus on one thing I could tether myself to. Spencer. Does he know I'm about to let myself blow up with this building?

40 seconds

My eyes frantically scanning the third floor, kicking the first door open then I hear it again, a muffled scream. A woman tied up in a chair looking up eyes wide, wild, disheveled. A rag stuffed her mouth. I ran to her and pulled it away and she started crying. “Please, please I don't want to die here, please”

35 seconds I counted in my head

“It's fine, I'm here, we're going to get out of here, okay?” I said as I'm pulling a knife, then started cutting the rope I hopelessly praying it would easily cut off. My heart pounding like I couldn't hear anything, after a few yanked tries, I helped her stand up and start running to the stairs.

Moving to the stairs, glancing at the countdown, 10 seconds.

Well shit, I don't even know when I start crying too. Maybe this was it, this is the end, maybe I should have tried harder on Spencer. What would happen to him if I don't make it out of here? I miss him so much, does he miss me?

I don't even count it anymore, we reached the front door, nothing happened, we stepped out of the building then it hit us.

A deafening blast, a burst of force slamming from behind and throwing us forward, knocking the breath out of our lungs.

And then nothing, but long static ringing in our ears drowning every other sound, I could barely keep my eyes open with all the debris around us but I saw it, the woman coughing, alive, we made it.

I blinked through the haze, JJ and Derek approaching us with medics, my heart still pounding, my head felt dizzy, overwhelmed with everything. The medics reached us fast, pulling us up one by one. Hands steadied my shoulders, another grabbed my wrist to check my pulse. A flashlight flicked across my eyes. The ringing was still there but I could respond to their question. Derek helps me up and get me to the perimeter.

“Spencer?” My voice is barely audible. Derek looked at me with a worried look, “They were still at the other side of the town, I heard they got the unsub” His eyes scanned me, his hand brushed over debris on my shoulder, cleaning what he could. “You good?” His gaze back up on me, “Yeah, shaky, but yeah I guess”. He just nods and steps aside to let the paramedic work on me, patching some scrape, checking for internal bleeding.

Breathe. I told myself, dragging in a shaky breath. My hands trembling in my lap, knees bouncing, restless. My heart won’t stop pounding. The ringing had dulled but everything was too sharp and nothing is familiar. My eyes glanced around, scanning faces. Where is spencer? I need to see him.

The paramedic just cleared me when the SUV arrived. Hotch stepped out of the car, followed by Emily, then my eyes drop on him, Spencer. His eyes found me instantly. He made a beeline to the ambulance where I sit down with wide eyes, finally breathing in relief. The paramedics talk to him about me, he nods then walks towards me. He finally stood in front of me with uneven breath, scanning me head to toe.

I feel small under his gaze, am I just making things worse? Is he mad? Why wouldn't he say something? He draws a shaky breath before he starts talking, “Are...are you okay?” His eyes look straight into mine. I open my mouth trying to answer his question, trying to say that I'm alright, that I made it alive but instead his name comes out of my mouth, weak, pleading for I don't know what. “Spence…”

He looks around, it's too crowded. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the crowd. He held me so tight it hurts. “Spence…what are you doing…”. We step away from the crowd, I don't know what he wants. Confused, I tried to yank myself but his grip stayed still. He never hurt me, not like this. I winced, “Spencer, please stop… it hurts.” He jerked away, cursing himself, and couldn't believe what he did. He tried to apologize and reach my hand but I flinched away, clutching my hand in front of my chest.

He tried to say something, but it was too late. Tears are already pooling in the corner of my eyes, threatening to fall. He cursed again, a low, desperate sound, and let his hand drop. After a beat of silent war of fear, guilt, and aching cross his face, he slowly reaches up again. This time I didn't flinch, I let him soothe my wrist gently and I could feel my tears falling down my cheek.

"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," he whispered, thumb tracing where the angry redness had started to bloom. "I was scared. I didn’t… I didn’t know if you were okay. I was so goddamn scared."

“I was scared too, Spence. I fucking scared I couldn’t make it, I…I couldn’t see you again” My shoulder start to shook as the sobs rocked through me.

“Why…why would you do that? What were you thinking?” His voice heightened, I stuttered, but before I knew it, Spencer pulled me into his embrace, burying myself into his chest. “I cannot lose you, not you, never. Please never do that again, please.” He leaves kisses on my temple while trying to wipe my tears away. “I’m sorry I wasn't trying harder for you spence…you just… you wouldn't talk to me.. And…and for a second I thought, you wouldn't need me anymore…”. I sob again, harder.

“What? Shh.. no.. no..baby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you, I just…I don't want to bother you with my burden, I don't want to be too much” His voice soft with guilt, and uncertainty. “You…you shut me off…we didn't talk for days!” Stammered, I tried to stop crying, taking a long breath, looking at him. “You will never be too much… You know I love you..I want everything you carry around…”

Spencer nods, trying to believe in it. Trying to convince himself that he's not too much, he’s not a burden. “Okay?” I asked him, he nodded again, exhaling something he’d been holding in his breath. “Promise me you wont shut me off again?” I tilted my head, waiting for his answer. “Yeah..yes.. I promise” He nods, with a small smile, still holding my hands, pulling a smile on me before I realize it.

“Would you promise me to never run into a building with a ticking bomb?” He asks this time, eyes on me. “Yeah, we could just try to get clearer clues and avoid the bomb.” I answered with a sheepish smile. He sighs, lighter. “Yeah we need to work on that”.

[trashyyduckling]

WHYYYY 😭😭😭

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 10

Summary: Spencer shows up for Maddie’s birthday party with a gift straight out of a fairytale. Overwhelmed by how deeply he’s become a part of their world, Y/N does something that changes everything. Couple: Spencer Reid / Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warnings: so much fluff, feelings of rejection, angst (towards the end) Word Count: 7.3k

Series Masterlist

There’s something about birthdays that makes you think about time. How it slips past you quietly, how it adds up. How it circles back around in ways you didn’t expect.

I’d been thinking about it all morning. Not consciously, at first. Just little things — the smell of wrapping paper, the way the light filtered in through my blinds, the sound of a child’s laughter echoing faintly from somewhere outside my apartment window. All of it kept tugging at something quiet in me. Something I hadn’t wanted to name.

I hadn’t gone to many birthdays as a kid. Not the kind with cake and balloons, anyway. Most years, it was just me and my mom. Sometimes she remembered the date, sometimes she didn’t. I never held it against her. But I think part of me learned early on not to expect much from those days.

Aside from me not having too many birthday parties of my own, I was also just never invited to many. There’d been a couple of times where I’d get a pity invite, but for most of it I’d just stay by myself.

Which is probably why I spent so long planning the perfect gift for Maddie.

“Garcia, do you know how I could illustrate a children’s book without any actual drawing experience?”

“A children’s book?” She spun around in her chair, narrowing her eyes at me. “Why would you need to illustrate a children’s book?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Part of it was self-preservation. Y/N and Maddie were… mine, in a way I wasn’t ready to explain out loud yet. I’d only just told her about the darkest parts of my life — the kind most people wouldn’t stick around for… I didn’t want to involve them further.

So I kept them to myself.

Maybe I shouldn’t have — especially considering how the last time I kept a relationship secret, it ended in ways I still can’t think about for too long. I knew I should be honest. I just didn’t know how to be. Not yet. Not all the way.

So I shrugged. “It’s for someone’s birthday.”

Garcia blinked. Her brows lifted slowly, like she was putting together a puzzle she already knew the answer to. “Who?”

“It’s for… my niece.”

She didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared at me with that knowing look that meant she absolutely didn’t believe me — but also wasn’t going to push. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said eventually. “You’re writing her a whole book?”

“I already wrote it,” I muttered. “I just need help with the illustrations.”

Of course, Garcia knew someone. A friend-of-a-friend who freelanced for indie authors. She texted me the contact information before I could change my mind. I sent the manuscript that same night — along with a painfully detailed list of character notes, color preferences, and very specific instructions for how Maddie’s dress had to be purple.

I ordered two copies of the book. One for them — and one for me.

Just in case.

In case one day they woke up and decided this was all a mistake. That I was a mistake. If that ever happened… at least I’d have this. A small, tangible reminder that for a little while, I got to care for something good. That I tried.

It was a simple book. Short. The kind with thick, cardboard pages meant to survive peanut butter fingers and bedtime rereads. The cover showed Maddie as a fairy princess, smiling mid-spin, her dress sparkling in layers of purple — just like I asked. Y/N and I stood in the background, slightly blurred, like illustrations often are. Not hyperrealistic, but recognizable enough that anyone who knew us would know.

It was perfect.

Exactly how I pictured it when I first wrote the story. Maybe even better.

I kept the extra copy tucked away in my apartment. Top shelf. Behind a stack of old psychology journals I hadn’t touched in years. Safe. Hidden. Just for me.

But the other — the one wrapped carefully in pastel tissue paper, sealed in a small gift bag with stars on it — that one sat in the passenger seat beside me as I drove to the park. I’d checked it three times before leaving. Adjusted the ribbon twice. It was ridiculous how nervous I was.

It wasn’t like I was proposing.

But still… it mattered. Too much, maybe.

The park was already filled with giggles when I got there. It was the kind of early afternoon that made everything feel a little softer — sunshine dappled through tree leaves, the faint scent of hot dogs from a nearby cart.

I spotted them almost immediately.

Y/N had set up beneath a wide oak tree, a picnic blanket sprawled across the grass, its corners fluttering in the breeze. Maddie sat cross-legged in the middle, paper crown tilted sideways, a streak of frosting on her cheek like a badge of honor. Y/N looked up just as I stepped out of the car, brushing hair from her face. Her eyes found mine instantly.

It had been a few weeks since the planetarium.

I’d like to say work got in the way — that the only reason I hadn’t seen them was the job — but that wasn’t the truth. Not really. The truth was, Y/N wasn't communicating as much as she used to. I thought about the many reasons she could be avoiding me, but each one tends to get more and more dramatic. Maybe she's just been busy, but still… things felt different.

And that scared me more than anything else.

She smiled — open and real, like she was glad I came. Like she’d been waiting.

And I felt it again. That ache I’d been trying not to name.

Because I wanted this.

I wanted them.

More than I probably should.

“Spencer!!” Maddie’s voice cracked through the afternoon like a firecracker.

She launched off the blanket with the kind of wild, sugar-fueled energy only birthdays can bring — arms outstretched, paper crown wobbling with every step.

I barely had time to catch her.

“You’re late!” she announced, throwing her arms around my waist.

“I’m exactly on time,” I murmured, hugging her back carefully — like I was afraid she might dissolve if I held too tight. “I brought you something.”

That got her attention. She pulled back instantly, eyes wide. “Is it magic?!”

“Better,” I said, holding out the star-covered gift bag.

Y/N stood then, brushing grass from her jeans. She didn’t say anything — just watched us with that unreadable softness she wore when she was trying not to let me see how much something mattered.

Maddie tore into the wrapping like it might contain fireworks.

“Maddie!” Y/N called, her voice half-laugh, half-motherly scold. “Don’t open it yet! You know the rule — gifts come after we sing happy birthday.”

Maddie froze mid-rip, pouting. “Okay.”

She hugged the bag to her chest anyway, like even waiting couldn’t undo how excited she already was.

I sat with them after that — a little stiff at first, knees tucked awkwardly under me at the corner of the blanket. Y/N handed me a juice box with a crooked grin, like she knew exactly how out of place I felt and was offering the simplest kind of kindness.

“Apple or grape?” she asked, holding both out like I was a very large child at a school picnic.

I blinked. “Grape, I guess.”

“Good choice. Apple’s for suck-ups.”

I gave her a look. She winked.

Maddie, meanwhile, was humming “Happy Birthday” under her breath, already halfway through her second cupcake. Purple frosting smeared across her chin like war paint, glitter from the crown in her hair, socks dusty from the grass. She looked feral. Perfectly, beautifully feral.

Y/N leaned back on her palms beside me, stretching her legs out lazily like she belonged to the sun. She had sunglasses perched on her nose and her shirt knotted at the hem, and I couldn’t stop noticing the way her shoulders moved — soft and unbothered, like she was finally relaxing for the first time in days. Her ankle brushed mine at one point. She didn’t move it.

And that shouldn't have meant anything.

But it did.

We sang the song a few minutes later — too loud, too fast, Maddie clapping offbeat and Y/N laughing halfway through. I watched them more than I sang. Watched the way Maddie’s cheeks flushed when we hit the “dear Maddie” part. The way Y/N’s smile went crooked when she tried not to tear up. The way their voices filled the space between my ribs like they belonged there.

I think that’s when it hit me — not just the ache, but the weight of it.

I no longer just wanted this, them… I ached for this. I needed them in my life like I needed air to survive.

Y/N lit the candle — a purple number five — and Maddie closed her eyes before blowing it out. She didn’t say her wish out loud, but I watched the way she peeked at me when she opened her eyes again. Like maybe her wish had something to do with me.

“Presents now?” she asked, practically vibrating.

Y/N made a show of checking an imaginary watch. “I don’t know… might be too soon.”

“Moooom.”

“Fine,” Y/N relented, reaching for her phone. “But let me take a picture of you two with the gift first.”

Maddie grinned, immediately scooting closer to me like it was routine — like we’d done this a hundred times before. Her head bumped against my arm, her crown tilting dangerously sideways. I instinctively reached up to fix it, and her hair — soft and warm from the sun — brushed my wrist.

Y/N stepped back a little, framing us in her phone. “Okay, Maddie, big smile.”

Maddie’s was automatic.

Mine wasn’t.

Not because I wasn’t happy — I was — but because I could feel the moment crystallizing. Y/N holding her phone steady. Maddie leaning into me like I belonged there. The late sun painting everything gold. And I knew, even before she clicked the shutter, that this photo would haunt me if I ever lost them.

“Spence,” Y/N called gently.

I looked up.

“Smile.”

So I did. Soft. Quiet. Barely-there.

Click.

“There,” she said, lowering the phone, already smiling at the screen. “One for the scrapbook.”

Something about that word — scrapbook — lodged in my throat.

Maddie didn’t wait. She immediately dove back into the gift bag like the brief delay hadn’t happened. She fished out the book, already familiar with the shape of it, like she’d memorized it by touch. When she pulled it into her lap again, she turned it around and held it up toward her mom like she was presenting a trophy.

“Look! It’s me!”

Y/N’s expression immediately changed.

It was subtle, but I noticed it — of course I noticed it. The slight parting of her lips, the sudden stillness in her shoulders, the way her fingers went lax around the phone like she’d forgotten she was holding it. Her eyes scanned the cover in slow motion — not blinking, not smiling, not yet. Just… looking.

And I knew that look.

I’d seen it before — on grieving families when we gave them answers, on victims who’d just been told they were finally safe. That look of something cracking open inside them. Relief, disbelief, awe, and sadness all sitting in the same breath.

She didn’t say anything right away.

And neither did I.

Because I could feel the gravity of the moment pulling tight between us — heavy and fragile and full of things I didn’t know how to say out loud.

Her daughter was holding a book I wrote. A story I built around her. A version of the world where she got to be a hero, a dreamer, a star. I hadn’t done it for credit. I hadn’t done it because I thought it was what a good person should do. I did it because I couldn’t not do it. Because ever since that day in the Library, with her teary eyes that turned excited once I did a magic trick — I’d felt this quiet, persistent need to give her something. Something kind. Something lasting.

And maybe, selfishly, something that proved I could be good for them.

I watched Y/N’s throat move as she swallowed.

Her fingers brushed Maddie’s curls absently — a grounding motion, but I could see her eyes start to gloss over.

She was trying not to cry.

I’d seen people getting emotional before, but this was different. There was no sadness in it. No fear. Just… overwhelm. The good kind. The kind that sneaks up on you and wraps around your ribs when you realize someone has seen the people you love and chosen to love them too.

And for some reason, that hit me harder than I expected.

She looked up at me.

Eyes soft. Wide. So full of feeling it almost knocked the air out of me.

“You made her a book,” she said, barely above a whisper.

I tried to smile. It came out lopsided. “It’s just a short story.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slightly, voice breaking like she couldn’t hold all of it in at once. “You made this. You wrote her a book.”

Her voice cracked at the end. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to make my chest tighten with something unbearably tender.

I wanted to reach out. Touch her hand. Say something — anything — that could make the feeling in my lungs settle. But I didn’t.

Because Maddie had already curled up against me, book in her lap, head resting on my leg like it was her default position.

And that, somehow, made the moment louder than anything I could’ve said.

She flipped the cover open gently, like it was something sacred.

“Mama,” she mumbled, “Spencer’s gonna read it to me.”

Y/N blinked, then nodded. “Okay, baby. Go ahead.”

I hesitated only a second — not because I didn’t want to read it, but because I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to breathe through this.

Through the feeling of this small, trusting body curled into mine.

Through the look in Y/N’s eyes like she was seeing me differently now — not as someone orbiting the edges of their lives, but someone inside the center of it.

I opened the book.

And read the first line.

“Once upon a time, in a world made of books and stars and peanut butter toast, there lived a girl with a laugh so bright, it made the flowers bloom twice as fast.

Her name was Madeline, but everyone in the Kingdom called her Maddie the fairy princess. She wore glittery skirts and mismatched socks, because she believed lucky socks helped her run faster through dreams.

One cloudy afternoon, while chasing a butterfly made of stardust through the Royal Library Gardens, Maddie found herself somewhere new. The book castle of the Great Wizard Spencer….”

At that, Maddie gasped. Her head lifted just enough to look up at me, wide-eyed and smiling. “That’s you!” she whispered.

I nodded, smiling back, my voice catching slightly on the next line.

“…a tall, silly man with too many books, too many facts, and not enough snacks.”

Y/N snorted — an actual snort — then quickly covered her mouth like she’d broken something sacred. Her eyes met mine and sparkled. “Accurate.”

I swallowed down a laugh and turned the page.

Maddie was still, listening. Her thumb traced the corner of the page, slow and methodical, like she was absorbing the words into her skin.

Y/N, meanwhile, wasn’t looking at the page at all.

She was watching me.

And not casually — not politely. Watching me like she could hear everything I wasn’t saying. Like she knew that I had written that line not just for the story, but for myself. Like she could see straight through me — into every silent hope I hadn’t admitted yet.

I looked back down at the page before I could let her see too much.

Yet still, I noticed everything.

Despite not wanting to — or maybe because I always do — I could see her from the corner of my eye. The way her fingers curled into the edge of the blanket. The way she blinked, deliberately and too often. The way her mouth pressed flat, like she was trying to stay composed for Maddie’s sake.

Maybe she thought we couldn’t see.

Maybe she thought we were too immersed in the story to notice. And to be fair, Maddie was immersed — curled tight against my leg, eyes wide, head tilted toward the page like it was casting a spell on her. But I wasn’t fully in the story anymore. Not with the way Y/N was slowly, silently coming undone beside me.

She wasn’t holding it in anymore.

She was crying. Quietly. Not with sound, not with breath. Just tears slipping down one by one, unannounced, as if her body had decided for her.

And still, she didn’t say anything.

Didn’t get up. Didn’t wipe them away. She just sat there, watching me — watching us — like this was the softest kind of heartbreak. Like she didn’t know what to do with the way it felt.

And I…

I didn’t know what to do either.

So I kept reading.

Not to ignore it. Not to pretend I didn’t see. But because stopping would have drawn attention to it, would have broken the spell — and I knew, somehow, she needed the spell to keep going. Just a little longer.

So I gave her that.

I let the words come soft and steady, even though my throat was starting to ache.

Even though my hands had gone clammy from the warmth of Maddie’s weight.

Even though my whole chest felt like it might split open if she looked at me like that for one more second.

And in between the pages, in between Maddie’s tiny whispers and occasional gasps, I thought about how it felt to sit here like this — with one of them against me, and the other quietly falling apart beside me, and both of them staying.

“And they all lived happily ever after… The end.”

My voice faltered slightly on the last word. Not enough for Maddie to notice — but enough for me to feel it.

It landed heavy in my chest. Not because of the line itself, but because I meant it. In that fragile, irrational way you mean things when you know they might not last. I wanted them to live happily ever after. Not the characters — us. Them. Me. This.

“I love it!” Maddie squealed, practically bouncing in my lap. “It’s my favorite book ever!”

She turned and threw her arms around my middle without warning, squeezing me so tight it knocked a breath out of me. She smelled like grass and cake and sunscreen. Her cheek was warm against my shirt.

I wrapped an arm around her carefully, trying not to let my hand shake.

“I’m glad,” I murmured. “It’s yours to keep.”

“I’m gonna read it every night,” she promised, pulling back just enough to look up at me. “But you have to read it again. At bedtime.”

Before I could answer, Y/N finally spoke — her voice quiet and a little hoarse.

“Baby, maybe Spencer’s tired…”

I looked at her.

Really looked.

Her eyes were still watery, but she’d wiped the tears away. Her hand was curled over her knee, knuckles pale from holding tension she hadn’t let out yet. But her expression — God, her expression — it was something I wasn’t sure I had the vocabulary for.

She looked at me like I’d done something irreversible.

And maybe I had.

Because nothing would ever be the same after this. Not for me. Not for her. Not for the three of us. No matter what happened tomorrow, or next week, or in a year — this would always be the moment everything changed.

I swallowed. Hard.

“If it’s okay,” I said, voice lower than usual, “I can stay for bedtime. Just for a little while.”

Maddie cheered.

Y/N didn’t say anything.

But she nodded once. Soft. Like she was afraid her voice might betray her.

And then she reached for the book — not to take it from me, but just to touch the cover. Her thumb moved over the illustration like she was still making sure it was real.

Her hand brushed mine.

Neither of us moved.

And for a second, I thought she might say something. Something big. Something that would make the ache in my chest snap wide open.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked down and whispered, “Thank you.”

And I think that might’ve ruined me more than anything else could have.

By the time we got back to the apartment, Maddie was trailing behind us like a balloon losing helium — crown in hand, glitter on her cheeks, book clutched to her chest like something sacred.

Spencer held the door open for us without saying anything. He hadn’t said much since we left the park, but his silence didn’t feel cold. It felt… full. Like there was too much inside him to spill out all at once.

And honestly? I understood the feeling.

Maddie padded inside first, holding the book close to her chest like she was afraid someone might take it. Her crown had been removed with care, cradled under her arm like a stuffed animal. There was frosting still crusted near her ear, and her eyes were a little sleepy now — that sweet, softened calm she always got after something big and exciting.

“Alright, birthday girl,” I said, crouching next to her. “Shoes off, book on the couch, and go take a quick shower while I make some dinner, okay?”

She pouted immediately, that tiny lip wobble she knew could sometimes buy her five extra minutes.

“But I wanted to read it again…”

“You can,” I said gently, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “After dinner. And after your shower. Deal?”

She hesitated. Then gave a tiny nod, already kicking off her shoes. “Deal.”

She walked past Spencer on her way to the bathroom and tilted her head up just long enough to whisper, “You’re gonna eat with us?”

“If it’s okay with your mom,”

She didn’t wait for my answer. Just gave him a quick smile and padded down the hallway, still holding the book tight to her chest instead of leaving it at the couch like Y/N said. A few seconds later, the bathroom door clicked shut, and the apartment felt suddenly quieter. Still warm — but quieter.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen for a beat, not moving. I could feel him behind me, standing near the table, probably trying to figure out whether he should sit down or hover or offer to help. I didn’t turn around.

Instead, I reached for the soup cans. My hands were steady, but my chest wasn’t.

The truth was, I didn’t want him to leave.

And that thought — so quiet, so sharp — made everything inside me ache.

“I have tomato or chicken noodle,” I said eventually, keeping my tone light.

Behind me, I heard him shift, finally taking the seat closest to the window.

“I’ll eat whatever Maddie likes.”

I smiled to myself. “That wasn’t the question.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I like tomato. But only if there’s grilled cheese.”

“There’s no grilled cheese,” I said, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Just soup and me.”

His gaze met mine. “That’s enough.”

Something in my stomach twisted, low and hot. I turned back to the stove before he could see what that did to me.

Still, I’m pretty sure the silly smile on my face was beyond obvious.

“I’ll make you a grilled cheese with it,” I said softly, setting the pan on the burner. “I’m sure Maddie would appreciate one too.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” I murmured, buttering the bread. “But I want to.”

He didn’t say anything after that, but I could feel it again — that silent shift in the air, like he was about to say something and thought better of it. Like my answer had pressed on something he wasn’t ready to let move.

I dropped the slices into the pan and listened to the sizzle.

There was something grounding in the sound. Something normal. And yet nothing about this felt normal.

Spencer was sitting at my kitchen table like it wasn’t strange. Like we did this all the time. It wasn’t the first time we had spent time together in my home, or even the first time he was here late at night. In fact, he stayed the night the other day. Still, The domesticity of it wrapped around me so tightly, I almost forgot how rare it was.

“I’m glad you came,” I said, barely loud enough to be heard over the crackle of butter.

A pause.

“I’m glad you invited me,” he replied.

When I glanced back at him, his face was all soft lines and careful eyes. Not guarded, exactly — just like he was trying to memorize the way this felt. Like he didn’t want to risk breaking it by being too loud.

The grilled cheese hissed in the pan as I flipped it, the crust already golden.

I focused on the sandwich, but my mind was elsewhere. On the fact that he hadn’t hesitated when I asked him to stay. On the way he’d looked at Maddie like she was the center of something. On the way he looked at me now.

And I didn’t know what to do with all that softness, except pretend I wasn’t afraid of how badly I wanted it to stay.

I placed sandwich after sandwich on the plates, moving carefully, like rushing might shatter the quiet between us. Three grilled cheeses, sliced on the diagonal — the only correct way, according to Maddie — and set alongside three small bowls of tomato soup.

The smell filled the kitchen. Warm, nostalgic. Familiar in a way that felt foreign to me.

Spencer helped without asking, lifting two of the plates and carrying them to the table like he’d done it before. Like he’d done it here before. He didn’t ask where the napkins were. Didn’t need to. He just moved like someone who wanted to help, like someone who paid attention.

I watched him for a second, standing there in the soft yellow kitchen light, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, eyes scanning for where to set things down.

It made something in my chest pull tight.

Once everything was set, we paused — both of us hovering just slightly, neither sitting yet.

All that was left to do was wait for Maddie.

And then, softly, he spoke.

“You were crying.”

I turned toward him slowly.

It wasn’t an accusation. There was no edge to it. Just a quiet observation, spoken carefully, like he didn’t want to scare the truth back into hiding.

I let the words settle. Didn’t rush to explain. Then I gave a small nod.

“Yeah,” I said. “I was.”

He didn’t press. He just looked at me like he was listening, even in his silence.

“I’m sorry I made you cry…”

“It wasn’t you, Spence,” I chuckled. How could he possibly think that he made me cry? I mean he did, but not in the way he made it sound.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely over my chest. “It caught me off guard, I guess. What you did for her.”

He tilted his head slightly, not quite understanding.

I paused. Swallowed.

“I’ve spent so long trying to protect her from disappointment. From people who come close but don’t stay. I didn’t expect you to make space for her so easily. I didn’t expect it to matter this much.”

The room was still. The kind of still that only happens when something important has been said out loud.

He didn’t respond, not right away. But he didn’t look away, either.

I let out a soft breath. “I think I cried because I wasn’t ready for how good it felt.”

There was more I could’ve said. About how scared I was. About how easy it was becoming to picture him in this kitchen, at this table, beside us. About how I didn’t know what to do with that kind of softness.

But before I could say anything else, the sound of the bathroom door creaked open. Light footsteps padded into the hall.

Then, in a singsong voice, “I smell grilled cheeeeese!”

Maddie’s curls were damp and a little frizzy from the towel wrap. Her pajama shirt was slightly crooked, one sleeve tugged higher than the other. She made a beeline for the touch to get her new book. She held it under one arm like it was her most prized possession. 

She didn’t notice the way Spencer straightened when she entered. Or the way I quickly wiped my thumb under my eye even though no tears had fallen.

She just smiled.

And just like that, the moment folded itself away — quiet, unspoken, unfinished, but not forgotten.

“Just for you, Birthday Girl.”

Dinner passed in the soft way things sometimes do after big emotions — like the air had shifted just enough to slow us all down.

Maddie swung her feet under the table, one hand gripping her spoon while the other cradled the edge of her book, which sat beside her like a fourth guest. She insisted on placing it there — open to her favorite page, The final page where Fairy Princess Maddie, Wizard Spencer, and Queen Y/N, lived happily ever after in the magic star castle. She kept glancing down at it like she needed to remind herself it was real.

Spencer didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. His presence alone did more than words ever could. Every time Maddie laughed, he smiled like it caught him off guard. Like joy still surprised him. Like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to sit at this table, next to this little girl who adored him, across from me.

I barely ate. I pushed soup around in the bowl, took a few bites of sandwich, nodded along to Maddie’s monologue about her next birthday party even though this one wasn’t over yet. My body was here, but my head… my head was somewhere else entirely.

I kept stealing glances at him — not on purpose, not at first. But every time he laughed under his breath, or offered Maddie the last triangle of sandwich without being asked, I felt that ache come back. The one I thought I had under control.

It wasn’t even the grand gestures that did it. It wasn’t the book, though that nearly broke me. It was the small things. The way he listened like everything Maddie said mattered. The way he helped clean up with barely a word, quietly rinsing her cup in the sink like it was just second nature. The way he didn’t just make space for her in his world — he stepped into ours without rearranging a single thing.

I watched him from across the table and thought, not for the first time, I don’t know how I got here. Not in the sad way. In the way that felt a little like wonder, and a little like falling.

I’d been so careful with us. So slow. So guarded.

And yet tonight, despite having recognized these feelings already, everything inside me felt loosened. Warm. Lit up in places I hadn’t let myself feel in years.

When dinner ended, Maddie leaned her head against my arm and yawned — big and dramatic and half-fake, her version of a bedtime alarm.

“Come on,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s go get cozy.”

“I get to sleep with you tonight,” she reminded me, already sliding off her chair. “You promised.”

“I remember,” I said, brushing a crumb from her cheek. “Go pick a movie. I’ll be right there.”

She nodded and disappeared down the hall, dragging her book behind her — the corner of it catching softly against the carpet, a rhythm I’d come to know as hers. The sound faded, replaced by the quiet hum of my apartment and the slight creak of Spencer shifting his weight behind me.

I didn’t move at first.

Neither did he.

There was something fragile about the stillness. Something holy. Like if we spoke too loudly, we might wake whatever spell had settled between us. So I just stood there, watching the empty hallway, feeling the pulse of everything I hadn’t said buzzing just beneath my skin.

Eventually, I turned.

He was already looking at me.

Not in a casual way — not like someone politely waiting to be excused. It was the kind of look you give when you’re trying to memorize a room you know you have to leave. His hands were relaxed at his sides, but his shoulders were tense, like he couldn’t decide whether to stay grounded or float away.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” I said, my voice too quiet, too careful.

He nodded once. Said nothing. And we walked, slowly, side by side.

The apartment felt different with him in it, even in silence. Or maybe it was me that felt different — like the gravity had shifted, like I was carrying too much of something unnamed in my chest. I could still hear Maddie singing softly to herself in the background, flipping through the movie drawer like it was her life’s purpose. It should’ve anchored me.

It didn’t.

At the front door, we both hesitated.

He didn’t reach for the knob. I didn’t move to open it. We just stood there, two people orbiting something neither of us had named yet. The light from the kitchen spilled out behind him, catching in the soft gold of his hair, turning it warm. And for the first time all evening, I let myself really look at him.

His profile was lit in this quiet, reverent glow — like a portrait half-painted in shadow. His lashes cast soft arches under his eyes, his mouth slightly parted, like he’d started to say something and forgotten how. His tie was loose now, the collar of his shirt wrinkled from the long day, and I knew he probably hated that. But I loved it. I loved that he wasn’t perfect here. That he let himself be here.

And God, he looked tired.

Not in a way that made me feel sorry for him — in a way that made me ache.

Because I knew that kind of tired. The kind you wear in your bones. The kind you don’t speak about. And still, there he was — here, with us, helping clean up after a four-year-old’s birthday party and smiling like it was the most important thing he’d done all day.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes finding mine again. “For what?”

“For showing up.”

He looked like he wanted to respond. Like there were a dozen things he might say, and none of them were coming out right. But he didn’t look away.

I stepped closer without meaning to.

It was small — just a shift in the natural pull of something soft and magnetic — but it was enough. I felt the air change. Felt it thicken between us.

He didn’t move back.

And now that I was closer, I could see more.

The faint stubble under his jaw. The small scar at the side of his neck. The way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides like he was holding something in, or holding something back.

I thought of everything he was. His quiet. His gentleness. His wild, unfocused thoughts and how hard he worked to harness them. The way he made space for Maddie, not like it was a duty, but like it was joy. The way he listened to me. The way he saw me.

His heart was the kind that didn’t ask to be held — but you held it anyway, just by being near it.

I couldn’t stop myself.

Another step. Closer.

I was close enough now to feel his breath, to see the way his chest rose and fell, steady but slow. His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second. Just one. And then back to my eyes.

Neither of us said a word.

And then I reached up — gentle, hesitant, like I was afraid to break him — and pressed my lips to his.

It was soft.

Not desperate. Not rushed.

Just a quiet, trembling kind of reverence.

The kind of kiss you give someone who doesn’t know how much you already love them.

It probably lasted about a second, maybe less, but to me it felt like a lifetime.

Unfortunately, things like this — moments this good — never stay too long for me.

I had once again gotten too close to the light, and I got burnt.

He pulled away.

Not with care. Not with hesitation. It was sharp — immediate. Like his body had acted before his mind caught up, like the panic shot through him faster than reason could. He stumbled back a step, breath catching in his throat, eyes wide with something that looked far too much like fear.

“Y/N…” he said, and just the sound of it — my name on his lips, weighted with hesitation — made my heart twist. The tone wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t reassuring or curious or kind. It was startled. Shaken. Like the ground had moved under him and he couldn’t quite find his balance again.

And that was all it took.

The warmth that had been building between us, slow and sacred, crumbled in an instant. It fell away like something I had made up, something that only lived in my head. One second I had been standing in it — in the glow of what felt like a real thing — and the next, I was outside of it. Locked out.

My throat went dry. My body filled with that awful, sinking heat that always followed embarrassment — not anger, not even sadness yet, just humiliation. My voice barely made it through the wall that suddenly existed between us.

“Sorry,” I said, so quietly I wasn’t sure if it was sound or breath.

I felt it leave me. A word so small it hurt. My apology, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong — but what else was there to offer? There was no way to undo the kiss. No way to forget what I had just felt. And no way to unsee the way he’d pulled back from it like it had burned him.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t explain. He didn’t soften the blow. He just stood there, frozen in that moment, eyes wide, mouth parted, saying nothing. And the longer the silence stretched between us, the more that nothing turned into something. It turned into rejection. It turned into confirmation. It turned into of course.

I blinked a few times, trying to ground myself, to push the heat out of my eyes before it turned into tears. I stepped back because it was the only direction I could go. The only way to give him space that he clearly needed. I tried to think of something to say that would make it okay, something light or dismissive or forgiving, but I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t also break me.

“I should check on Maddie,” I said, and I didn’t mean it as an escape. I meant it as a shield. As the only thing I could offer to excuse myself from standing there and watching the distance grow wider and wider with every breath he didn’t take toward me.

But I couldn’t just walk away. I had to wait. I had to be sure he left.

He finally moved toward the door, and I followed — not closely, but enough to make it clear I was seeing him out. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t touch me. He just reached for the knob and stepped out into the hallway like he was leaving the scene of a mistake.

The door shut behind him with a finality that made my skin prickle. I stood still for a moment, blinking at it, trying to breathe through the way my body felt like it had been hollowed out.

Then I reached for the lock.

My hand stayed on it longer than it should have. The bolt slid into place with a click, and I stared at the door like maybe it would open again. Like maybe he’d come back. But nothing moved. Nothing changed. He was gone.

I leaned forward, forehead against the cool wood, and exhaled.

It was the kind of exhale that felt like a surrender — a quiet release of something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding onto all day. Hope, maybe. Or just the belief that I wasn’t alone in this. That he’d felt it, too.

Apparently not.

Apparently, I’d misread everything.

Maybe I was wrong at the planetarium. He did mean the clean cut of we’re not a family.

No matter what was actually going on in his brain, the result was the same.

He was gone.

And I was standing here, my lips still tingling, my chest aching, trying not to fall apart before I made it back to my daughter.

I didn’t even let myself wipe my eyes. I just turned away from the door, every step down the hall slow and heavy. The sound of cartoons echoed faintly from my bedroom. Maddie was waiting. She had no idea anything had happened. And she didn’t need to.

So I straightened my spine. I walked.

Because if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s pretend I’m okay when someone walks away.

Previous Chapter |

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[trashyyduckling]

SOME PROTECTOR ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x ex!reader

summary: it’s been 313 days. spencer still remembers the last thing you said to him. you still mean it. he’s been holding on from a distance ever since.

genre: angst (some smut & fluff in flashback scenes, but it’s mostly angst & hurt no comfort lol) | w/c: 7k

tags/warnings: inspired by the song “some protector” by role model, fem!reader, no use of y/n, yearner-in-chief spencer reid, yearninggg, like SO much yearning, minor alcohol consumption, relationship/breakup flashbacks, mutual pining, no happy ending (unresolved tho maybe?), panic attack in a flashback, sex scene in a flashback (making out, p in v, riding), 18+ MDNI

a/n: had a moment while editing where I almost gave up on this fic and deleted it but I’m pushing thru to post it anyways bc I worked rlly hard on it 🥲 recently been obsessed with this song and couldn’t stop picturing spencer when listening, so obviously I had to write 7k words to get it out of my system. obviously. also had “the way I loved you” in mind from reader’s side of things! if anyone is interested in a part 2 lmk because I’m already kind of itching over it 😶 (p.s. first pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance, just had the right dress!)

It’s been 313 days since the breakup. Spencer knows because he’d counted at first. Then stopped. Then started again.

He wouldn’t be here if not for the occasion — an engagement party for friends. One of those events where absence says more than presence ever could, so he showed up.

Now, he lingers at the edge of the room, half-shadowed by a bookshelf, pretending to care about the drink in his hand. He’d arrived a little late on purpose — a strategic delay. Fewer how’ve-you-beens, fewer questions about whether he’s seeing anyone new or if he’s talked to you. His plan was simple: blend into the perimeter, nod through a toast, and leave early without making a scene.

He hadn’t planned for you.

You walk in fifteen minutes after he does, wearing a dress he’s never seen before and a smile that almost passes for real. Your new boyfriend is beside you.

The thought had crossed his mind, he’ll admit. He met and became friends with the newly engaged couple through you, so there was always a decently high chance you’d be here tonight. But he hadn’t let himself linger on the thought long enough to plan for it, and he especially hadn’t allowed himself to consider the possibility you’d bring a date with you to a party you knew he’d be at. But nothing could’ve prepared him for it anyways. No amount of mental prep would’ve soothed the ache of watching another man’s hand find yours.

At first, Spencer can’t bring himself to look at you directly. But he tracks you in pieces — the tilt of your chin, the curve of your smile, the hand at your waist. The neckline of your dress, dipping just low enough to undo something in him.

You haven’t seen him yet. He’s not ready for when you do.

The room hums — clinking glasses, laughter pitched too loud, someone making a joke about wedding hashtags like it’s the cleverest thing in the world. But none of it reaches him. It all sounds submerged, warped by memory.

One hand tightens around his glass, the other buried in his pocket, fingers curled tight. He’s trying to ground himself, or maybe just keep himself from doing something stupid. Like walking up to you. Like saying your name. Like asking if it’s still his to say.

Spencer knows who your boyfriend is. He’s heard his name dropped casually by mutual friends. He’s done the requisite, ill-advised Google stalk with Garcia’s help. He’s memorized the basics: Ian Lockhart. Works in marketing. Graduated top of his class from UPenn. Youngest of three. Allergic to shellfish.

But that doesn’t stop the question from forming:

Does he truly know you?

Does he know you hate mint in desserts and prefer dark chocolate over the overly-sweetened milk variety? That you dog-ear the pages of whatever you’re reading instead of using bookmarks, even though you own at least fifteen of them? That you sleep with one hand curled under your chin like a child, hum under your breath when you feel safe, get hiccups when you’re anxious, and apologize for things that aren’t your fault?

Does he know the way you sound when you say Spencer’s name?

He hopes not. He hopes so. He doesn’t actually really know what he hopes for.

You’re smiling up at Ian like the weight of the room hasn’t doubled. Like this is just another party, not a place where Spencer’s body remembers every single version of you it ever loved.

And then — you spot him.

Over someone’s shoulder, through the blur of motion and candlelight, your eyes meet Spencer’s.

Something shifts in your face — a memory breaking the surface too fast to hide from. A flicker of something that looks a little like wanting, followed by restraint. You don’t look at him like a stranger. You look at him like before.

You tilt your head — a trace of kindness tugging at your mouth. But it only lasts a second before you turn away.

Spencer can’t breathe.

He’s still stuck in that second. He feels it like a match struck behind his ribs.

—

By the time the first toast of the night is over, you’ve disappeared down the hallway towards the kitchen. Spencer lets his gaze follow you just long enough to punish himself for it.

You still tuck your hair behind your ear the same way you used to, he notices. That quiet, automatic gesture like you’re not even thinking about it. You’ve always done it that way, like muscle memory.

And now he’s thinking about September, nearly three and a half years ago. Your first fall together.

It had been raining that day — that steady kind of rain that makes everything feel like it’s underwater. You’d been sitting on his couch with your legs tucked under you, a book splayed open in your lap, your thumb idly tracing the edge of the page. Spencer was talking too much, as usual. A fact spiral he hadn’t meant to fall into, born out of habit and the way you made the room feel safer somehow just by being in it.

“And there’s this theory,” he’d said, glasses pushed up too high on his nose, hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of the blanket between you, “that we can smell the weather changing — like, literally smell the oils and sugars released by leaves breaking down. That’s why autumn feels so…”

He trailed off, embarrassed, suddenly sprung back into hyper-awareness of how long he’d been speaking. But you just looked at him and smiled, that full-faced kind of smile you didn’t hand out easily. “So you’re saying you can smell fall coming?”

He nodded, sheepish. “Sort of. Yes. And I like it — the smell, I mean. It kind of reminds me of being a kid. Like old books and new pencils and being a person who still thought the seasons changing was like magic. Not that the seasons changed much in Vegas, but… still.”

You laughed. Not a sharp laugh, not mocking, but a delighted one. The kind of laugh that only shows up when someone says something completely true and completely weird and you’re so completely glad they said it.

Spencer looked at you like he didn’t quite know how to process how beautiful you were in that moment. Not just physically (though yes, that too), but emotionally. You didn’t flinch away from his oddities — you leaned toward them. Like maybe you were made of the same quiet strangeness he was.

You closed the book in your lap after folding down the corner of the page and laid it gently on the coffee table. “Tell me more things that remind you you’re a person.”

He blinked. “What?”

“That’s what you meant, right? That the smell of fall makes you feel human. Tell me more things like that.”

He hadn’t realized it, but that’s exactly what he meant. And so he did. All night.

Little things. Soft things. Things no one else ever asked him about. The sound of his mom reading him Chaucer and Kempe when he was still too young to really process what the stories meant. The hot sting of seatbelt buckles in the desert sun. The click of a lamp turning on in a dark room. The way library cards used to be made of paper and crinkle at the corners. The feeling of your hand in his.

You listened like every one of them mattered. And every one of them did, to you at least.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute you were curled beside him on the couch, both your heads tipped toward each other like magnets. The next, the sky outside had gone black and your fingers tangled loosely in the drawstring of his hoodie like you’d nodded off while trying to keep him from drifting too far away.

He never told you this, but when he woke up — before you stirred, before the world returned — he’d studied you. Every tiny detail. The part in your hair. The sleep-creased edge of your cheek. The way your mouth twitched when you dreamed. He counted every last freckle splayed across your cheeks. Drew constellations between them in his mind.

That was the night he knew he’d fallen hopelessly in love with you.

He blinks, and all of the sudden he’s back in the present, back at the party. You’re walking towards your date, two glasses of wine in your hands. The one you hand Ian is red. The one you sip from is white — you’d always preferred a colder, crisper Sauvignon Blanc over a full-bodied Chianti or Merlot.

You glance towards Spencer, and in that look, he swears he can see it. The ghost of that night. The version of you who laughed at the way he thought autumn smelled like #2 pencils and old books. The one that fell asleep easily with your body pressed to his side because you trusted him not to move.

He doesn’t look away.

Not yet.

Someone calls his name across the room and he answers with a vague nod. His body is here, but his mind is hovering somewhere else. Caught in the gravity of your glance, still trying to make sense of the soft exhale it pulled from his lungs.

—

You find him before he can decide to leave.

There’s a stretch of seconds as you weave through the room when Spencer wonders if he’s imagining it. If he’s hallucinating your trajectory out of want.

But no, it’s real. You’re coming toward him — slowly, carefully. Like you don’t trust what might happen when you finally get close.

“Spencer.”

His name falling from your lips still sounds just as gentle as it always had. He straightens. Not because he needs to — he’s never felt like he needs to perform for you — but because his body can’t help but brace when you look at him like that.

“Hi,” he manages, his voice quiet, like too much sound might make the moment collapse. “You look…”

Beautiful isn’t neutral. Radiant is worse.

So he lands on a very lame, very simple, “You look well.”

Your smile tilts, crooked and familiar. “Have you been avoiding me tonight?”

Spencer hesitates. He doesn’t look away, but something in his expression shifts — like he’s been caught doing something he didn’t realize was visible.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he says carefully. “Not intentionally. I just… I thought it was better to keep my distance. I didn’t want to intrude on you and...”

You nod once, like you expected that. You look across the room towards where you’d left Ian.

“He’s getting another drink,” you say, mostly to fill the space.

Spencer only nods. He doesn’t ask about him. He’s already heard enough from others. And what would you say, anyway?

He studies the curve of your wrist as you lift your glass. He used to press his mouth there — absentmindedly, in greeting, in gratitude. He blinks the memory away.

You glance down at your feet, then up again. There’s something almost sheepish about it. “You cut your hair.”

His hand grazes the back of his neck. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“I like it,” you say softly.

There’s no teasing in it. No flirtation. Just something honest. Small and steady, like the thrum of your voice used to be in the mornings, not yet fully awake, legs tangled beneath the covers.

“Thanks,” he says.

Another silence. Not awkward, not exactly. Just… weighted. Like you’re the only two people in it who remember something that’s no longer allowed to exist.

You wet your bottom lip, the way you always do when you’re thinking too hard. Spencer looks away. It feels dangerous to look for too long.

“I saw you on the news last month,” you offer. “That case in Pittsburgh.”

His gaze flicks back to you. “Yeah. That was…” He lets out a sigh. “Long week.”

“You looked tired,” you murmur. “More than usual.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not even concern, not exactly. Just observation. You always did that — noticed things he didn’t say out loud.

He shifts his weight. “We’ve had worse.”

You nod, but you’re still watching him, seeing right through him. He used to hate that. He used to love it, too.

There’s a long pause. Then, voice soft: “You still forget to eat when you’re anxious?”

Spencer huffs a breath — almost a laugh. “I still forget almost everything when I’m anxious.”

You smile, but it’s a sad thing.

“Your mom still calls me sometimes,” you say so quietly he almost misses it. “Thinks we’re still together.”

His breath catches. “She forgets. I’m sorry. I’ve told her a bunch of times.”

You shake your head, silently telling him the apology isn’t necessary. “She always asks if you’re eating. And if I’m making sure you sleep.”

Spencer nods and swallows, hard. He can’t bring himself to answer right away.

“I never correct her. She’s always so happy when I say yes.”

That lands somewhere deep — deeper than it should. Maybe it’s easier this way. To pretend, in some small corner of the world, you’re still his.

The silence creeps in again, fuller this time. You step an inch closer, not on purpose, not consciously. He doesn’t step back. The space between your arms hums with memory.

There’s a ring on your right pointer finger, the same one you always wore — a vintage, gold band from your grandmother’s jewelry box. Spencer used to twist it mindlessly while you read.

He wonders if you let Ian do that now. He wonders if he even notices it.

“I like the dress,” he says with a nod towards your outfit before he can stop himself. “The color.”

You tilt your head. “You always liked lavender.”

“I still do.”

Internally, you start to wonder: Did you wear it because you knew he’d be here tonight? Subconsciously, did you pick this dress out of your closet with Spencer in mind?

You look down again. Then up. You meet his gaze a second too long, and for a moment, it’s like everything falls away — the party, the boyfriend, the reasons you shouldn’t still care.

Then Ian calls your name from somewhere behind you.

The sound breaks whatever thread had been holding you there. You blink, eyes clearing, and step back half an inch — enough to remind yourselves what year it is. Where you are. What this isn’t anymore.

You glance over your shoulder, then back at Spencer.

“I should—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in gently. “Of course.”

You hesitate. Just for a breath. And then: “It’s really good to see you, Spence.”

Spence. He nods, slow and careful. “You too.”

You walk away. Spencer stays where he is, heart knocking unevenly in his chest, eyes fixed on the place you’d just stood like maybe you’ll return if he waits long enough.

You don’t. But you do turn around, just once, halfway through the room. Your gaze finds his again.

It’s brief, that look. Barely a second. But it says enough:

You remember everything.

—

Somewhere across the room, you laugh.

It’s not at him — Spencer doesn’t know what was said or why it was funny — but it’s the sound that stands out to him. That specific cadence. The one that always tumbled out of you just after midnight when you were tipsy and barefoot and glowing with affection you never tried to ration.

Your hand lands on Ian’s arm, light and familiar, fingers curling just slightly.

And that—

That’s what undoes him.

Because you used to do that to him. You used to touch him like he belonged to you.

Images swirl in his mind — your palm against his skin. That sweater. That night. That look on your face when you pushed him down onto the couch like you didn’t need words to tell him you wanted him. The memory ambushes him, full and bright and dizzying, like it’s been waiting all evening for the right moment to strike.

—

One month into dating, you wore a loose red sweater on a date with Spencer — one that hung off your shoulder and drove him to the edge of restraint. He’d never say it aloud, but that sweater still haunts him. The curve of your collarbone. The bare sliver of skin at your hip when you lifted your arms. The softness of it. Of you.

You hadn’t slept together yet. Spencer had been so careful about it — cautious in that way he always was when something really mattered to him. He wanted to be sure this thing between you was real first (it was). Wanted to be sure you were ready (god, you were). Wanted to be sure he was ready, too.

You’d come back to his apartment after dinner, your thigh pressed against his in the cab, your voice syrupy and laced with secrets, low in his ear: “You gonna keep being shy, or are you gonna do something about it?”

He kissed you the second the front door closed behind you. Harder than he meant to — sloppier, too. But you moaned softly into it and fisted your hands in his jacket like you didn’t want to waste anymore time being polite about this.

It was a little frantic at first. Your back hit the wall. His belt clattered to the floor. You laughed into his mouth, breathless and giddy, hands everywhere — threading through his hair, yanking at his shirt, skimming down the front of his pants like you already knew exactly how he liked to be touched.

He walked you back into the couch, then you took the reigns and pushed him down onto it. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, grinding down in a slow, devastating rhythm that made his vision blur.

Within minutes, you were undressed from the waist down, the sweater still on. That somehow made it even more intense — or maybe it would’ve been that way regardless, he couldn’t really say for sure. All he knew was the skin of your thighs, the heat of you moving against him, the breathy way you said his name when his hands cupped your ass and pulled you tighter into his lap.

“Spencer,” you gasped, mouth against his jaw. “Please.”

He remembers the exact moment you said it — the way your breath caught, the stutter in your hips, the way your fingers curled at the back of his neck.

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his, so close he could feel every shake of your inhale. And then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m yours, Spence. Okay? Don’t be gentle.”

And that was it. Spencer Reid — always careful, always afraid of taking too much — finally let go.

That night, he told you he loved you with every part of his body. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew you heard it anyway.

He fucked you slow and deep from below, gripping your hips as you rode him and matched his rhythm with every grind of your body against his. Not tender, but not rough either — just real. Like every motion was a word he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. You clung to him, nails pressing into his shoulders, moaning softly as his lips found every part of you he could reach — your throat, your collarbone, the delicate skin just below it. He mouthed at the place your pulse fluttered hardest and stayed there until you broke.

And when you did — when you came around him with his name caught in your throat like something sacred — he followed, buried deep inside you, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer only he knew how to recite.

After, you collapsed on his chest, the red sweater twisted around your ribs, your legs still tangled with his. You were quiet in that way that only happened when you were fully content. One hand traced over the back of his — slow, barely there — like you couldn’t stand to not be touching him, even in sleep.

Meanwhile, he didn’t sleep at all.

Just lay there memorizing you: the shape of your mouth, the curve of your waist, the warmth of your bare skin under the blanket, the rise and fall of your breath.

Spencer had been with others in the past. But he’d never touched someone quite like that before. Never been touched like that either — not with that kind of need or care or want.

And now?

Now you’re across the room with someone else’s arm around your waist, yet he still can’t stop thinking about that night. About your mouth. Your hands. Your voice when you begged him not to hold back.

You catch him looking with a twitch of your lips like you’ve caught a secret.

For a second, he thinks you know what he’s remembering. Maybe you’re remembering it too.

And then, just like that, the moment passes. You look away and turn slightly toward Ian, laughing again — softer this time. But something about it’s off — you smile too quickly, blink too long, seem too practiced.

And god, Spencer feels it now — an ache that starts behind his ribs and spreads. He knows that look. The forced composure. Your tight little nod. The way your shoulders curl inward, just enough to seem invisible.

You’re tired.

Not just from the party or the heels. Not even from the fact that Spencer is here. No, you’re tired in a quiet, cell-deep way. The kind of tired that creeps in when you’ve been holding everything too tightly for too long. He used to see it in your posture before you ever spoke. In the way you’d knead at the back of your neck. In the sound of your keys hitting the kitchen counter just a little too hard.

His whole body aches with the memory of it.

Because he can’t touch your elbow now, can’t draw you into a hallway and press his hand to your spine and ask, Is it bad today? in a voice soft enough to disappear into your skin. He can’t guide you to the couch and take your shoes off for you and rub slow circles into the arch of your foot. He can’t be that version of himself for you anymore.

But he remembers. He remembers it all.

—

You’d had a rough shift.

Spencer knew before you said a word. He heard it in the way your bag hit the floor when you’d walked into his apartment — not thrown exactly, but dropped with too much force. Watched it in the way you kicked off your shoes in the hallway like they’d betrayed you. You didn’t kiss him hello. Didn’t even meet his eyes.

You just paced the kitchen in your scrubs, hands trembling slightly. Your voice cracked when it finally came. “She was just a kid, Spence. She died right in front of me.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just crossed the room, took your phone gently from your hand, and set it down on the counter.

You looked at him like you weren’t sure if he’d understand. Like some part of you expected him to step back.

But then, you broke.

It happened all at once, because panic doesn’t slow down or ask permission. One moment you were upright, breathing, trying — and the next, you were not. Your breath hitched. Your eyes went wide. Your hands clawed at your chest like you needed to open it, like the air in your lungs wasn’t enough.

“I can’t— I can’t—”

“I know, baby,” he said, already reaching.

He slid to the floor with you, back against the cabinets, his body folding around yours to hold you steady. His hands were firm but gentle — one at your shoulder, one at the base of your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”

You let out a single, ragged sob and collapsed against him, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling through the floor. He didn’t flinch — just tightened his arms around you, voice soft and measured in your ear.

“Five things you can see,” he murmured. “Just try for me.”

You shook your head, breath shallow, shoulders tight. “Can’t.”

“Okay. Okay. Just look, then.” His hand moved slowly along your back. “The floor tile. The fridge magnets. The photo of us in Vegas framed on the wall. That stupid spiky plant you named Steve. Me. I’m right here.”

You gasped — air, finally — and he held you through it.

“You’re not alone,” he said, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

It took seven minutes for your breathing to settle. Even longer for your hands to stop shaking. But he didn’t let go.

Later, when you were curled against his side in bed — voice scratchy, eyes raw — you said it like a confession:

“I’m sorry, Spence. I…I don’t want to be too much.”

He turned toward you and answered without hesitation as he pulled you closer into him.

“There’s no such thing as too much. Not with you.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple before adding, “You’re just enough, all the time.”

—

The memory lingers long after it fades.

Spencer exhales, slow and shaky, chest tight with the ghost of it — your voice in his ear, your fingers curled into his shirt, the unbearable tenderness of that night on the kitchen floor. He can still feel the imprint of you, sharp as breath in cold air.

When he blinks, the present returns in pieces: music pulsing, voices laughing, people moving all around him. But it’s your absence that hits harder: You’re gone. You’re not near Ian, not near the party hosts, not near anyone. You’ve slipped out of the crowd, vanished discreetly like you always could when your shoulders got too heavy to hold up.

He knows where you’ve gone before he even moves. Knows the way you seek out quiet. Knows the exact rhythm of your retreat.

And so he follows.

—

It’s started to snow.

Not hard — just flurries, soft and inconsistent, the kind that hover before deciding whether or not they want to stick. String lights stretch across the balcony railing, catching in the wind.

You’re alone. Or trying to be, at least.

One hand rests on the railing. Your thumb circles the condensation on your wine glass, which you’ve long stopped drinking from — just holding it now, mostly for the sake of keeping your fingers occupied.

Spencer finds you like gravity. Like an orbit he never quite escaped.

You don’t turn when you hear him step outside. You don’t have to — you already knew he’d be the one to track you down.

The door hushes shut behind him. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just stands there for a moment in the doorway, watching your silhouette outlined against the snow-smeared sky.

You exhale through your nose. “Ian talks too much when he’s nervous.”

Spencer steps closer. “You used to say the same thing about me.”

You look over your shoulder. Not smiling, but not not smiling either. “Yeah. But it was different with you.”

He doesn’t respond, but you hear the way his breath catches. He shrugs out of his jacket without thinking — an instinct time hasn’t yet pulled from him. It’s the same instinct that used to make him drape it over your shoulders on late walks home, or leave it folded at the foot of your bed after an argument, still carrying the shape of his body. He eases it around you gently, and you let him. You hold it closed at the collar with one hand, and for a second, Spencer swears you lean into the warmth of it — the him of it.

“Has it always been this cold in January?” you ask with a laugh, eyes on the city skyline.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. But I think we just didn’t notice it the last few Januaries. Or at least I didn’t.”

You turn your head to look at him, slowly this time. “Why not?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Because I had you.”

And just like that, the wind cuts through the silence between you. You both shiver, but neither of you move.

“Some nights I still wake up thinking I heard your voice,” you say quietly.

He blinks.

“I don’t know what it says. It’s not really words — just… the shape of them. I think my brain fills in the rest.”

Spencer swallows, hard. “What does your brain imagine?”

You shake your head. “All kinds of things, I guess. But it definitely misses how you used to say my name.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hands twitch at his sides. His throat works around something sharp.

“You know,” he says softly, “I still talk to you sometimes. In my head. I still tell you about cases, and books you’d hate, and little things I see that remind me of you.”

You blink quickly, but not quick enough to hide the sheen in your eyes. “Do I ever answer?”

He nods, his voice rough, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah. Sometimes you do.”

A beat passes. The snow starts to stick in your hair.

You both move at the same time. Just a half-step closer, your bodies angled toward each other like two halves of the same thought.

His hand brushes your wrist on the railing. Yours lingers at the lapel of his jacket, still clutched around you like armor. Your eyes drop to his mouth then flicker back up. You’re not smiling. Neither is he.

The city exhales around you. Somewhere inside, a champagne cork pops. But it feels like you’re the only two people on the planet.

Spencer leans forward — just barely. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough to feel your breath warm the space between you. His voice, when it comes, is barely a sound:

“I would’ve done anything to keep you.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry. You just whisper, “I know.”

And you do. You know. You’ve always known.

A full minute passes like that. Eventually, you pull back and shrug the jacket from your shoulders, hold it out with an unsteady hand. Spencer takes it slowly, without a word, fingers brushing yours for a half-second too long.

You step towards the door and turn slightly, just enough to get a look at him. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

Spencer watches the snow catch in your hair. “Of course.”

You nod once. “I meant it.” You pause, blink back a tear before adding, “I still mean it.”

You look at him then — really look, as if you’re expecting him to say something in response, but he doesn’t. And so, after one more tremble of hesitation, you’re gone.

Spencer doesn’t go inside right away. He watches the snow collect in the grooves of the railing, in the spaces between bricks on the balcony wall. Watches his breath fog in the air like smoke. He can still smell your perfume on his jacket. Still feel the shape of your voice in his chest.

And god, if you’d asked him, if you’d reached, if you’d said come with me, he would have, without question.

But that’s the thing about moments — they pass. And once they do, all that’s left is the before. And the after.

He presses his palms to the cold railing. Breathes deep. And then, the darkest memory comes.

—

You weren’t angry. That was the worst part.

You were quiet. Controlled. A little too still — like someone who’d already cried in the car then reapplied her makeup and practiced how to sound fine. Spencer had been reading when you showed up, a case file open beside him, a mug of tea cooling untouched on the coffee table.

He hadn’t been expecting you.

But the second he looked up and saw you in the doorway — your jacket still zipped, your eyes dim, your shoulders pulled back like a wall — he knew. Even before you spoke, he knew.

You sat on the edge of the couch without a word. You didn’t take off your shoes. Didn’t reach for his hand. Just stared at him, quietly. Like you were still deciding whether or not to break your own heart.

“I don’t want to do this,” you said softly once you finally got yourself to speak.

Spencer’s breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

But you shook your head, eyes glassy. “It’s not that simple.”

And he felt it then — that slow, precise tear in the fabric of something he thought he could still fix. The moment peeling open like skin beneath a dull blade.

“I love you,” you said. “That hasn’t changed. I need you to know that.”

His lips parted. He said your name — soft, small — like maybe saying it would anchor you both back to solid ground.

But you went on. “I just don’t know how to be with you when you won’t let me in.”

He blinked, confused. “I let you in.”

“No.” You shook your head again, more tired than anything else. “I know you wanted to. And you thought you did. But… you didn’t. Not really.”

Spencer looked down. He knew you were right.

He’d been quietly withdrawing for months — not in big, obvious ways, but slowly. Case after case. Canceled dates, sleepless nights, long silences between texts. Promises made in touches instead of words, apologies offered in the form of forehead kisses and new books and please don’t ask me to talk about it.

You’d stayed anyway.

You kept showing up — with dinner, with warmth, with hope. And he kept failing to reach back the way you needed him to.

He wanted to believe you knew that he loved you, even if he didn’t always know how to say it when the weight got too heavy. But he never really told you where the weight lived. Never let you see what it cost him just to hold it all together.

“It’s not you,” he said, the words spilling out too fast, like they were trying to outrun the inevitable. “It’s just— I’ve been… I’ve been trying not to make it worse.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “Worse?”

“For you,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to drag you into my darkness. I thought… I thought I was protecting you.”

That was the moment something shifted in your face. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just that quiet kind of grief that comes from loving someone who keeps pointing you to a door without handing you the key.

“I didn’t need protecting, Spencer,” you said. “I just needed you.”

He reached for you then, without thinking. Not to fix it — he already knew it was too late for that — but to hold on to you one last time.

You almost let him, but then you pulled away. The moment had already passed. The truth had already landed.

“I keep waiting for you to let me all the way in,” you whispered. “Keep hoping. Keep thinking if I just love you a little harder, maybe you’d stop holding back.”

He wanted to tell you he never meant to. That he never meant for the silence to feel like distance, or for his grief to become a barrier. But he couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even lift his eyes to meet yours.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” he choked out.

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

And then — like a wound coming undone at the seam — you stood.

He stood too — reflexive, as if maybe just the movement would change your mind. But you were already reaching for your bag, already curling into yourself, one arm tucked across your ribs like you were barely holding your body together.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I can’t do this anymore. I need to feel like I can breathe again.”

He nodded. Because what else do you do when the person you love more than anything else in the universe is asking you to let them go?

You turned toward the door and took a few strides before hesitating and looking back.

Spencer was still standing there, frozen in place, eyes red and rimmed with tears, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller — like if he could just shrink the hurt, maybe you’d stay.

You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a key — your key to his place, the one you’d already taken off your keychain as you cried in the car. You set it down on the entry table, and your fingers lingered over the shape of it for a second too long before pulling back and reaching for the door.

You steadied yourself enough to speak, but your voice still broke as you did. The kind of words that echo louder once the silence sets in:

“I’ll love you forever, Spencer. Even if I have to do it from far away.”

Despite your best efforts, you froze once more before you could bring yourself to step outside. “I’ll never stop,” you added in a whisper.

Then the door closed behind you.

—

The snow’s falling heavier now. Slow, deliberate flakes, shapeless against the sky.

Spencer stays outside long after the cold has sunk into his hands, long after the balcony door clicks shut behind him. Somewhere behind the glass, people are laughing. A new song is starting. But all of it feels miles away.

You’d asked him — softly, like it might break if you said it too loud:

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

He’d thought it was just nostalgia. A prompt for some shared memory, a fragment you wanted him to hold with you for a final moment before moving on.

But it wasn’t.

You weren’t asking if he remembered — no. You were asking if he still believed you.

I’ll love you forever. I’ll never stop.

I still mean it.

He grips the railing tighter. Because now he understands: you weren’t reaching back into a memory. You were reaching towards him. Tentatively. Hopefully. Asking if it still means anything. If it’s still real.

You’ve moved on, at least that’s what you tell yourself. Maybe Ian — solid, safe Ian — is more than just a placeholder. Maybe it’s still the wrong time for you and Spencer. But maybe some small, stubborn part of you is still tethered to him by a thread neither of you has had the courage to cut.

Maybe that look you gave him tonight wasn’t just nostalgia. Maybe it was permission. Or forgiveness. Or both.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Or maybe it is.

But maybe — just maybe — if he reaches, you’ll reach back.

And for the first time in 313 days, Spencer can’t bring himself to just wonder from afar.

He needs to find out.

—

The warmth of the party hits him too fast once he steps back inside.

It's jarring, like surfacing through ice. Noise and light and heat pressing in on all sides.

He moves before he knows where he’s going. Not calmly. Not with logic. Just instinct — pulled forward like a tide. Past the hallway. Past the bar. Past an acquaintance calling his name.

He’s scanning the crowd now with something closer to desperation than hope. Looking for the lavender of your dress, the curve of your mouth, the shape of a future he once held in both hands.

He thinks he sees your hair by the fireplace, but it isn’t you. Just someone with the same soft tilt of the head. Another not-you in a sea full of not-yous.

He checks the hallway. A guest bedroom. The stairwell. The far end of the kitchen.

You’re not there. You aren’t anywhere.

The edges of the room start to blur. For a moment, he thinks he’s too late. Thinks maybe you’ve already slipped through his fingers for good.

But then — he sees you.

Near the front door, coat draped over your arm, ready to leave. Ian’s standing beside you, saying something low near your ear. You’re nodding, distracted. Your fingers tighten around your purse strap.

Spencer stops moving.

His whole body goes still — like someone hit pause mid-scene. Like the universe has given him one last, final frame to memorize you before you’re gone.

He could go to you. Reach for you and pull you into him, Ian be damned. Say your name. Tell you the truth — that it’s been 313 days since you left and he’s loved you for every single one of them. That when you turned to him on the balcony and said I still mean it, he should’ve said I never stopped, either.

But he doesn’t.

Because the part of him that’s always loved you best — the part that curled around you on the kitchen floor, the part that kept you at a distance thinking it was safest — knows what it means to protect someone.

And sometimes it means letting you walk away, even when it feels like it might kill him.

So he stays where he is. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He just watches.

Watches the way you pause at the door like something intangible is tugging at you. Watches the moment your head turns, as if your muscles knew he was there before your heart could catch up.

Your eyes meet Spencer’s across the foyer, and for a second, the rest of the world vanishes.

Neither of you smiles. Neither speaks.

But everything is said.

It’s in the way your mouth parts like you might call his name and then don’t. In the way you look at him like you remember it all. Like you never stopped remembering. Like you never stopped wanting.

He wants to go to you. God, he does. It takes every ounce of strength in him to hold back.

And after one long, fragile heartbeat, you look away and leave with Ian’s hand pressed against your back.

The door closes softly behind you. Spencer doesn’t move.

He watches the snow blur the windows. Watches the space you left behind.

And in the quiet, he holds it all. The ache. The memories. The weight of a love he never stopped carrying. The feeling of caring so deeply for someone from the outside of a life that used to be his.

Because that’s what he is now — an outsider.

Not your partner. Not your future.

Just some protector.

And maybe — for now — that can be enough.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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[trashyyduckling]

BIRTHDAY BLUES!

summary: it's spencer's birthday and you promise to make it perfect. unfortunately, fate has other plans. pairing: spencer reid x reader. tags: afab reader, established relationship [kinda, reader n reid r not dating officially], very soft angst, a lot of comfort, reader is having a no-good-very-bad-day, spencer doesn't rly like his birthday :( word count: 1.6k notes: based off of a request from the excuse prompts <3 not as angsty as probably intended but i thought it'd be silly.

You were supposed to be there. You had promised.

Spencer didn’t even like his birthday. The most he celebrated was blowing out the birthday cake that the team got him every year, leaving the celebration behind as soon as his shift ended and he was able to go home. Every year of his life had been filled with some type of challenge, like the bullies when he went to high school at the age of twelve or the fight it had been to try and fit in at the FBI when he was still young.

But you had promised that you’d be there, at his home, to make something good of his birthday. To start his year off correctly, you had said. There had been wonder in your voice as you had spoken about bringing him some silly balloons to breathe in the helium, or how you’d bake his birthday cake yourself from scratch, leaving his mouth water in a “way he’d never be able to replicate.” 

It had actually made him excited. You were his closest friend, his confidante. Of course, your relationship had gotten a bit further than that, unofficially, but he’d always describe you as his friend first, even if every night spent as his apartment was in his bed, wrapped in his arms. It was nice to have someone that even tried to understand his mind, or let him ramble rather than cutting him off as soon as he got into the flow of it. He had taken the day off at your request, spending the day meandering around his apartment and organizing his bookshelves, as if you’d notice. As the hours ticked by, he had let himself get more amped up and excited, busying himself around the house so that everything’d be perfect for the perfect two-person party you had planned for him.

Then seven o’clock had crawled by. Followed by eight o’clock, then nine o’clock. You were now two hours and thirty-six minutes late to the time that you had set. Disappointment and irritation went back-and-forth in his head, an ever-present frown on his face as he paced in front of his couch. He had been stood up before, by girls pretending that they wanted to go on a date with him for a laugh or by so-called friends that found better things to do, however he never would have expected it from you. You seemed so excited. So genuine. He was a profiler, for God’s sake.

At ten o’clock, Spencer runs out of excuses for you and changes out of his nice sweater and pants, sliding on comfortable pajamas instead. At five at minutes past ten o’clock, he’s tucked underneath his duvet, hand curled beneath his cheek as he stares at the wall. Inside his head, he churns through what exactly someone could do in this situation. Proving his age, he decides that the silent treatment is probably best.

It’s twelve minutes past ten o’clock when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, he knows it’s you. He’s always had some sort of sixth sense that told him when you were near. No hair raising on the back of his neck, no heart thumping harder against his rib cage, just a sense, a feeling. 

Against his better judgement, he pulls himself out of bed. Admittedly, he fakes a sleepy rub of his knuckles against his eyelid, feigning that he had been asleep. He’s always been a bit childish, never able to shake it. It’s the one thing he clings onto as someone who grew up too fast. There’s never been an innocence to him, a hope for a better day a few days later. All he had left was the stubborn need to put his foot down. 

Opening the door, the first thing he sees is the singular balloon in your hand. It floats just a few inches or so above your head, dents in it from the loss of helium over time, the HAPPY BIRTHDAY stamped across the front just slightly withered. For a moment, he allows himself to mentally say some snarky remark about how it clearly encapsulated how he felt. 

That is, until he looks at your face. The mascara that you had (no doubt) put on that morning had started to smear beneath your waterline, your lips stained with cherry-red lipstick that had long dissipated throughout the day. Your eyes were half-lidded as you stared up at him, lips pursed as if you were holding back tears. 

You don’t even give him a chance to speak before you’re rambling, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Spencer.” Not waiting for him to invite you in, you push past him into his apartment, leaving him to watch you in slight surprise and shut the door slowly. 

Fingers shaking, you curl the ribbon of the balloon around the bottom bar of one of his barstools, tying a knot as you continue babbling. “I spent all day trying to bake your cake, but everything just kept going wrong. I found so many recipes online that had good reviews and said they were perfect for knocking people’s socks off, and I just couldn’t do it. I used the entire bag of flour I bought and all I had was multiple cakes that tasted like concrete powder.”

You’re crying now, letting out pitiful sniffles as he watches you with concerned eyes, his arms crossed over his chest as he studies – profiles – you. “And then I was going to go get you a cake, because it was already five o’clock, and you deserved a cake, even if it wasn’t handmade like I said. So I went and found the best bakery in the area, but they couldn’t make one today, and you didn’t deserve a pre-bought cake. So I called so many other bakeries until I found one.”

“I went and got the cake and it was perfect. Gorgeous piping along the edges, calligraphy in icing on the top, amazingly decorated. But then I dropped it when I was going into the balloon shop. I couldn’t even make a good cake and then I dropped the perfect one. Straight onto the icing.” 

Raising your hands, your fingers push away the tears on your cheeks before squeezing at the roots of your hair. Finally, Spencer concedes in the mental argument he was having with you, stepping forward and gently clasping his hands around your elbow, thumb brushing consoling circles against your bare skin.

It’s like you don’t even notice, sad eyes staring up at him as you continue your story through your hiccups. “So I thought, okay, I’ll go get Spence some balloons. I promised him balloons and he shall get balloons. But then they were out of helium. What party store runs out of helium?” It’s childish, whining about all of the misery that you had gone through that day, sobbing about balloons through your hiccups.

“I got you one balloon. That's all I could get. I thought, whatever. Birthdays don’t just become enjoyable because of the physical things, it’s about the people. I got in my car at six, which means I’d get here early. And then I got a flat tire. I called road assistance, but they couldn’t give me an estimated time that they’d be there. I tried to find a cab, but they all just ignored me and drove away.”

You look pitiful, hiccups interrupting your soft sniffles, tears painting your cheeks. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, I swear. I wanted to be here, with you, and give you the best birthday you could ever ask for. You deserved that. I ruined it.” The last words come out as a whimper, which perfectly matches the kicked-puppy look you’ve been sporting since he had opened his door.

Spencer lets out a soft sigh, using the grip on your elbow to pull you into his chest. Immediately, your arms are wrapping around his waist, cheek leaning against him as you sniffle and whine. One of his large hands rubs up and down your spine as he hushes you softly, leaning his own cheek atop your head after pressing a comforting kiss to your hairline. 

After you’ve finally calmed, he places his hands on your biceps, pulling away to look at you and raising his eyebrows. “Are you feeling better?”

You respond with a wrinkle of your nose, brow still furrowed. “Are you mad at me?”

“I was,” he answers honestly. “We both have phones, you know.”

A long groan leaves your lips, hands raising to cover your face. “It died, Spence! And my charger did, too! Please don’t make me talk about it anymore, I’ll cry again.” Your fingers splay so you can look up at him, a stray bang falling into your eyes.

He grins as he reaches up to brush the hair away, fingertips brushing against your forehead before he’s grabbing your hands, pulling them away. “You don’t need to worry. I forgave you the moment I saw you at my door.” A slight lie, but it’s okay. Anything to take away even a bit of your current stress.

“I wanted you to have a good birthday.” You murmur, face still contorted into a full-blown pout.

The fingers holding your wrists pull your hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles. “We still have about an hour and a half left.” He reminds you gently, an amused smile still playing on his mouth. “You can even spend the night and we can act like midnight never happened.”

Sighing, you lean into him, exhaustion taking over, the product of your absolutely dreadful day. “Can I borrow some sweatpants and show you some really bad reality TV? I’ll even let you talk about whatever book you’re reading now until I fall asleep. Not like those are correlated.” 

Finally, a smile sprouts on your face. Any objection that Spencer might’ve had evaporates on his tongue as he nods, placing another kiss to your hairline before giving a soft tug to your hand. “C’mon. Let's get you to bed.”

[trashyyduckling]

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart. 

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static. 

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months. 

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good. 

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way. 

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not. 

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

This is the right thing. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses. 

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair. 

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared. 

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making. 

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth. 

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes. 

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32. 

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts. 

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying. 

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. 

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him. 

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint. 

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone. 

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand. 

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes. 

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily. 

“So you’ve told me.” 

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?”You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink. 

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days. 

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things. 

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend. 

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they stillbelieved me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks. 

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no. 

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin. 

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.  

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t. 

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone. 

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?” 

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it. 

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence. 

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing. 

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing. 

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh. 

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow. 

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn. 

More buzzing silence. 

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton. 

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.”You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back. 

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he  clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered. 

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey. 

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?” 

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face. 

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon. 

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be. 

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers. 

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can. 

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains. 

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably. 

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming. 

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice. 

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat. 

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed. 

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble. 

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear. 

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity. 

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much. 

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen. 

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right. 

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased. 

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in. 

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun. 

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die. 

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood. The shower is started. 

Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that. 

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper. 

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you. 

-

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well. 

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check upon me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch. 

-

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room. 

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him. 

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp. 

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief. 

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too. 

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state. 

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt. 

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you. 

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines. 

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

-

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth. 

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries. 

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection. 

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand. 

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad. 

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag. 

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet. 

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together.  That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall. 

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!” 

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders. 

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his eye. “What the fuck is your problem?” You shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again. 

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper. 

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway. 

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent. 

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says. 

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. 

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into. 

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival. 

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in. 

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant. 

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity. 

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release. 

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin. 

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds. 

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment. 

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want. 

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him. 

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you. 

“Really?” He croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want. 

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry. 

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait. 

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again. 

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it. 

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end. 

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck. 

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer. 

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision. 

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name. 

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would. 

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best. 

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you. 

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life. 

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck. 

“Okay?” He murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay. 

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids. 

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your co-workers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you. 

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unphased. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” You hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room. 

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accostedas soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet. 

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent sizes. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles. 

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face. 

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction. 

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression. 

That only pisses you off worse. 

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox. 

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are. 

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke. 

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it. 

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied. 

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross. 

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him. 

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff. 

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart? 

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across. 

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him. 

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want. 

“Yeah?” He asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you. 

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works. 

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar. 

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how hard he wishes it could. 

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know. 

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters. 

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls. 

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery. 

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love. 

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield. 

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV. 

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window. 

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck. 

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you. 

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ. 

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this. 

He loves me. 

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong. 

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails. 

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much. 

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic. 

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined. 

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell. 

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner. 

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart. 

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal. 

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole. 

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below. 

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers. 

You tap lightly at his door. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect. 

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens. 

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth. 

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled. 

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on. 

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine. 

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for. 

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. 

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting. 

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV. 

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me. 

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things. 

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin. 

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—‘cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and co-dependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.”Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation. 

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention. 

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for click of the phone back in its cradle. 

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking. 

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you can’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you. 

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink. 

“No, no—“ he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all. 

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you. 

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums. 

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go. 

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home. 

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards. 

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to. 

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter. 

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that. 

Fuck. 

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him. 

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood. 

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them. 

Which means you need to backtrack. 

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face. 

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between. 

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat. 

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way. 

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way. 

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted. 

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach. 

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears. 

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is. 

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years. 

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again. 

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave. 

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself. 

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision. 

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders. 

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable. 

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out. 

-

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs. 

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything. 

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you. 

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next. 

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. 

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” He grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight. 

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process. 

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast. 

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor. 

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you. 

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you. 

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins. 

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself. 

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen. 

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water. 

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen. 

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while. 

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat. 

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying. 

You watch it wash over him. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic. 

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air. 

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. 

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room. 

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them. 

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer.”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—”Your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—”Heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. I have dinner plans with an old professor of mine who’s in town.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” You ask quietly.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does, until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—”Instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” You laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” You ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” He murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this��when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!!

[trashyyduckling]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a short story of how you became the intrigued observer of madness. possession. fixation. obsession—and every other synonym you can think of. a witness to how the taste of your lips marked spencer like a curse he can’t break…unless you let him do it again. the only question is: will you?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, diva's pov gunshot so a little sneak peek into her inner thoughts <3 spencer being obsessed with her lips after they kissed, reader wearing a lipstick, sassy spence supremacy

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1.7k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request.

No one would be surprised to hear you enjoyed teasing Spencer Reid.

Enjoyed? That’s an understatement – you loved it, just as much as things like a hot bath with fragrant bubbles that reached all the way up to your nose, testing out a new microscope model, or discovering the perfect lip combo that made your lips absolutely irresistible.

But we’ll get back to those irresistible lips.

Anyway, you loved it just as much as those little everyday pleasures, the essentials to get through the day, like your morning coffee or a little sweet treat.

Well, you weren’t about to pretend this was something reserved solely for him. On the contrary, this kind of dynamic colored most of your interactions with men. Sensual inaccessibility, sharp wordplay, a clear assertion of your place and expectations. Honesty about your intentions. Yes, honesty. Because if you wanted to have some fun with someone, you weren’t about to pretend your goal was a shared future, settling down, and offering them all of yourself. Men were drawn to your beauty like naive flies to honey, but you didn’t care about them enough to hide your true nature and everything that lay beneath that perfect facade – if one got put off by a few unkind but truthful words, another would quickly take their place, one who could keep up with you better.

Yet, you couldn’t hide the fact that teasing him gave you just a bit more pleasure. Maybe because, unlike some, he was actually smart, and his remarks and comebacks were sharp, spot on, and challenging. The kind that sometimes required some real mental effort to come up with the right answer—what a perfect way to train your mind. You liked being around him also because he amused you.

Yes, he amused you. It was fascinating watching him try to maintain indifference to your attractiveness, pretending it didn’t catch his eye with every move you made, every step you took. You knew your physicality attracted him, though there was nothing special about that – you’d grown used to it. Desire was deceptive, you yourself wanted people you had nothing to do with, or ones you barely tolerated, but you were always aware of that, just as you were aware that it didn’t have to immediately mean that dreaded L-word. Yet he deluded himself into thinking you hadn’t noticed. He even took pride in how perfectly he hid it. He’d even tell you that you were pretty—in the same tone someone might use to point out that someone had eyes of a particular color or freckles on their cheeks, a simple impersonal statement of fact, in no way connected to a personal opinion. A personal opinion that could upset the balance of a relationship. Because if the other person knew you were attracted to them, it was as if they had power over you—nd it seemed he truly believed that.

He pretended to be indifferent to you, but the moment you managed to coax him into kissing you, he lost it all.

Actually, you hadn’t expected him to actually go through with it. You thought he’d stubbornly fight your unyielding gaze until the very last moment, not that he’d actually press his lips to yours. Without a hint of hesitation, you could boldly declare that he was good at it. His experience wasn’t vast, you could tell, but he made up for it with his enthusiasm and thirst, which fueled his confidence and led to an intensity that almost made your knees go weak—something you wouldn’t admit so readily. And paradoxically, the fact that he gave in, surrendered, made you think he walked away from that elevator incident with some dignity.

At least, that’s what you thought at first. Then something very, very strange started happening. 

First, it was as if he had disappeared from your radar. You could hardly catch sight of him anywhere. Not that you were particularly trying—after all, he wasn’t the center of your world, and you had plenty of work and other concerns to keep you occupied, but still, hand on your heart, you could swear you bumped into each other more often before, even if just by chance. Since the elevator incident, whenever you did see him, someone was always with you, most often a member of his team. This allowed him to silently avoid you, without raising any suspicion —he could bury his nose in the case files he was working on, squint his pretty eyes in concentration, and no one dared distract the genius from his duties. Ugh. But whenever you did manage to strike up a conversation with him, all that intelligence seemed to evaporate from his face.

He swallowed hard. At least he didn’t stutter (though you kind of wished he would, just once…), and to be fair, his words and quips remained high quality—but only when he managed to avoid your gaze. The moment your eyes met, a dazed sort of fog would pass over his face for a second, and then, unmistakably, his eyes would drop straight to your lips.

It happened so many times that you turned it into your own little game. You’d catch his gaze—and then count to three. Right on cue, all his attention would zero in on your lips.

And while at first, like any little game, it amused you, it quickly started to get on your nerves. Because days kept passing, and Spencer still acted like he was under some strange spell. Even Penelope noticed, muttering under her breath that you two seriously need to kiss already to ease the tension. Blissfully unaware that you had! And maybe it had worked—at least, you weren’t glaring at each other or snapping anymore. That tension had vanished, but it was instantly replaced by another.

You wanted to confront him about it, but that turned out to be harder than you’d expected. Catching him alone was nearly impossible. It wasn’t until one Wednesday that fate, apparently, decided to give you a break. During a rare lull, in an empty lab (which was shockingly unusual at that hour and only proved your theory that fate was absolutely meddling) just as you pulled a tiny mirror from your lab coat pocket to fix your lipstick, he appeared in the doorway—clutching a plastic evidence bag in his hands.

First, he swallowed.

“It needs to be checked for any genetic material," he informed you stiffly and matter-of-factly, standing a bit further away and extending the bag toward you.

You didn’t take it, not even nodding, too focused on fixing your makeup. You saw him roll his eyes, irritated by being ignored, which made you smile involuntarily. Welcome back, old Reid.

He placed the bag on the counter, turned his head as if he were about to leave, but his legs seemed to betray him, not moving. He stayed frozen, standing in front of you, as you set the lip liner aside and reached for your lipstick. However, you didn’t immediately start applying it.

"I realized," you started, twisting the lipstick in your hand, focused mainly on the task at hand. "…that we didn’t agree on which one of us was right."

He furrowed his brows, something you caught from the corner of your eye.

"Right about what?"

"The kiss, smartass. Did it work? Are we getting along better now? Did the team mention how much easier it would be to tolerate the two of us now?"

The silence stretched out, lingering between you. You didn’t rush him, still focused on applying the lipstick with delicate, precise strokes. You gently parted your lips, tilting your chin slightly upwards. The silence continued.

You finally tore your gaze from the small mirror in your hand, only to catch him staring at your lips.

In the most obvious way possible. The kind that made you sigh, which immediately broke him out of his trance. For pity's sake.

"Honestly, it doesn't even matter if it worked," you muttered. "We couldn’t stand each other before, now I can barely stand you. Seriously, Reid, what’s happening with you?"

You were dying to see how he would explain it.

"With me?" he repeated, looking confused, then tilted his head slightly, as though trying to collect himself. A mock cough followed, one of those pseudo-serious ones. "With me, nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You snorted.

“You’re getting liptrified every time you see me,” you said.

“I’m getting what?” he scoffed.

“Liptrified.”

“You made up that word, so don’t expect me to know what it means.”

“It means that you’re staring at my lips. Nonstop. Like you’ve never seen anything like it before in your life,” you explained, tilting your head slightly to the side. The next words danced on your tongue for a moment before you spoke them aloud. “Or like you’re just hoping for more.”

The confidence and lack of hesitation with which you spoke hit him like a slap to the face or a bucket of cold water dumped under his shirt. Suddenly, his posture straightened, his gaze sharpened, and he shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief.

"You really think you're the center of the universe, don’t you?"

You looked him in the eye, and surprisingly, he held your gaze, not once looking down at your lips. Ladies and gentlemen, new record.

"Aren't I?"

"You’re hilarious when you think you are."

"Blah, blah, blah. You’re mocking me, but you could’ve just said that kiss was heavenly can i have another one?'"

Reid crossed his arms over his chest, letting out a short laugh. A bit stiff, but quite attractive, if you were being honest. You wondered if that was how he masked his embarrassment from this confrontation.

"Would you give me another one?" he asked.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, unable to hide your surprise at his response. Before you could speak again, his hand shot out toward you. You followed its movement with your gaze, completely forgetting what you were going to say, but it landed… on the plastic bag, gently sliding it toward you.

"Please, check it as soon as you can," he requested.

Your gaze lingered on his hand as it traveled along his arm and up to his face, which now was much closer to yours than before. His eyes conveyed urgency, no extra glimmers or shine. But then, just for a brief, very brief moment, his eyes rested once more on your lips.

"The previous lipstick color suited you better," he remarked. His chest rose slightly, as if he was taking a deeper breath. "It tasted pretty good, too."

With a slight, almost dismissive nod, he turned toward the door, which you observed in silence.

This bitch—

[trashyyduckling]

part two: confirmation synchronicity

— ★ what terrifies spencer isn’t the unknown but the known—how effortlessly you’ve loved him, how long he’s loved you back without saying a word.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing !

masterlist

Spencer was scared.

Not the kind of fear he knew from the field. Not the sharp, adrenaline-fueled alertness that came with chasing killers or walking into an unknown crime scene.

This was different.

The fear clung to him like static - irrational, persistent, humiliating in its intensity. Spencer Reid had stared down the barrels of guns, negotiated with serial killers, walked through nightmares made flesh. 

Yet nothing had ever terrified him quite like this: the irrevocable knowledge that he'd fallen helplessly in love with his best friend.

The realization had kept him awake all night, his mind cycling through memories - every shared smile, every casual touch, every moment he'd been too oblivious to recognize as love.

By dawn, the need to see you had become a physical ache, a compulsion stronger than logic.

Which explained why he now stood at your door at 7:23 AM, hair still damp from his rushed shower, heart hammering against his ribs as you blinked up at him in surprise.

"Spence!" Your smile was immediate, effortless, the same bright expression that had become his personal gravitational pull.

"Hi, hello," you added, stepping back to usher him in. "What a surprise."

"Hope that's okay," he managed, fingers fumbling with his shoelaces. His voice sounded strange to his own ears - too high, too tight.

"Sure thing," you said, closing the door behind him.

He paused, staring down at the floor by the entrance. You’d left a space for him—right next to your shoes, like you always did. A spot you never let anyone else take. You knew he liked to keep his shoes by the door so he wouldn’t track dirt inside. So you made space.

You always made space for him. And it hit him again—gentler this time, but just as profound. How easily, how naturally, you’d carved him into your life.

You were studying him now, head tilted.

"Hello?" You waved a hand playfully in front of his face, smiling softly. "You okay there?"

Spencer's breath caught. The morning light caught in your eyes just so, and suddenly he understood with crystalline clarity why poets compared love to drowning.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he lied, voice cracking on the last syllable. His fingers twitched at his sides with the unbearable need to reach for you, to confess everything, to risk the most important thing in his life on the chance you might feel it too - that impossible, miraculous synchronicity.

The words burned behind his teeth: I think I'm in love with you.

But he just stood there, not saying anything, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure, memorizing the way your sleep-rumpled hair caught the light.

You turned toward the kitchen —your fingers barely brushing his elbow, just enough to guide him, as if you’d mapped every inch of his personal space long ago.

“Coffee?” you called over your shoulder. Spencer nodded, as if he could ever say no to coffee ( or you ).

The cupboard door creaked as you pulled out his cup—the chipped blue one with the uneven glaze that he always used at your place. Not because it was the closest or the most convenient, but because at some point, without discussion, it had simply become his.

Spencer stared at it, something tightening in his chest, before his gaze drifted back to you.

To the sleep-mussed hair curling at your temples.

To the faint freckle just below your right ear he’d counted during boring briefings.

To the shirt—that soft, worn-in gray one with the stretched neckline.

He still remembered the first time he saw you in it. It had been after a particularly brutal case, one that left his hands shaking long after the jet landed. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at you, but you’d known. You’d always known.

“Come over,” you’d said, simple as that.

He’d hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the weight of wanting it too much had terrified him even then.

But you’d smiled—small and sure—and that was that.

“Get comfortable,” you’d told him, disappearing into your bedroom to change out of your work blouse. He remembered how the gray shirt hung a little loose on you, how the sleeves kept falling and how you didn’t bother fixing them. He remembered sitting on your couch with a blanket thrown over both of you, talking in half-sentences and full silences until the weight of the case finally began to lift off his shoulders.

"Spence?" Your voice was soft as you interrupted his thoughts.

Of course you'd noticed—you always did. The way his fingers trembled. The distracted flicker of his gaze. The uncharacteristic disarray of his clothes.

His head snapped up at your call, eyes wide. "Hm?"

The cup met the counter with a dull clink as you abandoned it, crossing the space between you in two strides. Up close, the evidence of his hurry was even more apparent—his vest sat crooked, the buttons misaligned, his hair still damp at the ends from a rushed shower.

"You're worrying me," you murmured, hands already moving to straighten the fabric at his waist before he could protest. "I asked if you were okay."

Spencer's breath hitched as your fingers brushed the thin cotton of his vest. The touch was casual, familiar—the kind of unthinking intimacy you'd shared a hundred times before—but now it sent electricity crackling up his spine. His lashes fluttered shut for a brief, treacherous moment, memorizing the warmth of your palms through the material.

"I—yes, uhm." The words stuck in his throat like honey. He forced his hands to cover yours, squeezing gently in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Your skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers. "Just had a weird night."

You didn't pull away.

Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with those eyes—the ones that saw too much, knew too well. The morning light caught the flecks of gold in them, and Spencer realized with dizzying clarity that your hands were still resting against his ribs, your thumbs unconsciously stroking small circles into the fabric.

Waiting. Always waiting for him.

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your expression. “You want to talk about it?”

"No, it's fine," he murmured, his hands burning where they'd touched yours. He shoved them into his pockets before they could betray him further.

"Okay." You smiled—that easy, sunlit smile that made his ribs ache—and turned back to the counter, pouring coffee into his waiting cup.

"Be careful, it's hot," you warned as you handed it to him.

Spencer blinked down at the steam curling from the rim. "You added—"

"Cinnamon syrup." You grinned, already knowing his question before he could finish it. "Yes, sweetness is a must, Spencer." You shook your head in mock exasperation before settling onto one of the high chairs at your kitchen island.

He sat closer than necessary, his knee pressing against yours beneath the table before he could stop himself.

Then you were talking—really talking—the way you always did.

You filled the room with laughter and warmth as you chatted about office gossip. You were animated, expressive, and quick-witted—spinning wild theories about who was secretly dating who, and who was definitely hiding something in their desk drawers.

Spencer, naturally, confirmed half your suspicions with unintentionally deadpan evidence. Like “I saw them having lunch together twice this week” or “Actually, he mentioned she had a cat named Whiskers. Nobody just shares pet names with coworkers they don’t like.”

You had a gift for sensing things. Spencer remembered everything.

Together, it made for oddly effective detective work—at least when it came to inter-office drama.

It was normal. Perfectly, painfully normal. Just like before his world had tilted on its axis last night.

Except now, he couldn't stop touching you.

His knee remained firmly against yours. His fingers brushed your wrist when you gestured too widely with your hands. Once, when you leaned forward to emphasize a point, he caught himself reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear before jerking back at the last second.

It was a craving—an insatiable, terrifying need to memorize you through touch. To prove to himself that you were real, that this fragile thing between you hadn't shattered just because he'd finally named it.

And when you didn't pull away—when you never pulled away—something warm and hopeful unfurled in his chest.

At least his brain still functioned well enough to hold a conversation while memorizing the way your lips curled around the rim of your coffee cup.

"So, should we go?" you asked.

Spencer blinked. Apparently, the multitasking wasn't working as seamlessly as he'd thought.

"Huh?"

Your eyebrows knitted together—just slightly—and the urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb was so visceral his fingers twitched against his thigh. He clenched them into a fist.

"Garcia's inviting us to brunch," you said, shaking your phone in his direction. The screen displayed a string of emoji-laden texts that could only be Penelope's handiwork. "Do you feel like going?"

The question was weighted, your tone deliberately light. You were giving him an out, sensing—always sensing—that something was off. It was a simple question, but you didn’t ask it simply.

He could hear the subtext—Are you okay? Do you need something? Do you want to talk?—all packed quietly into that one casual sentence.

"Where?" He stalled, draining the last of his coffee. The cinnamon sweetness lingered on his tongue.

"That place right around the corner." You were already moving, collecting both cups. "Garcia said she and Morgan are close by."

When you turned toward the sink, Spencer found himself standing closer than intended—close enough to catch the familiar scent of your shampoo, close enough that if he reached out—

You glanced over your shoulder, momentarily startled by his proximity but saying nothing. 

And neither did he.

"Okay, yes. Sure." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "I'm... hungry."

The lie tasted bitter. He wasn't hungry for food.

He was hungry for this—for the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at his response, for the brush of your arm against his, for the unbearable, beautiful normalcy of being yours in every way that mattered.

Except one.

Except the one he actually craved.

"Guess you finished the cookies already?" You grinned, drying your hands on the dish towel before leaning back against the counter. The motion made your shirt ride up just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that Spencer pointedly ignored.

"Yes." A soft smile tugged at his lips despite himself. "Thank you again."

He mirrored your posture, leaning against the opposite counter. The distance between you felt both infinite and insignificant.

In all the quiet chaos of the morning, Spencer didn't notice how your gaze traveled over him—lingering on the way his sweater stretched across his shoulders, the sleep-softened edges of his usually precise appearance. Up, down, then up again—your gaze lingering just a second too long on the scarf around his neck. A small, private smile curling at the corners of your mouth. 

"You're welcome." You ducked your head slightly. "Though I might've stolen one or two cookies while driving over." The admission came with a conspiratorial wink, as if sharing some delicious secret.

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Really?”

You nodded proudly. “I had to taste test. Quality control.”

He laughed softly, the sound barely there, but genuine. “I had a feeling.”

A beat of silence.

"I liked the quote," he blurted out suddenly, remembering the one you'd left on the note

Your eyes lit up. "Yeah, well, Algernon's right. You should listen to him." You pointed an accusatory finger his way, but the effect was ruined by the way your voice softened around the edges.

"Speaking of food..." Your gaze flicked to the clock behind him, then back to meet his eyes. "We should go."

Spencer nodded, pushing himself off the counter. “Right. Brunch.”

Brunch was... dangerous.

Spencer hadn't accounted for the booth—how it forced you hip-to-hip, your leg draped carelessly over his thigh like you belonged there. Every time you turned to speak, your breath ghosted across his cheek. Each accidental brush of fingers over shared syrup sent sparks skittering up his spine.

When you discovered the new pancake special—fluffy buttermilk stacked with caramelized bananas—your eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

"Oh my God, this is perfect," you sighed, shooting Garcia a grateful look for recommending it.

Morgan, tempted by your dramatic praise, reached across the table and casually snatched a piece of the pancake you had already cut for yourself.

"Hey!" You swatted at his wrist, but the damage was done. Morgan chewed with theatrical relish as you glared at the now-smaller stack.

"Mmm. Tasty."

You rolled your eyes, then turned to Spencer with that look—the one that always meant trouble. "You need to try this."

Spencer glanced at the diminished pancake, then at your expectant face. "No, no, it's fine—"

Too late. Your fork was already spearing a perfect bite, your other hand warm on his forearm as you gently turned him toward you. Around you, Garcia and Morgan's bickering faded to white noise.

Time slowed.

Spencer's lips parted obediently, the fork sliding free as he tasted brown sugar and something inherently you. He chewed deliberately slow, savoring the way your lashes fluttered when you leaned closer—close enough to count the flecks of gold in your eyes.

"Well?" You were practically in his lap now, oblivious to Garcia's suddenly interested silence. "Do you love it?"

Spencer swallowed hard.

I love you. The words burned his tongue.

Instead, he nodded, his knee pressing harder into yours beneath the table.

"Perfect," he whispered.

And for once, he wasn't talking about the food.

The absurdity wasn’t lost on him. That something as simple as you feeding him a bite of pancake could feel like a revelation. That after Morgan had stolen a piece, leaving your portion halved, you’d still offered him the sweetest corner—always the best part—without hesitation.

And he’d let you.

Spencer Reid, who calculated microbial growth rates on restaurant cutlery, who ordered the same three meals on rotation to minimize variables, had parted his lips without a second thought when you pressed the fork to them.

Confirmation.

The rest of brunch passed in a haze of accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all—your pinky brushing his when reaching for the syrup, your thigh staying pressed to his long after the booth’s confines excused it. Even the drive home blurred at the edges, his mind too full of you to register street signs.

Then your apartment: the familiar creak of your couch as you draped your ankles over his lap, your socked feet absently nudging his thighs while you chatted about nothing and everything. He should’ve been cataloging the way your laughter filled the room, memorizing the cadence of your voice.

Instead, all he could think was: This is what love feels like.

The hug goodbye lasted three seconds too long. You didn’t pull away—of course you didn’t—just settled deeper into his chest like you belonged there. Who were you to deny Spencer Reid anything? Who was anyone?

Now, standing in the silence of his apartment for the second night in a row, the truth settled over him with terrifying clarity:

This wasn’t a hypothesis.

It wasn’t a fleeting emotion to be analyzed and filed away.

The evidence was irrefutable, the conclusion inescapable. Every touch, every glance, every selfless act—they weren’t just data points. They were proof.

And for the first time in his life, Spencer Reid had no idea what to do with an answer.