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fadingplaidlibrary · 2 hours

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Effortless

spencer reid/gn!reader

coming into this from a fandom where my last fic got literally 11 notes (half of which were my own self-rbs) the reception for workplace hot was heartwarming, pls accept more pre-relationship work crush goodness as thanks🧡🧡

word count: 1.6k// warnings: absolutely hopeless pining, this man is so so clever but so so oblivious

“Chicken.”

“Did you know, the origin of ‘chicken’ in reference to someone who’s afraid can be traced back to the use of ‘hen-heart’ as a synonym for ‘fainthearted’? Its first documented use was in the York Mystery Plays - which are considered to have been written prior to 1450.”

“Chicken.” Morgan repeats.

“Shut up.”

While his second response is decidedly less eloquent, Spencer’s pretty sure he can’t fact-dump his way out of this particular conversation.

It’s not exactly a secret - his giant, all consuming, world ending crush on you - at least, it’s not a secret from anyone except you. He’s past being embarrassed about it when one of the others brings it up, as long as it’s not around you. That’s happened exactly once, and Spencer’s automatic response was to chatter about the migration patterns of a specific type of bird he’d read an article about the day before. Ceaselessly. No matter how much everyone else had begged him to stop, until the previous subject was well and truly forgotten. So when you’d asked a leading question about another kind of bird? He was more than happy to oblige. You’ve always done that, listened to him. It’s nice.

It’s probably what got him in this mess in the first place.

Somewhere along the way, a routine developed itself. He remembers the first day you asked him to elaborate on something he’d started on earlier in the day, trivia about the fluctuations in the popularity of a specific make of car. It had ended up being useful in the context of the case anyway but, more importantly to Spencer, the tidbit had you cornering him in the kitchen to ask him about it. And now it’s just what happens. You potter around to make your lunch, he chatters about the most recent paper he’s read like your own personal podcast.

It’s a comfortable friendship, solidified by little things like that. Though they’re not all that little to him, if anything they’ve only deepened his feelings for you - he doesn’t let on, for your sake, he tries not to.

But his affection sneaks out in other ways.

He gravitates towards you without realising it, just to exist in your space. At the round table, on the jet, at crime scenes, in whichever office the local PD have cleared out for the team. He’s never hovering, but he’s not not hovering. Just working parallel to you. It’s why he likes the bullpen, for all its hustle and bustle, because he can look at you out of the corner of his eye whenever he wants to. He can spin his chair to face you, stretch his legs out across the aisle, and let a wave of sheer steadiness wash over him. Sometimes it’s you, reaching over to hand him something or abandoning your post completely to perch on the corner of his desk. Spencer thinks that’s what it might be, the peace you seem to exude that quiets his busy mind - the kindness you extend to victims and their families that flows through your very veins. It follows you like an aura, there’s very little he won’t do to be bathed in it whenever he can. It’s all led to a unique dynamic that means you’re paired up together more often than not.

You move around each other unconsciously now, leaning over maps and files and evidence. Swapping pens and ducking under one another’s arms as you both scribble away at the board. It’s almost choreographed, natural. Everything is with you, and that’s what gets him. There’s a part of Spencer Reid’s brain that is dedicated to considering his actions in relation to the people around him, running in the background like a computer programme, but he doesn’t have to run it around you. He doesn’t think, for once. He just does.

It’s effortless, second nature, to make space for you. The same as it is to leave a seat open for you, even if it’s the only one. To nudge you gently when you’re too far in your own head to realise you’re picking at your skin. You’ve started nudging him back in recent weeks when he does the same, chewing on the inside of his lips and paying absolutely no mind to the damage he’s doing. You notice, you care enough to stop him. Just like you’ll leave an empty space on the nearest desk for him to hop up on. He’s not sure if you realise you’re even doing it. Clearing perfect Spencer-sized spots at every precinct and office you’re set up in, because you know he prefers it to the chairs. Which makes his own actions feel a little less overt and, in turn, lets him breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe this is just what good friends do for each other. He can call you that, at least, if his own fears won’t afford him the chance to call you anything else.

Though, he’s not sure he could stop himself from taking care of you in his own way if he tried. Mostly because he’s not trying in the first place.

He didn’t even realise what he was doing, the first time he turned to you to double check your protective vest was secure. Narrow fingers tugging on straps, barely even processing the inviting warmth of you underneath them, he’d been too focused on making sure you were as protected as you could be. And then he’d walked into the Unsub’s home ahead of you anyway.

Spencer never walks ahead of you, anywhere. He’s always ushering you in first, something drilled into him by some unknown force, his basest of instincts - you’re ahead of him into the office, into precincts, into crime scenes, even into the elevator. But in a hostile situation? He’s first through the door every time.

So much so that it’s routine now, wherever the case, whoever is around. He grasps the shoulders of the thick vest and wiggles it, he rips the velcro straps off at your waist only to secure them again. A little tighter, and he’s quietly grateful that you let him. The heat of you at his back is reassuring when scenes aren’t secure. To know that, based on his experience anyway, the Unsub will more than likely jump out ahead of him - and he’ll be the one between you and the bullet. Which is maybe a little dramatic, but it’s the truth.

“Ready, boys?”

Doctor Spencer Reid has never claimed to believe in any god, but he makes sure to thank something for the interruption. Anything to get himself and his giant crush out from under Derek Morgan’s microscope.

It’s Emily who speaks, Emily who tosses protective vests at him and Derek, but Spencer’s eyes are focused on you entering the office behind her. You’re concentrating on your own vest, securing straps that’ll only be repositioned in a minute or two. But you still do it yourself each time, as if you’re not expecting him to come over and double check your work. There’s no way you haven’t noticed by now. That he’ll do it every time, that he doesn’t do it for anybody else, that he spends twice as long checking on your vest than he does securing his own. FBI emblem emblazoned on his chest, Spencer crosses the room dutifully to conduct his little ritual.

Velcro isn’t quiet. It pierces through the background noise when he undoes the buckle at your side and tears it free, but his eyes don’t move from the task at hand. Yours are heavy on his face, the way they always are when he gets this close. He pretends not to notice.

“Thank you.” You whisper softly. So softly that between the chatter and gun checking behind him, only the two of you can hear.

It’s only now, now he’s certain your vest is snug as possible, that he allows his careful gaze flicker to meet yours. He struggles not to take a step back with the force of it.

“Of course.” He replies, reluctantly pulling his cold fingers out from the warmth beneath the shoulders of your vest. His smile, small, self-conscious, is returned tenfold and beaming. The same way it always is. He doesn’t know how you do it - see the things you see every day and still manage a grin wider than the Río de la Plata. Maybe he can’t explain everything.

He catches a movement over your shoulder, it’s Morgan. Arms folded at the elbow, fists tucked close to his chest, as he makes the exaggerated movements of a chicken. Head bobbing and all. The teasing support, because that’s all it is, is nice to have - but there’s not one member of the team who understands exactly why he’s so afraid to say anything to you. In an ideal world, he wouldn’t be. He’d be able to pull you aside and tell you exactly how many days it’s been since he’d met you, started crushing on you, fallen absolutely hopelessly in love. It kind of all started at once, if he’s being completely honest. And in that ideal world, you would smile that billion kilowatt smile and tell him you love him too, and even the paperwork from the bureau wouldn’t matter. This isn’t an ideal world, however. He knows that better than most.

Spencer’s been rejected before, more than even he would care to admit, by friends and lovers and parents and colleagues and strangers. But he’s not sure he could take it from you, not while you hold his heart so tenderly in your hands. Even unaware of the responsibility, you’re gentle with him.

He’ll keep you close, regardless, as much as he can without arousing your suspicion. He’ll keep making space for you and double checking your vest until every ugly confession claws its way out of him.

That’s enough, for now.

if you’ve made it this far, pls know i am kissing u gently on the forehead🧡🧡

i’m also thinking about opening requests for all things pre-relationship spencer bc mutual pining and obliviousness is my fav fav fav thing, in case anyone was interested👀

#fics that make me kick my feet and squeal and cackle like a witch and curl up like a roly poly bug #criminal minds #spencer reid

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fadingplaidlibrary · 2 hours

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i want the sweetness of your closeness (i want the sweetness of your words)

you and spencer hang out at one of rossi's dinners.

a/n: this was inspired by @inkdrinkerworld and @januaryembrs's one-shots with sunshine!reader! i'm so charmed by the idea of spence walking into the bureau tired as fuck only to get bowled over by a reader who's excitable like a puppy. i'm new to posting writing on tumblr so if the characterization is off/it feels unfinished pls bear with me :)

When Spencer arrived, you were folded into Rossi’s living room couch alongside Penelope, laughing so hard your stomach was beginning to hurt.

“Rossi let them into the wine already?” The amused voice sounded from behind you, but in your distraction you didn’t realize who it was; your brain simply glazed over the words without processing them.

Luke responded, “Pregame at Garcia’s. Like, they actually called it a pregame. JJ and Prentiss are in the bathroom.”

“I wasn’t invited?”

“Girls only.”

“Ahh…”

By this time, he’d come close enough to the back of the couch that you caught a hint of his scent: something clean and musky, warm enough to impart a sense of deep comfort. Ambrette, maybe? Spencer swore up and down that he didn’t wear cologne—most were too strong for his delicate sensibilities, allegedly—but you maintained that he must use some kind of product. Nobody smelled that good naturally.

You craned your neck over the back of the couch; a thrill of happiness thrummed through you with a force which rendered you helpless against the delighted grin that bloomed on your face. “Spencer!”

His upside-down face hovered over you. Spencer possessed some of the biggest doe eyes you’d ever seen; they watched you fondly. Adorably wind-mussed, his hair haloed his head in a tawny cloud.

A small, sweet smile pulled at his lips. “Pregaming Rossi’s? Garcia’s becoming a bad influence on you.”

“Objection!” Penelope garbled, face stuffed in a pillow.

Her wine had put a lovely, hazy filter on the world, softening everything. There was a fuzz to Spencer’s features as he pulled a face at you; you chortled.

“Maybe I'm the bad influence on all of you,” you beamed.

“You?” Spencer pretended to think for a second, before shaking his head. “You couldn’t be a bad influence if you tried.”

It was a bit of a running thing, you being the sweetheart of the team. Angel. Sunshine. Maybe you were naïve—you got the sense, sometimes, that you only thought this way because you hadn’t experienced enough of the “real” world yet, whatever that might mean. Easy to believe in the beauty of the world when you’d barely even scratched the surface of the nightmares this career could throw at you.

But your teammates were kind. They seemed to like you. And, in truth, it was hard not to have faith in humanity when you had a family like this.

Especially Spencer. He’d snuck up on you, really. Only recently released from prison and disappearing intermittently on his sabbaticals, he’d seemed a distant figure for a while; then, one day, you realized in the middle of saying something to him that you trusted him more than anyone else.

Each time he said something nice to you, you treasured it like the rarest pearl. Your heart squeezed to near-bursting.

Softly, you said, “Have some wine, you gotta catch up.”

He tilted his head. You watched him. In moments like this, those pretty eyes fixed on you, you almost let yourself believe he was watching you back.

Eventually, he sighed. “You’re trouble,” he said, but he was smiling. His hand rose to brush against the collar of your sweater. He didn’t make contact with your skin once—still, a shiver went down your spine. “C’mon, pour me a glass?”

You didn’t think you’d ever say no to him. You followed him to the kitchen.

Rossi, still performing alchemy over the stove, arched an impressive brow at you as you entered. “Ah, so you can walk!”

“Oh, yeah. I can do it in a straight line, too.” Breathalyze that, bitch! “Or run. I bet I could run a mile right now.”

Actually, a run in the crisp evening air sounded amazing. Invigorated just at the thought of it, you bounced on the balls of your feet.

“No running.” Spencer put a hand on your shoulder, corralling you towards the stools fanned around the kitchen island. “Hi, Matt.”

Matt and Luke, seated at one end of the island, tittered behind their wineglasses as Spencer urged you onto a stool. “Might have to get a set of those backpack leashes for babies,” Matt advised. “Prentiss and JJ are worse than she is.”

“Man, if you tried leashing any of them you’d just land yourself in the ICU.”

“Touché.”

“Are Prentiss and JJ okay? How long have they been in there?”

“They’re out back with Tara now. Last time I checked, they sounded like they were plotting something evil. So they’re fine. I don’t know about the rest of us, though.”

“I want to be in on an evil plot,” you said sadly.

“We can start one,” Matt reassured you. “Rossi, want in?”

“I want no part of this conversation!”

“Cool, just us, then. Let’s cheers to it—hey, where’s your glass?”

“Oh, I’m done for the night, I don’t want to get sick.”

“You respect your body’s limits better than anyone else I know,” Luke said, impressed.

“Oh, no,” you replied. “It’s just ‘cause Spencer lectured me the last time I got wasted.” All heads swiveled towards Spencer, who immediately busied himself pretending he hadn’t, indeed, been leveling you with a warning look moments before.

Matt and Luke, avid proponents of your descent into debauchery, booed him loyally.

“Let the baby drink!”

“Yeah, don’t you remember what it was like when you were in the womb?”

“I’m almost thirty!”

“So a baby.”

“Baby!”

You shook your fist at them threateningly. Spencer, for his part, just snickered, tugging on the back of your stool. You might’ve shrieked, except the world blurred into motion so suddenly that you couldn’t even utter a sound.

Between one heartbeat and the next, you found yourself relocated to Spencer’s other side. Here, his body served as a wall between you and the MattLuke duo. They jeered good-naturedly for only a few seconds longer before a burst of flame from one of Rossi’s pans caught their attention.

At some point, Spencer had procured an empty glass and an open bottle of wine. He offered the bottle to you with a raise of his brows; you took it with a smile.

The deep, translucent green of the bottle matched the foresty color of the sweater he wore, striking against the white button-down he’d donned beneath it. The blooded red of the wine, as you poured some carefully into his glass, complemented the rest of the palette perfectly.

Beautiful. “‘This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins,’” you intoned, cutting off the wine’s flow with a flourish. You hadn’t been to church—much less believed in any god—in almost a decade. But wine had a way of making you feel biblical, you supposed.

Spencer laughed. “Matthew, chapter twenty-six.”

“Verse twenty-eight, Spencer, remember the verse,” you leered.

He rolled his eyes, taking a sip. You watched the graceful lines of his throat move as he swallowed.

“We should go to one of those sip and paint classes,” you suggested, kicking your feet. “Like, the ones where you drink wine and paint.”

Spencer pulled a complicated face. “I don’t do very well with the visual arts.”

Which was exactly why you suggested it. You’d been obsessed with the way Spencer fumbled through most forms of arts and crafts since Garcia had led the BAU through a paper-snowflake-making tutorial back in December. You’d reassured Spencer that there was no wrong way to make a snowflake; then, when he showed you his finished product, you laughed so hard that Rossi had to send you to his office to calm down.

He could knit just fine, of course: he claimed that this was because knitting “actually made sense,” with its patterns and charts, and that it was the only art form he needed. In your opinion, though, one needed to learn the intricacies of abstract art to be considered cultured.

“Please,” you wheedled. “You don’t have to be good at painting and they show you how to make the picture anyways! It’d be fun.”

“Why don’t you go with Rossi?”

“I’m not taking Rossi to any event involving wine that’s hosted by an American, oh my God. He still hasn’t forgiven me for Secret Santa. Spencer, please!”

After a long pause, he said, “I’ll think about it,” clearly lying. You decided to let him off the hook, just this once.

The conversation wandered for a while after that. Spencer finished one glass; you poured him another; a sweet flush began coloring his cheeks.

“It’s incredible. The organism doesn’t have a brain or any kind of central nervous system, but it’s very intuitive. A slime mold plasmodium is basically one giant cell—there’s no walls sectioning off its insides like with other living organisms. And it has pathfinding capabilities. It can figure out what direction it needs to go in to find the resources it needs without a brain!”

“Pathfinding? What do you mean, pathfinding?”

“The ability to find a path through a field with obstacles in it—and not just find any path, but figure out the most efficient half. So slime molds can solve mazes, without any of the sense organs or body parts that humans would consider necessary for navigation!”

You try to fathom it: a living thing, with none of the parts that you, another living thing, have. “So it solves mazes… without solving them. Like, without having to think it through.”

“Exactly! It’s a kind of intelligence that we can’t even begin to conceive of. Did you know: there was an experiment where scientists arranged slime mold food to match the locations of various areas in Tokyo, and when presented with the problem, the slime molds formed a network that was almost identical to the Tokyo railway system? It took countless experts years to design the railway system to be efficient—and the slime mold did it within 24 hours!”

Spencer’s eyes glimmered as he spoke. Grinning, you reached out a hand to brush against his fingers. “Careful, you’re gonna spill.”

“Oops.” Chastened, but still glowing with happiness, he allowed you to take his glass and move it to safety on the countertop. “It’s just so cool. Non-human intelligence is amazing.”

“It is.” You leaned back a bit, squinting one eye closed, then switching to the other. “I think you’d make a pretty cool slime mold.”

Spencer laughed. “You think so?”

“Yes, you’d be so cute!” Your eyes widened. “You’d be, like… bright orange. Or really, really, electric blue.”

“Electric blue sounds a little too cool for me, I think.” He didn’t sound self-deprecating as he said it, though, and his lips pressed together in a stifled smile. When he let his arm hang at his side, it brushed against the side of your thigh. Sparks prickled at the point of contact.

You liked Spencer so, so much. You liked him so much that sometimes it felt like you wouldn't be able to survive it. It was just so easy, with him—to talk, to relax, to laugh. Sometimes, you wanted to spend a day in his head, just to be able to experience the way he saw the world.

His gaze, resting on you, was almost unbearably warm. “I think you’d make a pretty cool slime mold too.”

#you can’t see me but i am nodding and grinning wide like a supervillain and also muttering ‘yeeeessss mwahahahaa’ under my breath #criminal minds #spencer reid

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fadingplaidlibrary · 15 hours

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Sebastian making some morning coffee ☕️

#the environmental storytelling in this one is driving me INSANE #the tiny blue pendant standing out against his all black outfit #(it doesn’t match his usual aesthetic but it’s his favorite thing to wear. of course)#the latte art skills???? since when did he level up from drinking straight black coffee in front of his computer???#the wedding portrait on the wall????? the PLANTS???? the soft light through yonder window breaks etc #i’m tearing up. op ily #stardew valley #sdv sebastian #sdv sebastian fanart

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fadingplaidlibrary · 15 hours

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He’s my wife

And the love of my life

#I LOVE HIM I LOVE THE WAY YOU DRAW HIM #LOOK AT HIS LIL ROUND FAAAAACE 😭😭#stardew valley #sdv harvey #sdv harvey fanart

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fadingplaidlibrary · 16 hours

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now that’s a man I would truly be proud to call my wife

#DOCTOR HARVARD GREGORY MCCLINTOCK EMM DEEEEEE #DOCTOR SPENCER WALTER REID EMM DEEEEE

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fadingplaidlibrary · 20 hours

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𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky.

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely.

Total quiet.

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?”

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?”

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…”

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?”

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.”

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.”

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh.

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated.

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry.

“Spencer?” you ask quietly.

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?”

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?”

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups.

“Where are you?”

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him.

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.”

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?”

“Where was I?”

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed.

“Still where?”

“Did you hit your head?”

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.”

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk.

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.”

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.”

“…What?”

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.”

“I annoy people.”

“You don’t annoy me.”

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here.

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?”

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection.

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?”

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly.

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?”

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.”

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says.

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room.

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark.

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly.

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!”

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer.

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask.

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again.

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.”

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath.

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers.

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year.

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.”

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.”

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!”

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity.

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek.

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.”

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly.

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says.

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway.

“I don’t want to be alone forever.”

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates?

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess.

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.”

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol.

“She kind of looked like you.”

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.”

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says.

“Do you?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Is that why you make all your jokes?”

“What jokes, babe?”

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.”

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.”

“Spencer, you remember everything.”

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.”

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him.

You’re happy to.

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled.

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse.

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully.

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally.

“Can I come home with you?” he asks.

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.”

— —

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.”

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.”

“So you want three?”

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.”

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time.

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?”

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him.

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory.

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that.

The avocado is making him feel sick.

“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?”

“I think I'm gonna throw up.”

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes.

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button.

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.”

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.”

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.”

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now.

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said.

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say.

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again.

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.”

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do.

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask.

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

#cackling barking snarling kicking my feet twirling my hair hyperventilating #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff

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