i only dream (when i'm lying down)
relationship: spencer reid x reader, romantic pairing (part two)
summary: you're an agent of the violent crimes division of the fbi and you’ve fallen in love with spencer reid.
notes: also posted on my AO3 account, kitkat_katsuki
trigger warnings: vague mention of a dead body, and guns
part one -> part two
spencer reid was an anomaly and he knew it. he was used to being the smartest person in the room, a mysterious kid with an iq that could rival einstein’s– and he loved it. there was a certain rush that came from thinking circles around someone, being able to calculate equations with his mind. there were downsides, of course, but this is how he was put on this earth and he was going to make the best of it.
what was the use of hiding a mind that could remember anything? dumbing himself down to tend to others’s egos and adhere to normal standards? spencer reid was anything but normal, and he knew it.
another anomaly: spencer reid had trouble with women. morgan would tell you that that was anything but an anomaly, but morgan could get a date by handcuffing himself to a table and letting people line up.
contrary to popular belief, spencer reid knows how to talk to women. he knows how to talk to them once he’s comfortable, and then it comes easy, but spencer reid does not get comfortable easy.
he supposes it’s from his horror story of a highschool experience, but everytime he opens his mouth he finds himself on guard, closed off and wary. logically, he knows that there’s an extremely low chance that a random girl he meets at a club with the team will strip him naked and tie him to a flag pole, but he can’t help but worry about it. just a little bit.
the chance is never zero.
(also, he deals with the absolute worst part of humanity for a living, and grabriella kingston and her crazy psychopathic pole tendencies seem to pop up in every third person he meets. he’s allowed to employ a little caution, damn it.)
so when he’s following penelope, who’s tearing out of her apartment and running down the stairs, he can’t help but think about what he’s going to say to the woman on the security feed that penelope had pulled up on her computer.
the women who had shot penelope’s almost-killer, jar of peanut butter cookies in her right hand and a gun in her left, hands steady and eyes cold.
she was beautiful.
spencer had a few issues talking with beautiful women, because beautiful women looked like gabriella kingston, and gabriella kingston lured him to a football field and stripped him naked and tied him to a pole.
and it was exactly because of those ever present issues that the first words he said to you were, “did you know that cows and horses only dream when they sleep lying down?”
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the first thing you did after firing the shot was drop your gun and put your hands in the air. you weren’t stupid enough to keep holding a gun in an fbi building while wearing civilian clothes. your badge was in the back pocket of your jeans, so you slowly moved to set the cookies down and turn around, hands still clasped behind your head.
“there’s a badge in my pocket,” you said, motioning slightly to the left one with an outstretched elbow. “i’m fbi. violent crimes.”
the man behind you, who had pulled a gun from a desk drawer pretty much as soon as you had fired the shot, slowly approached.
“which pocket?”
“left.”
his hand pulled lightly on the edge of the pocket, the cold metal of his gun nosing into the your lower back. you waited while he flipped to your id picture, then flicked the whole thing to the shivering analyst who still looked slightly ill.
he examined it, pecked a few keys on the laptop, and gave a quick, jerky nod to the man. he lowered his gun.
you shifted your weight to your right foot, then solely lowered your hands. the man stepped around from behind you and outstretched his hand. you didn’t take it.
he let it hang there for a few moments before his fingers curled into a slightly exasperated fist and he dropped his arm to his side. his lips pulled slightly down at the corners, and he moved to hook his thumbs in the pockets of his slacks.
“i already know your name, but i’m hotch. you didn’t need to step in back there.”
oh, go to hell.
“yeah.” you step past him, wrap your hands around the jar of peanut butter cookies. your eyes flick over the body laying on the floor. okay— maybe it hadn’t been your finest moment. but for all “hotch” knows, you’d probably just saved his stupid life.
“you just executed a man!” hotch snapped, and you kept moving, not turning around. if he wanted, you could cite the exact bylaw in the fbi regulations that allowed you to take down an armed and clearly crazy man threatening agents inside the building. besides— you’d have to do the paperwork, not him.
you dropped the peanut butter cookies on the nearest flat surface and resolved to text penelope their approximate location as soon as you were downstairs. you took the long way across the room, neatly avoiding the sprawled corpse that was starting to leak on the carpet.
maybe you should stay and clean that up.
hotch was still yelling, and you were still moving. you were halfway out the door and going strong when something collided agasint you.
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the flying object (that you had noted and catalogued while it was still hurtling at the speed of neon colors and boas five feet away) was penelope. you maneuvered her agasint your body and back through the front entrance where she’d come, blocking her view of the body.
there was no need to further upset her.
not that penelope couldn’t handle it, of course— penelope was one of the strongest people you knew. but just becuase she could didn’t mean she had to.
just like you techinically could try austin’s gravy that she had devised from the depths of hell, but you didn’t have to. something which you had made abundantly clear.
the familiar weight of her in your arms was both comforting and refreshing. the assault of colors and the warm hug briefly drew your attention, but you could clearly see dr. spencer reid standing behind her.
spencer reid was your white whale. you say that never having read moby dick and not truly understanding the metaphor, but the sentient was there:
your elusive arch-nemesis.
the little goal that you used to dream of surpassing.
the goal you had surpassed.
the man in the stupid patterned little suit that no self-respecting doctor would wear to a charity ball. (even if it was kind of cute.)
spencer reid.
he’s cute. his fair flops almost frantically around his face, and he has a rather nervous energy around him.
you open your mouth to greet him, but he beats you to the punch:
“did you know that cows and horses only dream when they sleep lying down?”
you can’t help it. you laugh. reid looks minorly crushed for the few seconds it take you to say:
“yeah, i did. but that’s an article from a few years ago, dr. reid. they just published an update with a rather fascinating dissection of the involved rem cycles.”
penelope giggles in your arms and you push them out to examine her. “you okay?”
she looks a little frayed around the edges but nods and leans forward to nip lightly at your mouth. you smile and lean back on your toes, moving subtly out of her reach.
so maybe you wanted to look slightly available for doctor reid. so what?
reid bounces forward eagerly, shoves his fingers out for a handshake, then aborts halfway through and stumbles a little in his haste to return his hand to his pocket.
normally, you would’ve introduced yourself, but the adrenaline rush from the confrontation with the gunman has faded and the restless night you had yesterday is catching up with you.
penelope seems to notice, and starts to guide you to the elevator, looking harshly back at hotch’s cough of protest. spencer waves after you.
“i’ll see you later, then?” he asks, and you look over your shoulder.
“definitely.”
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