Chapter Text
With a sigh, Spencer dropped his satchel bag onto his desk, the same desk, meticulously cleared of his things months ago and now just as meticulously restored. He was exhausted. He'd barely slept last night, nervous for his first day back. The solution, for now, was simple. Coffee. He needed coffee.
A lot of it. Strong and black.
It was a habit born of necessity behind bars, where sugar was a luxury. In the six weeks since his release, he’d found he couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, shake the habit. Returning to his sweetened coffee felt like pretending the last few months hadn't happened. He wasn't ready to grant himself that kindness.
He pushed into the break room. The space was, as he’d hoped, silent at this early hour.
He didn't even register your presence at the counter at first. It was only when the door clicked shut behind him that you turned, a cheerful "Oh! Hi, good morning!" interrupting his thoughts.
Spencer’s eyes flickered toward you. For a moment, he simply processed your face. "Good morning," he replied. He offered a fleeting smile that didn't quite reach his tired eyes before turning his attention back to the coffee.
He grabbed a clean mug from the rack. A plain white one. He didn't look for his own mug. He didn't dare.
The thought of his mug being tucked away in the back of a cabinet, or worse, thrown out, was something he couldn't confront right now. It would mean acknowledging that someone, an agent or even a janitor he’d considered a friend, had lost faith in his innocence and him.
You stood, coffee cup warming your hands, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Did he remember you?
You’d met a handful of times in the visitation room of the prison, there with Tara and Emily to gently probe his memory for any detail that could crack his case. But then again you had never met him before that. Maybe he didn't remember you.
Now, you watched as he stood frozen, the plain mug held loosely in his hand, staring at the coffee machine. He seemed confused.
“Oh! It’s a new coffee machine,” you said, the words tumbling out as you immediately moved to his side. You set your own mug down. Spencer looked at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he replied, “Oh.” He bit his lower lip, a telltale sign of uncertainty you remembered from your prison visits. He didn't ask for help and you didn't expect him to.
“I’ll do it for you,” you offered softly, gently taking the plain white mug from his hand. Your fingers brushed against his and you felt a jolt at how cold they were.
“Okay, see this button here?” you began, guiding his gaze with your own. His eyes followed your every movement. He gave a short nod.
“Okay, you have to press it here, and then lift this part open…” Your instructions felt clumsy to your own ears, but you showed him the steps perfectly. He was a quick study, of course. Before you knew it, the dark brew was streaming into the mug.
“Penelope told me about your infamous sugar intake,” you smiled up at him. The expression was wide, but it was still tinged with a shy nervousness. Unsure of whether you were overstepping.
A spark of recogizition flared in Spencer’s chest as he watched you smile. He remembered you. He opened his mouth to protest, to say he took his coffee black now, but you were already reaching for the sugar.
“How much do you normally take?” you asked, your voice gentle.
He was slightly surprised by your promptness. “Oh, that’s… that’s fine,” he said slowly, his eyes flicking to the modest amount you’d already poured. A bitter taste formed in his mouth. Dread. If he started drinking his old saccharine concoctions again, it would remind him incessantly of the man he used to be and highlight the gap that now existed between that man and the one who had survived prison.
The nostalgia, he feared, would be a special kind of torture.
“Guess Garcia over-exaggerated your sugar intake,” you mused, nodding toward the small pile of sugar you’d added. You had expected him to want more.
The sound of his own chuckle seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. The sight of it made your smile widen. Seeing that, seeing the direct and positive effect his reaction had on you, something in Spencer’s chest loosened, just a fraction.
You had been more than nervous to meet him again, precisely because you didn't know him. God knows you’d been shaking in your boots on your first day meeting the legendary BAU team, and now, facing Spencer Reid, it was like that all over again.
Meanwhile, Spencer was struggling to navigate this simple interaction. He knew he was being quiet, but it was mostly because he was utterly unsure how to handle it.
Your previous encounters were tainted memories. He remembered the fog of his own mind and his frustration over not remembering anything. He even remembered, with a shudder, the time he’d slammed his fist on the metal table, because his memory was causing him trouble. The memory of your flinch, he’d caught from the corner of his eye, sent a wave of shame through him.
That was the version of Spencer Reid you knew. And here he was, failing to make a better impression, having gone completely mute over a coffee machine.
He straightened up. “Garcia has a tendency for that,” he managed, his voice a little stronger this time. He offered you a smile. “Thank you. For both the coffee and the tutorial,” he added, nodding toward the coffee machine.
Your smile returned. “No worries! It took me almost thirty minutes during my first week to figure that thing out,” you confessed, beginning to ramble a little in your relief that he was speaking. “It was not great, because I ended up having to stay late to finish all my paperwork without my caffeine lifeline.” You were so engaged in your story, you completely forgot the already-brewed coffee cup sitting on the counter behind you.
As you chattered on, Spencer finally allowed himself to truly look at you. You wore professional attire, a sensible blouse and trousers. He noted a small inconsistency. The bottom button on your blouse was a different color than the others. It was a moon. He found himself wondering if there was a story behind it.
His gaze drifted upward, taking in the expressive way your hands moved as you talked, clearly nervous. And then his eyes landed on your hair. Clipped back from your face was a simple hair clip. It was a small strawberry.
He remembered it instantly. That first week fresh in prison, his hair unkempt and the jumpsuit already stained from getting hurt. He had been miserable and certainly not himself, when you joined Tara in the interrogation room.
You stopped your rambling explanation, noticing the distant look in his eyes. A flicker of worry crossed your face. "Sorry. That was a long explanation. Point is, I get it. The coffee machine is quite difficult," you finished, your smile softening as your hand rose self-consciously to touch the hair clip.
"You wore that when you… when we spoke in the interrogation room," Spencer said, nodding toward your hand.
Your hand dropped as if burned. "I did?" you asked, your voice laced with sudden nerves.
"Yeah," he confirmed, and now he saw the worried expression on your face, the exact reaction he'd been afraid of causing. You thought he was criticizing you.
"I'm sorry. I can take it off." Your hand flew back up to remove it.
"No, no—" Spencer rushed to soothe you. He gripped his coffee cup tightly to stop himself from reaching out. "I wasn't telling you to take it off," he explained, his tone softening into something gentle. "I was just… stating an observation."
"Right. Sorry," you said, now flushing with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, it must have seemed weird that I wore something like that on—" you stuttered, "on an awful day like that. I was in a hurry, and I really didn't pay attention to what I had on. I must have just grabbed that one instead of my plain black clip."
He wasn't sorry. Not at all. In that soul-crushing room, your strawberry clip had been comforting. It was a tiny piece of the normal world outside and he had latched onto it. Which is why he remembered it so well.
"It's fine. Really," he assured you, and this time his smile was soft, reaching the corners of his eyes. Your immediate considerate reaction was disarming, melting a little of the ice around his heart. "I like it," he added smiling.
He picked up his coffee mug, a subtle signal that he was preparing to return to his desk. "It adds a splash of color into the room." He gave you one last smile. "Thank you again." He raised his cup in a grateful gesture before turning to leave.
It took you a moment to follow him back to the bullpen. You settled at your desk, shooting a small smile in his direction before focusing on your work. Spencer should have guessed it was your desk next to his. Next to a tidy stack of files sat a hand painted ceramic figurine of a deer.
Now that he was here so early, he felt unsure. He had nothing to work on. You were already working on a pile of paperwork, your brow furrowed in concentration as you bit your lip. He could feel the subtle shift in your posture, one that told him you’d noticed his stare. He quickly looked away, snatching the closest book from his bag and pretended to read.
From his peripheral vision, he continued studying you. He saw your shoulders relax the moment his gaze shifted away. He knew the rule about profiling colleagues, but you were still a stranger, and a wariness of strangers had been carved into him during his months in prison.
His profiling was interrupted as the rest of the team began to trickle in. Luke sighed dramatically before he’d even fully entered the bullpen. “Zero progress,” he called out.
You turned immediately, as if you’d been expecting this very report. Spencer watched the interaction, setting his book down on the desk but still holding onto it.
“Are you sure?” you asked, accepting the pastry Luke handed you and returning the hug he gave as he bent down.
“Yeah,” Luke sighed, leaning against your desk. He spotted a second, neatly wrapped pastry you had clearly brought for this purpose and gestured to it gratefully. You handed it over with a sympathetic smile.
“I’ll try to have another talk with her,” you offered, your voice gentle.
“Please don’t,” Luke shook his head, a wry grin on his face. “Last time you did that, she just doubled down on the nicknames. Instead of just calling me ‘newbie,’ she introduced me to one of the actual rookie agents as ‘the walking, talking reminder of my broken heart.’”
You giggled at Luke's complaint. "That's actually kind of funny."
Luke shot you an offended look, but his attention was quickly diverted. "Oh, hey Reid!" he said, his face breaking into a genuine smile as he finally noticed Spencer.
Spencer offered a returning smile. "Hey, Luke." He carefully filed away his observations about you and Luke, tucking them into the growing mental folder he seemed to be building.
The morning continued in a warm wave of welcomes. JJ and Emily gave him a hug, Garcia’s gleeful squeal could probably be heard two floors down, and Rossi clapped him on the shoulder, "Good to have you back, kid." Spencer accepted it all with a gratitude, but a part of his mind remained observing.
He watched how the team interacted with you. Emily gave you a soft smile as she passed. JJ paused to tell you, "Henry won't let that dinosaur plushie you got him out of his sight." Garcia enveloped you in a hug and Rossi offered a casual, "Hey kid, how's it going?" Tara greeted you with a warm smile, too. You were a part of the team.
When Emily's voice called the team for the case briefing, Spencer saw the excited smile that lit up your face.
And that was the first time a bitter taste flooded his mouth.
He immediately shook his head, disgusted at the nasty jealous twist in his stomach. That wasn't right, he chastised himself. He shouldn't feel this way. It was a ugly echo from his younger self, the one who used to sit alone in his apartment, willing the phone to ring so he could finally do something useful, to prove his worth. It wasn't right to resent you for the very passion he once shared.
His untouched coffee sat on his desk. He hadn't had the courage to drink it. He couldn't bring himself to drunk it nor could he bear to hurt your feelings by pouring it out and making a new one. He subtly pushed the full mug to the far corner of his desk, hoping you wouldn't notice.
He got up, falling into step behind you as the team moved toward the room. He made a gentlemanly wave of his hand, indicating you should take the stairs first.
You smiled back at him. "Thank you."
As he followed you, he was almost certain he saw a little spring in your step, a barely-suppressed urge to skip down the hallway toward the impending case. Or maybe he was just imagining it. It seemed like something you would do.
The briefing was quick. It ended with the team dispersing to grab their go-bags. You slung yours over your shoulder, but Spencer lingered by his desk, his own bag held tightly in a white-knuckled grip. He bit his lip, a nervous habit he thought he'd broken.
He had taken the subway this morning, unable to face his car.
The last time he'd driven, there were drugs in his veins and police sirens wailing behind him. The mere thought of sitting in the driver's seat made his skin crawl.
He glanced around the room, calculating his options, when he felt a gaze on him. He looked up and met your eyes. You were watching him with an expression that made him quickly avert his own. He saw JJ walking by and opened his mouth to ask her for a ride before closing it just as fast, his fingers clenching harder on the strap of his bag. He could picture the worried crease that would form between her brows if she found out, and he had no interest in being the source of that particular brand of pity today.
Then he heard your soft footsteps approaching. You stopped beside his desk. "Do you need a ride?" you asked, your voice lowered so only he could hear.
He hesitated for only a second, then nodded. If you were offering, why not? You didn't seem poised to give him a worried look. If anything, you appeared more nervous than he felt. It was a refreshing change.
"Yeah, if that's okay," he said, his voice quiet.
You nodded, a smile gracing your features. "Sure thing. If you don't mind the chaos in my car." You grinned, a self-deprecating spark in your eyes.
"I won't," he said, and meant it. He fell into step beside you as you left the bullpen.
The walk to the elevator was silent. It struck him then with a pang of guilt that he hadn't really reciprocated your earlier attempts at conversation.
"How have your first couple of cases been?" he asked softly as the elevator doors slid shut.
You pressed the button for the garage, tightening your hold on your bag. "They've been... okay. It's mostly been a string of kidnappings for some reason." your voice tilting up a little as if asking for his professional read on it. "It's been hard to adjust - feels like we've been rushing nonstop."
"I understand. Most kidnapping cases are like that," he said, his voice filled with empathy. The elevator doors slid open and he instinctively gestured for you to walk through first. You rewarded him with a grateful smile.
"It was just a bit difficult at first, I think," you continued, leading the way through the parking garage. "I barely got to sleep at all, which was expected, but at one point I think I'd been awake for almost 24 hours. Which was... not great." You let out an embarrassed sound, as if mentally scolding yourself for admitting a rookie mistake to Dr. Spencer Reid.
Spencer could almost hear the self-critical thoughts swirling in your head. He felt a sudden compelling need to put you at ease.
"The same thing happened to me on my first kidnapping case," he shared softly. He followed you as you stopped beside your vehicle. "I think I almost fell asleep standing up during a debrief."
The joke had the intended effect. You giggled and the sound was melodic, striking Spencer as one of the most pleasant sounds he'd heard in a long time, rivaling even the chirping of birds in the morning.
You unlocked the car and he settled into the passenger seat, only to be immediately charmed.
As you leaned over to put your bag in the backseat, he took it in. A self-made, slightly crooked plushie sun dangled from the rearview mirror. Both car seats were covered with blankets and a small strawberry charm was looped around the gear shift. His eyes darted from one colorful detail to another.
He was so absorbed that he didn't notice you watching him until he finally met your gaze. You quickly looked away as you hurried to start the engine.
"I know it's a lot to take in," you said, your tone a mix of amusement and self-consciousness. "Luke still makes fun of me. Says it looks like the car of a 16-year-old new driver." You grinned, shooting him a sly look. "Which, you know, he's right. It hasn't changed much since I actually was sixteen."
Spencer felt a genuine smile spread across his face. Your car was, in a word, delightful.
"I like it," Spencer said, his gaze drifting over the colorful interior. "I think more cars should be this decorated. It's a nice form of personal expression."
His curiosity got the better of him. He reached for the stack of CDs tucked into the decorated with stickers visor, giving you a questioning look.
"Go ahead," you smiled, your focus on the road.
He flipped through them quickly, his mind automatically cataloging the genres. It felt like profiling, though he suspected it was merely a convenient excuse. The truth was, he was genuinely interested in your things, a realization he wasn't quite ready to admit to himself.
"Classical music?" he asked, holding up a compilation CD
You glanced over, a slight grimace on your face. "Yeah. I didn't buy that one myself. It's not my thing at all, and I have no idea why I still own it. But no one I know listens to classical music, not even Rossi, who I thought would, you know... because he's old?" you said with a playful wince. "So it's just kind of stuck in my car." You sighed, warming to your topic. "I really don't enjoy it. It's so dull. And then sometimes there's this random dramatic moment or whatever, and the first time I listened to it, I almost crashed my car because it scared the hell out of me. I mean who knew classical music could be this loud? Not me."
You rambled on, completely unaware of the delight you were sparking in your passenger. It was utterly captivating. You were utterly captivating.
His lips quirked into a small smile as he prepared his response.
"Classical music often uses dynamic shifts and crescendos to create tension," he explained, once you were done. "The composer builds anticipation deliberately. It's a technique designed to elicit an emotional response from the listener. I like it personally, but to each their own."
He shot you a gentle smile just as your face fell in utter horror. The red light you had just stopped at seemed to mock your timing.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," you winced, turning fully in your seat to face him, your expression genuinely mortified. "I didn't mean to talk badly about something you like. I feel terrible."
But Spencer's smile only widened. He was smiling both because he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt comfortable enough to share a random fact so freely and because of your utterly sincere apology. It was endearing.
"It's really okay," he assured you, his voice soft. "Classical music isn't for everyone." He then nodded toward the windshield. "The light is green."
You snapped your attention back to the road, still muttering apologies under your breath.
Spencer smiled to himself as he carefully returned the CDs to their place.
His eyes caught on the sun visor. As he pulled it down for a closer look, he was met with a bunch of polaroids featuring you and Garcia. He stared, taking in the smiles you both wore in every snapshot.
While Garcia had clearly been close to you during the morning's greetings, the profile he'd mentally constructed had led him to believe that Emily and Luke were your closest friends.
You glanced over, following his gaze. "Garcia's always anxious when she has to join us on cases," you explained as if you could read his thoughts. "Pictures of us having fun seem to help. They're a little reminder of what exists outside of our job." You gave him a soft smile before turning your focus back to the road.
Spencer shifted in his seat, his eyes tracing the polaroids before he slowly pushed the visor back into place. "That's really... thoughtful of you," he said, genuinely impressed by how intuitively you seemed to navigate Garcia's energetic but often sensitive soul.
"I know how she feels," you said, your voice dropping a little. "I had a rough start into the team." You paused, clarifying quickly, "With the cases, I mean. Not the team itself. Everyone was lovely." You offered him another reassuring smile. "So I try to make it easier for Garcia when I know she has to come along. It can be....a lot."
I had a rough start with the cases.
Spencer felt the air leave his lungs. Realization shot through him, draining the color from his face. Your first cases.
One of your very first cases at the BAU would have been his case.
He had been your rough start.
Were you talking about him? His body went rigid, his fingers tightening on the strap of his seatbelt. He stared straight ahead, but he was no longer seeing the road.
“I’m sorry. I know my case wasn’t easy,” he said, the words heavy with a guilt that was about to expand, to include the slammed fists and hollow-eyed man you’d encountered in the interrogation room.
But you immediately shook your head, cutting him off before he could continue. “No,” you interrupted him. You seized the opportunity of another red light to turn and look directly at him. “I didn’t mean your case.”
He turned his head to meet your eyes.
“Your case had hope,” you stated. You seemed completely unaware of the depth of your words. “I knew we would get you out. I knew we would prove your innocence.”
Spencer felt the air grow still around him. He could only listen, utterly captivated.
“I meant other cases,” you continued, your gaze drifting thoughtfully before returning to the road as the light changed. “Those cases… I just never knew what the outcome would be. If the next time I was on the jet, I’d be going home with a pit in my stomach because we couldn’t save someone, or if I’d go home hoping i'd actually made a difference. It was the not knowing that was so rough. But your case was different. I never doubted it would turn out okay.”
Spencer truly had no words. He felt slightly dizzy, as if the world had just tilted on its axis. He leaned his head back against the soft colorful cushion of your passenger seat. You were smart, he could tell that from the past two hours. But this was a profound form of belief that left him humbled.
He knew you didn't expect an answer. Perhaps you had even realized the bomb you'd dropped in his lap.
The comfortable silence settled between you once more, lasting until you pulled up to the private airport. As you both got out, he moved to the back seat, retrieving your go-bag along with his own.
You immediately reached for it. “Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Let me,” he interrupted. He offered you a smile, one that reached his eyes, conveying a gratitude too complex to articulate with words.
You looked at him for a moment, then smiled back.
As he carried your bag toward the jet, its surprising lightness made him pause for a second. It was even lighter than his own, which was filled with books and a few comfort items. Given your sweet nature, he had assumed your go-bag would contain similar things. He vividly remembered Morgan groaning good-naturedly about Garcia's first field case, her bag stuffed with everything from a scented candle to a plushie.
With your shared tendency for trinkets and color, he'd expected a bag filled with distractions.
Maybe a half-finished knitting project, a small plushie or a stack of your favorite books. But this bag felt empty as if it contained only the bare necessities.
He wondered if you deliberately kept your worlds separate, refusing to associate something beloved with the horrible reality of this job.
Did you fear that a favorite book, once read in a hotel room after failing to save a life, would forever be tainted by the memory? That the soft yarn of a knitting project would absorb the scent of blood and despair?
It seemed you would rather work stripped of all personal comfort than risk polluting the things that brought you joy.
He understood that you hadn't yet learned to compartmentalize. You hadn't learned to allow a piece of your bright world to safely coexist with the darkness. You hadn't realized that in your hotel room, it was not only okay to relax, but necessary. He had been exactly the same at first, only bringing things that could help the case, leaving him to drown in his dark thoughts in his hotel room.
When you arrived at the jet, Spencer gestured for you to board first. You stepped inside but then hesitated, pausing just beyond the doorway as he stowed both of your bags in the overhead cabinet. He watched you wait and he understood.
You weren't going to choose a seat first, not wanting to pressure him. You were giving him the freedom to choose where he felt most comfortable, whether that was next to you, across from you, or in the seat he'd always considered his, a lifetime ago.
He appreciated the grace of that gesture more than he could say.
He chose the window seat, needing to see the sky, a reminder of the freedom he now possessed. As he settled in, he saw you glance his way before turning slightly toward a different aisle. He could almost hear your internal debate. It was written out on your face. You’ve taken up enough of his space today. He probably needs quiet, and you’re so chatty. Just give him some room.
But as you took a step away from him, his voice stopped you. "I don't use iPads. I don't see the appeal of them."
You turned, your focus entirely on him as you stood in the aisle.
"So," he continued, opening his palm in a gentle gesture toward the empty seat beside him, "it would be great if I could look over someone's shoulder when Garcia sends the case files."
He was asking you to sit with him.
A smile spread across your face and Spencer felt his rapid heartbeat immediately calm. You settled into the seat next to him, your arm brushing lightly against his as you pulled out your tablet.
The contact was warm and Spencer found, to his own surprise, that he didn't mind it at all.