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As far back as he could remember, Spencer Reid had always found himself wanting to learn. Perhaps it was owed to his being a ‘genius’, as he was so often described, and he needed constant stimulation and redirection to avoid getting lost in the cathedrals of his own brain. Perhaps it was because he was autistic, and couldn’t find an escape from himself in the company of others, so he turned to academia. Regardless of the reason for his fervent pursuit of knowledge, it was life-long, and personal days from his work were no exceptions.
Despite already having earned more college credit than was reasonable, he had the Friday off, and would be attending a lecture at the FBI academy, for fun. Spencer understood this wasn’t normal, and if he was going to be frank with himself, he didn’t care at all. The lecture he would be attending that afternoon would be part of an advanced course on the forensic psychoanalysis of killers, by a Mr. "Will Graham". Though Spencer likely knew more than any other human being on this topic already (as well as it being vital to his own work with the FBI), he had read Graham's controversial paper on the superstitious attribution of motive, and his curiosity got the best of him. Whether he might be rewarded with a new insight into his field, or with a new insight into the man himself, Spencer decided that he must meet Professor Graham.
He sat three rows from the back, eyes fixed on the desk at the front of the room. The professor hadn’t arrived yet, so of course, without having anything to fixate on, Spencer had become lost in thought. His interest in Will Graham was not informed exclusively by his academic papers, but also by a tabloid site where Graham was often the center of attention- "Tattlecrime.com," an independant crime catalogue, which otherwise had little to offer Spencer in the way of stimulation beyond an occasional, vaguely-needed glimpse at the public perception of the cases he worked on. If anything, he had a distaste for the main curator of the website, Freddie Lounds, and found most of the material mind-numbingly sensationalized. But if the article was about Will Graham, it was a different story. Even in the coarse words of the net's slasher gossip column, a trail of genuine fascination followed the man, and his shamelessly snatched portraits held eyes that had clearly done much more seeing than telling. Will Graham intrigued Spencer, and not only in an academic sense. He felt as if this man had an understanding of what it was like inside in Spencer's head.
Around him, uniformed students settled into their seats, and the occasional splinter of casual conversation could be heard, in stark contrast to the grisly subjects that were sure to come. Spencer felt weird being there. He had convinced himself that he admired the man’s work, would sit in on one of his lectures, shake his hand. That would be the end of it. He didn’t want to be this man’s friend. He wasn’t sitting in on this lecture because he craved some form of understanding or emotional intimacy with another human being, that would just be weird. Spencer was weird of course, but he wasn’t that weird. That’s what he told himself, hands folded like a proper student awaiting the arrival of a teacher, and cheeks subtly aflush in denial of his conflicting motivations.
Footsteps echoed through the room, bouncing off the high ceilings and into Spencer’s earshot, derailing his train of thought. “Today’s lecture will be on a recently solved case involving sexual assault, dismemberment, unusual ‘dumping’ of cadavers et cetera, et cetera.” A man entered just after the voice, presumably Will Graham. His fingers made quotes around the word "dumping" before launching into a series of eccentric movements, conducted by the flow of his speech.
That was the first thing he noticed about Will; he noticed his hands. Will Graham liked to talk with his hands, and Spencer found himself following his hands more than he was following the accompanying words. The professor kept his elbows close to his body, an exercise in restraint relative to the inflections past his wrists, as though he had been made all too aware of his movements time and time again but couldn't be brought to suppress himself entirely. Noting this, Spencer allowed his focus to drift from the dancing of Will’s hands to the sound of his speech. He punctuated every word with purpose, the effect of every syllable seemingly calculated just behind his teeth. He spoke as if he was careful to pause at all commas, to stop at all periods, and to drift off just so at all ellipses, as though reading a book. Spencer loved books. Spencer understood books. It made sense, this being a lecture, that Will might be reciting a script he memorised, but Spencer thought that he seemed to speak more organically than that, like every word was pulled from a deep well of experience.
Will was tired, Spencer noted. His eyes were heavy, his face was aged. He seemed like he’d seen a world shatter in front of him. Spencer understood this look; first he saw it in Gideon, then Hotch, and eventually he came to recognize it when he looked in the mirror. Faces weather differently under high stress, and eventually they reveal just how much more than their share they've endured. Spencer's own eyes had seen more than a lifetime's worth of suffering, and yet he found that as they fell upon Will, they were sympathetic. What had he seen? How might their burdens compare? Would this man pity, or envy him? Spencer once again had to sober himself from imagining this stranger as a friend who’d understand him- he'd accepted it was an unrealistic fantasy a long time ago.
Beyond his tired eyes, the intricate movements of his hands, and his punctual way of speaking, Spencer noticed that this man was pretty. He was always aware when people were good looking, sometimes he’d even find himself admiring them. However, he’d never found a man pretty before. Will was the rugged type, Spencer could tell by his build, the way he carried himself and the wear on his face. No amount of gap sweaters or patterned button-ups could hide the fact that he probably lived in rural Virginia with a woodburning stove in his living room.
Yet, he was pretty.
Pretty.
Spencer suddenly caught himself, thinking about a man with that sort of sentiment floating around his head. Of course, he would never admit this. Instead he would sit three rows from the back and listen respectfully, to an objectively pretty man, and fixate on his hands in a totally normal way. There was absolutely nothing weird about attending this lecture, as it was purely out of professional curiosity and absolutely not a hint of admiration of any kind. That’s what he told himself, despite his leg rapidly bouncing up and down, and his teeth nervously testing themselves on his unused pen.
As that first lecture came to a close, Spencer had been determined to enact his plan, to shake Will's hand and thus be done with the academic excursion, his curiosity satisfied- however, as he had approached Will to introduce himself, his throat decided to close up completely. What was meant to sound something like "I enjoyed the lecture, Mr. Graham" instead became a choking gulp, not unlike the sound an asphyxiated fish might make if it had been given vocal chords. His nerves not allowing him to speak a single word, or even reach his hand out for a silent but respectable handshake, he instead could only watch in horror as his arm made the brash decision to wave awkwardly, and then as he averted the professor's questioning glance by staring down at his own feet, they made the judicious decision to carry him out of the lecture hall at the speed of a startled deer.
Any rational person would save themselves the embarrassment of ever having to see the person they completely humiliated themselves in front of ever again, but the rational part of Spencer was definitely not the one calling the shots when it came to Will Graham. Still unsure what part of him was, Spencer doubled down on telling himself it was professional curiosity- surely he was just professionally curious about how mesmerizing this man's mannerisms were, and surely he admired the alluringly bookish way he spoke on a purely academic level. Spencer was going to attend another lecture, and if he happened to hyperfixate on Graham’s neck, it would be an entirely occupational indulgence.
The following week, with Spencer newly prepared for how… distracting Graham’s appearance would be, he'd thought he might actually be able to listen to what the professor was saying. Having found himself in precisely the same seat as the week before, Spencer made an honest attempt to listen to the lecture between strictly professional trains of thought about Will Graham’s lips, and caught a phrase that very suddenly switched his tracks.
“The particulars of the dismemberments imply that our subject experiences a form of compassion towards his victims in a way that most murderers don’t. Our subject believes this is the most appropriate way to honor the dead, feels as though it expresses his remorse.”
Spencer squinted in confusion and raised his hand over his head, but he couldn't wait to be called on before bursting out. “Isn't it contradictory to imply that someone who feels compassion for his victims is capable of dismemberment? Isn’t that something that’s more likely to represent a disregard for the victims' lives having any value at all?”
Graham cleared his throat, annoyance in his tone. “Processing and custodial examinations have confirmed severe damage to the subject's skin from repeated chemical exfoliations, despite our subject utilizing numerous protective barriers to prevent contamination at his kill site. The subject in question has an obsession with cleanliness, therefore making dismemberment something he most likely found unpleasant and unsanitary, yet obviously,” Graham changed the slide, now a picture of the killer’s handiwork on display, “necessary. He spends time with his victims, draining them, cleaning them. This is his penitence, this is his gift." The words dripped with bitter distaste, as though he were echoing the thoughts of someone else, and saw it as an indignity to be compelled to do so.
Spencer was being glared at now, and he felt the blood rush to his face as Graham spoke.
“Now, who exactly are you to be questioning how I do my job?”
“Um,” suddenly Spencer felt his throat close again, whatever confidence he had gathered draining out of him. “Dr. Spencer Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit?" he didn't mean for it to sound like a question, but he was hesitating more and more with each word. "I’m... a... profiler.”
“If you’re already a profiler,” Graham responded, reaching a hand to his stressed brow, “Why are you attending my class?”
Spencer swallowed and cleared his throat. “Academic curiosity.”
He could barely buy it coming from his own mouth.
“Well,” Graham replied, “Next time, wait until after I’ve finished my lecture for your questions, Doctor.” Spencer found himself nodding, but did not find himself staying for introductions like he had once intended.
Third time would be the charm, Spencer tried to reassure himself. He would sit through the lecture, then reconstruct Graham’s first impression and properly introduce himself. He wouldn’t let his mind wander, academically, this time, nor would he interrupt. He was going to get it right.
Except, he wasn’t.
Spencer wanted to interrupt so many times. He sat on the brink of explosion. And the professor knew this, frequently sending Spencer glares as if to say don’t. But he simply couldn't help himself. "Though your conjecture is interesting, Mr. Graham," he scoffed, "your theory is completely wrong! I-"
Graham's voice was humorless as he cut Spencer off. "Doctor Reid, can we have the discussion after my lecture?"
Spencer nodded gently and then began to sink into his seat, the realization of his rudeness deflating his enthusiasm. He slumped, mentally replaying his interjection and Graham's harsh glances, cursing himself until the class adjourned.
"Now," said Graham as the last student left the hall, turning cold blue eyes towards Spencer as he tentatively approached, "if you think my theories are so miscalculated then please, indulge me with what you so obviously think I'm missing, Doctor.”
Spencer hadn't expected Graham to blow up on him quite like this. “Mr. Graham, I think-”. He caught the anticipation of criticism in the man's face, but before Spencer could talk himself out of the hole he found himself in, Graham continued.
“What do you think? What is it you so obviously want to tell me? What do I have wrong with this case, Doctor? Or with my class? Why do you sit there twice a week and look as though there's something wrong with the way I teach? Tell me how to do my job, please, Doctor Reid. You might as well, everyone else does."
Spencer tried to apologize, but he was interrupted again.
"It's so apparent that you find something inadequate about me or my teaching. You haven't written a single note, as if you gain nothing from watching me but some sort of smug satisfaction, on the edge of your seat like you've got something to say. So, finally, I'm presenting you with the opportunity to speak. Spit it out, why do you sit there and smile at me like I’m an idiot who's missing some bigger picture?"
Spencer might have felt the heat in his face and the shame welling up in his throat if the sound of his heart pounding weren't so distracting. He could barely hear himself as words began to tumble out. “If I’m being honest, I’m not exactly sure why I sit there.” He swallowed what felt like a rock. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I admire you, I think.”
Graham's anger softened into confusion. “...Admire me?”
Spencer laughed, relieved as some of the tension fell out of the other man's shoulders. “Yeah, I guess. You seem like an interesting person, I’ve just never been good at communicating, or even knowing what I feel. But, yeah. I think I admire you.”
“Oh,” Graham said flatly. “Oh. I am... so sorry for blowing up on you like that. I’ve had a rough... and everyone always... and I just assumed-” he was sputtering as his hand flew up to rub the back of his neck, and his once accusatory eyes now drifted toward the floor in regret.
“I understand,” Spencer said. And for once, he actually meant it.
Graham met his eyes as the words landed, and he seemed to believe them. “Can I make it up to you?” he offered, gesturing as though to check his watch, but apparently unwilling to break his apologetic gaze in the process- “Coffee?”
It was nearing five o'clock, so naturally Spencer accepted the invitation.