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It’s been two long weeks since they came back from Los Angeles, but Spencer is still…unsettled by what happened while they were there. And it’s not because of the unsub. Stalking cases happen all the time, and in the big picture everything turned out as best as it could. It’s just…Lila.
He can’t get her out of his head, and he’s had more than one dream about her since he’s been sleeping in his own bed. Dreams like he’s never really had before—reliving their kisses in the pool, images of things that didn’t happen where she’s in his arms, clinging to him and petting his hair… Really unusual things.
But Morgan was right. The lives they lead are too high-stress, too much for a steady relationship, and even though Hotch manages somehow with Haley, it doesn’t seem like it’s easy for him or too possible for anyone else.
The fact that “entering into a relationship of any sort with the actress you just appeared on the front of a tabloid magazine with” is only another rung on the ladder made of things like “appearing on the front of a tabloid magazine with the actress you protected from her erotomanic stalker” and “kissing in the pool with an actress you’re supposed to be protecting from an erotomanic stalker” doesn’t make the situation look any brighter.
That’s not to say that he didn’t like her—he did. She was beautiful, and she either smiled away his generally insensitive rambling or reacted without making him feel bad about his almost literal inability to keep quiet, and… she’d kissed him. She’d pulled him into the pool with her (which was a horrible thing to do at the time, his brain supplies anytime the scene comes into his mind) and laughed and kissed him even though he looked like, as Derek had said, a drowned rat.
When even had been the last time he’d been kissed? It’s a rhetorical mental exercise, if one ever did exist, though, because the unspoken “by someone that liked him” means that the list shrunk from less than a dozen to literally only her. Looking at the way his life has gone so far, it’ll be another two decades before he gets another experience like that one, unless something changes. At least with his brain he’ll get all the mileage out of the memory that he possibly can.
But, really, Morgan was right. And Spencer hadn’t been criticizing him for the way he went through one-night stands. It’s a good idea—finding someone to sub in for Lila, in his thoughts, for even a moment, would make the desire he has to call her a little weaker. He doesn’t have his number programmed into his phone, but his eidetic memory means he’s never going to forget it. Sometimes he picks it up and thinks about calling her, but he’s only made it through dialing in her number, thumb hovered over the “call” button, before he’s backed out.
You’re just a-a kid, he thinks sometimes. She’s literally one of the hottest topics in Los Angeles right now. She was only interested in you because of transference. You weren’t a hero; if you hadn’t been wearing a gun and with the FBI she never would have…
/*\
“I can’t believe you’re actually going to go out to the club with us, man,” Derek says, laying a hand over Spencer’s shoulder. His hands are proportional and not unreasonably sized, but that does not mean they aren’t relatively huge. The grip gets shrugged off, though, and the man in question looks up from where he’d been zooming through an article to meet his colleague’s eyes.
“Don’t make me regret it before we’ve even gone,” he says, but he’s smiling genuinely, and he gets another pat on the shoulder for his trouble.
“I’ll show you how to pull in ladies if it’s the last thing I do, Doc,” is the parting shot sent his way before Derek is on his way out of the room—probably heading for Garcia’s office to tell her the news.
Usually on Fridays—pending a case or any other work-related issue—Derek, Penelope, Elle, and JJ head downtown to go clubbing and “meet people, blow off some steam,” as he’d been informed. It was a different environment from when the whole team went, different venues. Reid had learned that the hard way, when he’d accepted their invitation the first time and missed the cue that it wouldn’t be the sort of sports bar environment he was mildly used to.
Something had to give, though, to get Lila off his mind, and so he’d brought it up to Derek a couple of hours ago. No one else was really in yet, and he’d kind of been trying to not make it a big deal, but that’s not going to happen and he should have known better. He hasn’t come to regret his choice so far, but… that doesn’t mean he won’t before the night is out.
Under other circumstances, he doesn’t really see the appeal in meeting strangers in places that were loud and dark, and definitely not with alcohol present as an extra variable. Even tonight doesn’t hold much more appeal, but it can’t be too much worse than going home to his empty apartment with his thoughts. He’s just—nervous about it. He has a hard enough time getting along with his coworkers sometimes, and he’s known them for years now. They’ll be too busy to entertain him, tonight, if he does make it out with them.
And in the event that he does manage to find someone willing to talk to him, it won’t be an easy time. His inability to keep his thoughts in his head and out of his mouth is always a challenge, and he knows that when he’s nervous it only goes in the other direction, keeping him stammering because things get scrambled in his brain. Finding someone that’s willing to stick around through one behavior or another is too much work under other circumstances.
It’s wishful thinking—something he doesn’t really do—to hope that he’ll find someone who will talk to him for any amount of time longer than it takes for him to really start talking himself. But, he’s at least got to try, before breaks he admits to someone else that he might be missing her. A lot of people don’t know—or more likely, are pretending not to know—what all happened between him and Lila, and the less he says the better just in case it becomes a problem later.
/*\
“Look man, what I’m saying is this — you can sit over here in the corner and hang out in the dark, being your usual wallflower self — or you can get out there and meet someone — and I don’t care if it’s a man, a woman, a ghost — that will get you out of your weird funk.”
“Ghosts don’t exist,” Spencer says, voice falling a little flat.
“You know exactly what I meant, and seriously, you’ve been off in your own little absent world more than anything lately, and something’s gotta give.”
“And you think that going out there, doing that grinding thing you and the girls do—you think that’ll help?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But you lurking along the wall isn’t gonna do much for you, and I don’t think you came along to the club just for the drinks. That’s definitely cheaper at home, man. At least go hang out by the bar or something, let people look at you. Maybe someone will approach you and you don’t have to do the hard parts.” He presents the last line with a cheerful presentation of his open hands.
“I know you know me, Morgan. When it comes to people, everything is hard.”
“Come on,” the black man insists, dropping down into the chair opposite him, propping his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. “Will you at least tell me what your deal is?”
“My deal?”
“You’ve been really odd since we came back from L.A. Is this about Lila?”
Spencer shakes his head, grimaces into his mixed drink before replying. “I don’t—“
“You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, Romeo.”
“That’s not what I was going to say. Honestly, I don’t know how to talk about it.”
“Well, I’m here and willing to listen, so spill.”
“What do you want me to say? That you told me yourself that “a relationship’s hard enough even in the same city,” or that I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life and now I’m dreaming about it?”
“Experienced anything like what?”
“She liked me, Morgan.”
“…lots of people like you, Reid.”
“If you’re talking about the team—no one really liked me at first, and at this point we’ve been around each other so long that it’s not the same. She liked me from the beginning, from the moment we met at that gallery I think.”
“That’s never happened to you before?”
“I graduated high school at twelve. You’ve seen the way I talk to people, and I know it was only worse when the age gap between me and them was greater. I couldn’t be more off-putting if I tried; I’m not unaware of that fact.”
“Other people will like you if you give them a chance, you know.”
“Do you think so?”
“Shit, man, I know so. Come on, at least go sit up at the bar. Do it for me.”
“Know that I would have been happy to sit over here in the dark and pretend I hadn’t asked to join you guys tonight,” Spencer says after a moment, pushing himself out of his seat with his empty hand and downing his drink on his way to the bar. Derek watches him go, smiling to himself, but once the other man tosses his empty cup into a trash can he gets back to his feet to go back to the dance floor.
\*/ *** \*/
You’re on your way up to the bar, trying to leave the thumping bass of the dance floor behind you for a little while. You’re more than a little sweaty, and there isn’t really anyone promising out there for what you want. If you have your way tonight, you’re going to make some kind of connection with someone, somehow.
You’ve had one drink already, a jagerbomb, but the way it makes your skin tingle has faded with time, and you could use another. Besides, the bar is the other place where people really congregate: it’s the only well-lit place other than the hallway by the bathrooms, and the of course it’s the only other source of alcohol. The lights shine over dozens of people looking for the bartenders’ attention, but both of them are occupied at opposite ends of the bar.
When the song changes to some poppy thing you’ve heard on the radio once or twice, many of them break away to head back towards the dance floor, alcohol forgotten in their excitement. You can’t blame them; some songs are just made for dancing to.
There are still a few people at either end of the bar, talking amongst themselves as the employees work their ways through the groups. There are stools that run the length of the bar, but only a few of those are occupied—two dark-skinned women at the end furthest from you, and closer, there’s a white man.
His brown hair is tucked behind his ears, and his hands are curled around his drink in his lap. He’s slender-looking, dressed in nice clothes like he just came from his day job. He’s got his back to the bar, and his boyish face is has you hoping he’s not too much younger than you if he is. His eyes aren’t on you, focused somewhere behind you instead, but there is a little smile on his face that makes him look… approachable.
Deliberately you stride to the bar, sidling in between him and the empty stool on his left. You can feel him looking at you, and you look down the couple of inches to meet his eyes with a smile of your own on your face. “Hello,” you say, trying not to choke on the adrenaline in your veins. You don’t usually—approach people this way.
“I—er, hi,” he’s stammering, and you can’t help the way you’re blushing. He’s so cute.
One of the bartenders has approached to take your order, and you turn your head away from him to order a rum and coke, though you glance back at him to offer—“Would you like another? Of whatever you’re drinking?”
“Um, no, I’m good,” is his reply, and you pay for the drink that she’s whipped up while your attention has been diverted before stepping back a little and fully facing him.
“Would you mind if I sat here?” you gesture at the stool, and his smile gets a little wider, a little more sincere.
“Not at all, no.”
You sit down, propping an elbow on the bar and turning the seat so that you’re facing him. He’s turned in your direction as well, and being under his gaze is about as exciting as the sheer thrill of approaching him was just a moment ago. He’s got brown eyes, and it’s more than just a little intense.
You introduce yourself as you get comfortable, crossing one leg over the other in a conscious mirror of how he’s sitting, and you take in the details of what he’s wearing while you talk—a white dress shirt, what looks like a dark blue or maybe black vest, grey slacks. He looks like he could be a professor or something, and man you would totally attend that class.
“I’m uh, Doctor Reid—Doctor Spencer Reid—Spencer. It’s uh, nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” you say, knocking one of his feet with yours. “How has someone not called dibs on you yet, handsome?” He looks surprised that you’re talking to him the way you are, his pink lips dropped open in a little ‘o’.
“Er—“
“So can I call you Spencer? Or would you rather I call you “Doctor” instead?”
“Spencer is fine, sorry, I’ve never really gotten used to introducing myself,” he says, and he looks a little bashful about it. You want to make that happen again.
“Spencer,” you say once, testing it out all on its own in your mouth, and his head jerks towards you like you’d really caught his attention. “I like it.”
“Approximately 48,000 people in the United States share the name Spencer,” he rattles off like he just knew it, which is neat. “That’s not to speak of anywhere else in the world, but those statistics are harder to come by.”
“And you just know that?” You take a drink to mask what you feel like is too-obvious interest.
“I just… know a lot. Sorry, you don’t want to hear statistics,” he says, and it looks like his face falls a little, like he’s self-conscious or something. You remember being that way, not so long ago, before you’d really grown into your skin in college. “I don’t… really do this.”
“As long as you’re talking, I’m willing to listen,” you offer, aware now that maybe he could use a little transparency in your interest. “And what is “this”, to you? Do you mean the club thing, or the talking to women thing?”
“Well, both, really. I work with three women but that’s very different. A professional atmosphere does a lot. And they don’t look at me the way you’re—looking at me.”
“Would you like for me to stop?” you offer, straightening up and pulling your elbow off the bar. “It isn’t my intent to make you uncomfortable; you’re just… really my type.”
“How can you know that?”
“That you’re my type?”
“Yeah, I mean, we’ve never met before, how do you know something like that? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“You really don’t ever do this, huh,” you muse aloud, though you don’t mean it unkindly. “Well, generally speaking, I find slender men with brown hair attractive, you dress well, and the way you look—it’s intense, I guess.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be the first time someone’s called me intense, but… You don’t even know me as a person, does that not matter?”
“Sometimes it doesn’t. On the other side of that coin, sometimes I only wanna talk and it doesn’t really matter what the person looks like. But us talking like this is how I get to know you, yeah?”
“I guess I can see that.”
“It took a long time for me to understand the whole—thing. The whole talking to people in places where people come to hook up, thing.”
“I understand a lot of things, I mean, I have five degrees—“
“Five?”
“Er, yeah. I have doctorates in mathematics, chemistry, and engineering, and then two bachelor’s in psychology and sociology.” He pauses, looking up from his hand where he’d been ticking his list off on his fingers. “I studied human society, that’s the—the definition of sociology, and I’ve still never really been able to understand all of this.” He gestures to the room at large, and you can’t help but smile.
“Some things you don’t have to figure out to be a part of. But if you want…” you trail off, feeling emboldened by the fact that a doctor with five degrees is still sitting here talking to you. “But if you want, I could give you some practical experience.”
“Um.”
Over his shoulder, you see a group of people ordering shots—a black man and three white women. They down them, and then the man is coming your way, dropping his hand onto Spencer’s shoulder.
“Reid, man, how is it going?” He’s grinning widely, a picture of confidence that makes Spencer look uneasy in comparison.
“Uh, pretty well, I guess,” is his reply, and he looks up at the other man with a smile. He looks like he’s the wingman, or at least a colleague. And it looks like Spencer is turning down a potential rescue—you’ve used the sort of ruse more than once in your time out partying with friends. Your friends have rescued you from awkward or horrible men with anything from personal emergencies to outright pretending that you’re their girlfriend.
“We’ve just been having a chat, um, sir—“ you offer, feeling a little defensive, and that grin is turned your way. Maybe you’re more drunk than you realized, because he’s really attractive too—is that just a thing, tonight?
“Morgan, Derek Morgan. And girl, if you can keep up with Boy Wonder here, you go right on ahead.” He laughs, ruffling Spencer’s hair, and then he’s turning back to return to the women who are all looking your way.
You turn your attention back to Spencer, trying to look reassuring. “You sure you don’t want to tap out? I mean, I won’t be angry if you want to go. No harm, no foul.”
“Is that something you normally say to people you—chat up at the bar?”
“No, not really, but you were also saying that this,” and you wave you hand like he did before, “doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to you, so I thought I would at least give you an out.”
“That’s awfully considerate of you. I don’t think most people would do that.”
“I spent a lot of time being uncomfortable when I was younger. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, so now that I’m older… I try to ease the way, you know?”
“That makes sense. But no, I-I’m comfortable. Were you saying something about… practical experience?”
“I was. I feel like even a super doctor like you could learn a couple of things, right?”
“I’ve been told I’m a quick study,” he says, with a little smile, and—is that him flirting?
Before you can think about that development too much, you finish your drink and leave your cup on the bar. When you get to your feet, you offer him your hand. “You wanna head outside?”
Good lord, he’s still smiling that little smile. He follows your lead, stacking his now-empty cup with yours, and then he’s standing in front of you. His hands get folded into his pockets, but that’s okay—if he’s uncomfortable with being touched, it’ll show soon.
/*\
Outside, the night air is cool on your face. Your skin is a little tingly, but you can still keep your balance so everything is going okay as far as you’re concerned. The streetlights are on, casting a yellow glow over the sidewalk, but there’s no moon in the sky so that’s all there is.
Spencer is walking close to you, your shoulders nearly brushing. There’s an alley a few buildings down from the club, and that’s where you’re heading. It’s far enough away from the club that you really doubt there will be many people there, so hopefully that’ll keep him comfortable, but you stop when he catches you by the elbow.
“Um, are you—are we going in there?” You look over at him, then down to where his fingers are curled around your bare arm.
“I was planning on it, unless you had a better place to go. It’s not too close to the club, and we’re in a pretty good part of town.”
“The statistics for the number of crimes committed in alleys are staggering. And there’s a dumpster literally right there, that is unsanitary.”
“What do you suggest, then? My apartment is pretty close but I don’t exactly want you to be hemmed in, and not to come off the wrong way but you could be some pretty-boy murderer if you wanted to be.” You try to soften the words with a smile.
“Funnily enough, I—work for the FBI. While the statistical chances of me being a murderer aren’t any lower than if I were some other random guy you met, I… can speak for my character?”
“The FBI? Really?” You’re honestly surprised, looking at him. He’s, well, scrawny, and you’d been joking before. He doesn’t look like he could fight his way out of a wet paper bag.
“Really,” he says, and lets go of your arm to reach into his pocket. When he shows you his ID, you wrap your hand around his wrist to steady the blurred text. His skin is warm, and you hear his breath catch when you touch him.
It doesn’t get any clearer when you look at it, which says it’s probably the alcohol affecting your vision, but that’s fine. Not a big deal. You turn your attention away to look at him, and his eyes look wide when you meet them. You rub your thumb over his bony wrist, and the way he licks his lips draws your attention.
“Spencer?”
“Yes?”
“Put away your ID, and then I’m going to kiss you, is that okay?” You let go of him and move your other hand to his shoulder when he nods.
“Is this a conventional classroom setting?” he asks, and there’s that flirting again!
You take a couple of steps back, away from the street and closer to whatever building it is behind you, and he follows without you having to pull him in.
“It’s not,” you admit, smiling. “But you are really attractive, and I don’t think I can handle waiting until we make it somewhere else. ‘sides, gotta know what I’m working with if I’m gonna take you home to tutor you, right?” He chuckles, stepping further into your personal space, and he turns out his hands.
“I don’t… I don’t know what to do with my hands,” he murmurs, looking shy again.
“Well, we’re in public of sorts, so… Shoulders, arms, waist are safe.” You move your hands down his body, marking each place as you talk, and you tuck a finger into his front pocket, tugging lightly. “And if you end up in private, that list only grows.”
He hums a little, and when you breathe in you can smell whatever shampoo he uses—he’s that close.
“And, ah, of course. The neck,” you finish your train of thought, returning your hand to his shoulder where it’d started. His mouth drops open, lips slick from where he’s just licked them. “Are you good?” you ask one last time, just in case, and when he nods, there’s no stopping you.
The first press of your mouths together has him gasping, and the hum in your skin now isn’t because of the alcohol. His once-idle hands come to touch you, settling in on your hips, and either he’s shaking or you are, or maybe it’s both of you. Kissing someone new is always thrilling, and this time is no different.
He pulls away to drag in a breath, but he’s back before you really think he’s gone. One hand comes up to rest on your ribs, and his other hand appears beside your head, for support. You slip your hand into his hair, pulling him closer—close enough that he’s pressed almost flush against you.
It’s in the moment between one kiss and the next you make a decision to push it a little further, and when you brush your tongue against his lips his snakes out to meets yours. He kisses with a determination that you’ve never really encountered before, and as skittish as he was before you didn’t think you were going to find it in him.
Everything gets hazy after that for a handful of long moments, your thoughts only clearing when you have to pull away yourself to breathe. You lean your head back against the brick, chest heaving, and when you’ve pulled yourself together you look at him for the first time in quite a while.
His eyes are wide like dinner plates, staring at you, and he’s breathing just as heavily as you are. His mouth is open, and his lips look—puffy, bruised from your kissing. You can only imagine yours are the same, and you are so okay with that. His hair is mussed, and the hand he’d pressed to your side is still there but it’s barely noticeable.
“I told you I was a quick study,” he says, looking a little nervous like you’re actually going to give him a grade on his kissing, and you’re not really surprised by that.
All you can do is laugh.