Chapter Text
“I don’t know what we’d even talk about.” You swipe the crumbs off of your table with a napkin, before disposing of it and the sandwich wrapper. “We teach different subjects. Different fields.”
Across from you, Carrie Myers, professor on all things Elizabethan and your closest friend in the literature department, is shaking from suppressed laughter. “I’m sure you’ll have something in common to talk about.”
“But I don’t want to find something in common with him.”
“Come on. You’re acting like he’d committed a felony.”
“He went overtime on a conference!”
“Yes, oh what an atrocity. He should definitely do time in prison for that.”
“I didn’t say that! I’m just—listen, I have every right to be miffed—”
“It was over a year ago!”
“So what? I’d been dreaming about presenting at that conference for years, and he ruined it!”
The conference in question happened exactly sixteen months, three weeks, and five days ago. Held at Harvard, and highly exclusive—via invite only. Prestigious, slightly stuffy, it had been an annual conference to present new studies and perspectives on 5th to 16th century literature from all over the world.
You had all but given up hope of ever being asked to present. Accepted that maybe they keep their circles small, only invite those who’ve already accomplished their PhDs.
Until last year. You’d published an extended essay on the diary entries of a Puritan woman traveling from England to America, and apparently, it impressed whatever higher ups are in charge. You’d gotten the call. Prepared the slides. Synthesized your notes and citations, anticipated their questions.
Fifteen minutes, the instructions had said. Fifteen minutes to present, and then an additional five for the question and answer portion. You’d found it funny, having the time limit, wondered if this was in reference to the notion of fifteen minutes of fame. Your essay had been thirty seven pages long, not including your bibliography and footnotes. It had taken almost three months of consistent research and consultation, and now you had to condense all that work to fit fifteen minutes.
Whatever. You did it out of passion, excitement. It’s a dream come true, after all, hadn’t you put in all this work just to get recognized? Be seen? And the panel is an impressive line up of respected academics too, some who even flew in from abroad. You were willing to cut your work down to the bone, if it meant getting a step closer to where you want to be.
Until Spencer Reid.
When he introduced himself as an FBI agent, you had to bite your lip to suppress a scoff. What was an FBI agent doing there? Was he going to be self-important, indifferent? (Admittedly, all your biases against him are borne from watching too much TV, and their inaccurate misrepresentation.)
But he’d turned out to be nice. Sweet, even, and very attentive to the lecturers. He was presenting a paper on the recorded modes of medieval torture and its effect on the human psyche.
You had to admit, however begrudgingly, that it sounded interesting. So you sat there, intrigued. Even made mental plans to approach him after the conference, maybe invite him to a cup of coffee. (He is attractive. Even in your annoyance, you couldn’t deny that. The man is objectively, strikingly handsome.)
But then he went on to present. And on. And on. And on.
You’re not sure why nobody stopped him. Perhaps they were too engrossed on his topic, or maybe his FBI status carried a certain gravity that made the organizers refrain from cutting him off. Cowards. Well, not cowards. You hadn’t said anything either, for fear of being seen as difficult, or demanding. Heaven forbid a woman in academia—or in any workplace, really—ever go out of line.
Whatever the reason, it meant that Spencer Reid went on for twenty five minutes, going ten minutes overtime for his presentation.
And then took up another fifteen minutes during his q&a.
Of course, all he got was a quick, light hearted reminder to keep to the schedule next time. Next time. You aren't sure you'd even get a next time, and now you, and the rest of the presenters going after him, had to scramble and cut even more of your prepared speeches in order to fit the new, eight-minutes-per-person time limit.
You’ve never forgotten that day.
Haven’t gotten over it.
In fact, when he walked into the faculty building at the beginning of this semester, all of your resentment came flooding back, threatening to spill out like an overfilled dam.
To make matters worse, his office is right next to yours.
You had assumed, after looking through—not stalking, the facts were all available online—his impressive but highly STEM-heavy educational background, that he’d be relegated across campus, teaching engineering or chemistry to grad students or leading research groups. Or, based on his previous job as a profiler for the FBI—again, this is all public information, you have not been stalking the man—maybe even a few buildings away, where the criminal justice and law professors are located. Somewhere far.
Nope.
The man’s teaching psychology. Criminal psychology, as he likes to specify, but still.
In short, you—along with the rest of the relatively small English department—share a faculty building with him. A floor.
A wall, actually. The universe has heard your feelings and decided it’ll be funny to drop the very object of your annoyance right next door.
And Spencer Reid, being him, had just invited you to his office for a cup of coffee.
You, conflict averse, unable to say no you, had foolishly said sure.
Carrie breaks your quiet fuming with a gentle squeeze to your shoulder. “I hear he’s nice. Dr. de Vera went out for brunch with him last week. And he gave me that succulent this Monday.”
“And you accepted it? Traitor.” You glare at the offensive item, willing it to wither from your eyes.
Carrie shakes her head. “Just give him a chance.”
“And let myself be charmed, like everyone else in this university? No thanks, I’d rather be petty and resentful. Goes better with my complexion.”
“You’re ridiculous.” she bumps her shoulder with you, still shaking from laughing. She’s one of those people who laughs silently, but their entire body is affected instead. “Come on, I believe our lunch period has ended.”
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯
Consultation hours only run until five in the afternoons, but when you step into the hallway at five fifteen, dreading the upcoming coffee at Dr. Reid’s office, you come face to face with a student waiting outside his door.
“Hello,” you smile at her reassuringly, stepping to his door.
She’s a pretty thing. Trendy clothes, wispy hair, clear gray eyes. A tote bag is slung over one shoulder, and in her hands, a stack of papers. Notes, you guess. Her voice is soft, a little hesitant. “Oh, hi miss. I’m just waiting for my turn.”
Your brow raises. “For consultations? Isn’t it past five?”
“Yes, but um, Professor Reid is talking to someone in there, and I was hoping he’ll squeeze me in after.”
Huh. Even here, for university mandated scheduled consultations, he’s still going overtime. You almost snort at the realization. This man just can’t hold his tongue, it seems.
Well, maybe you could get out of getting coffee with Dr. Reid, if this student is adamant to talk to him. Just as you’re beginning to entertain the thought, his door opens.
“Oh,” You step aside to let another student pass, this time a skittish redhead who gives the professor one last wave, and a polite nod of acknowledgement to you, before she walks down the hallway.
Spencer Reid, in the flesh, hovers at the threshold, already looking apologetic. For a moment, your hope goes up.
“I’m really sorry, Miss Frank, I can’t meet with you today.” he’s addressing the student, not you. Damn. You’d been hoping he dismisses you, and consults with the girl instead. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow. My consultation hours are on my syllabus, as you know.”
The disappointment in Miss Frank’s face is apparent, lips pulled into a comically tight line. You find yourself wondering if she’s the overachieving sort, the type who wants to be ahead on every single assignment. Does this rescheduling affect her meticulously laid plans?
But she accepts with a stiff nod. “All right, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“See you.” Dr. Reid’s lips curl pleasantly, cheeks dimpling, a hand held up in farewell, before he turns and directs that dimpled smile at you. “You made it! Please, come in.”
You return his smile half heartedly, still mourning the loss of your way out—currently struggling to put her notes back into her tote bag, already halfway down the hall.
“You’re very popular.” you note, following Dr. Reid into his office. Behind you, the door clicks, shut but unlocked. Layout-wise, his office is the exact carbon copy of yours. A desk set up in one corner, two book shelves lining the walls, and a filing cabinet pushed in the last corner. Atop it sits an electric heater and matching ceramic jars, which you assume contains his drink of choice.
But unlike your office—which is home to two years worth of tchotchkes, books, and memorabilia—his shelves are still fairly clear. Boxes are stacked beside his desk, labeled with the words books and research written haphazardly on the sides.
His response is a laugh, soft and bashful, all ducked head and pink tipped ears. “I suppose you can say that. I’m sorry for making you wait. It’s not the first time I’ve had that offense.”
Your back straightens. “What?”
He bustles around his office, looking simultaneously perfect in the space, and somehow out of place. Like he hasn’t settled yet. Still finding his footing, even though he looks the part of a well respected, intelligent professor. That’s probably why he’s being so nice to everyone, doing little bits to endear himself to the people with whom he’s sharing this building. Small acts of kindness to put himself out there, and somehow find a crack into which he could lodge and call his space. You understand how that feels. You hate that you do.
Dr. Reid finds two mugs and two teaspoons from the boxes, and hands one to you.
“The medieval conference at Harvard?” he says with a sheepish smile, ushering you to his little pantry set up in the corner. “You were one of the presenters. I believe you fell victim to my tangents.”
He remembers. You had been under the impression that this man had ruined one of the most important days of your life, and simply gone about his own, entirely forgetting about the incident. Careless, carefree, in the way only men can be.
“Ah. Yeah, that.” You wince. The attempt at nonchalance only ends up sounding uncaring, dismissive.
He doesn’t seem to notice, opening up the little ceramic jars to show a choice of tea bags or coffee. (The familiar look of instant coffee crystals greet you, surprisingly—you had taken him for a premium beans only kind of snob.)
“Please, go ahead. I wasn’t sure which you prefer. It’s earl grey or, um, instant Folger’s.”
You take a tea bag with a smile. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” he pours hot water into your mug, before turning his attention to his own cup. Instant coffee, way too much sugar that your brow raises almost by instinct.
“I see you take your sugar with a side of coffee.”
He laughs. “I’ve stopped trying to curb it. I figured it’s time to accept that it’s my choice of poison.”
“Ah.” you drift to one of the chairs across his desk, no doubt previously occupied by his student from earlier. You settle onto the seat uninvited, although you think it’s safe to assume you’d be allowed, considering he asked you to have coffee with him in the first place. It feels weird, not asking, unapologetically asserting yourself in his space. You swirl your teaspoon and pretend your discomfort is swept away by the rising steam.
“But as I was saying, you’ve had to sit and wait for me before this. I suppose that wasn’t a very good first impression,” he takes a seat behind the desk, still stirring his coffee. “Nor am I making a very good second one, considering you’ve had to wait again.”
His self awareness is refreshing. If you were a different person, you’d probably soften. Be charmed, as you’d said to Carrie earlier, but… well, you’re you, and you’re determined to treat this as a polite obligation. Nothing else.
“It’s all right. It seems like something I’ll just have to get used to.”
Dr. Reid shakes his head. “No, I’ll get better at it. I just tend to go on rambles, it drove my past coworkers nuts.”
You could almost imagine it. Strict, no nonsense FBI agents sitting through Dr. Reid’s obscure statistics. The very idea makes you snort. “I bet.”
“Mhm. They always cut me off though. I suppose I got so used to it, you know.”
“What, getting interrupted?”
“Indeed. So getting the authority to just speak is simultaneously freeing, and also foreign. I keep waiting for someone to say ‘Reid’ in a stern voice, but no one ever does.” he chuckles. It’s a fond sound, like he’s reminiscing about happy times, but you can’t help but find what he’s saying a bit sad.
“Well, now you’re paid to share your knowledge.”
“Exactly. But it wasn’t always like that, so it’s a bit of a learning curve. Now I have to watch myself, actually pace what I’m saying, because I’ll have an audience that’s finally paying attention.”
You hide your frown by tipping your teacup to your lips. Everything you’ve assumed about him thus far keeps getting proven wrong, so you try to hold your judgement on his past coworkers. Didn’t you wish someone told him to stop talking during the conference too? So, theoretically, you kind of know what his coworkers were feeling when he began rambling.
But reframed this way, his tangents seem to come from genuine excitement rather than carelessness. A desire to share that spills out too much, too unbidden, rather than a callous disregard for others.
Dr. Reid seems to find awkwardness in your silence, clearing his throat and drawing you out of your reverie. Good. You can’t be empathizing with him, not even ten minutes into this conversation.
“It’s a shame, though, I found your presentation to be very fascinating.”
You set the cup down, huffing in annoyance as your glasses fog up. You pull them off, gently wiping them with the edge of your shirt as you answer. “There’s no need to try and flatter me over something that happened over a year ago, Dr. Reid.”
“Oh, it’s not flattery. There’s always been a gap between the studies of female and male written narratives. Now, most people would argue that it’s because most women weren’t educated during that time period, and were therefore unable to write in the same capacity as men could, but there’s still a lack of scholarly interest on the female written works that are available. You’re filling in that gap.” he says, so earnestly you find yourself at a loss for words.
He doesn’t just remember you. He remembers what you’d presented. Meaning he listened.
More than that, he’s not scoffing at your research interests, no matter how obscure they might be. He’s taking it seriously. You’ve grown so used to the dismissal, the treatment of your work as inconsequential, as most people tend to default to, that you have no idea how to respond to him.
Thankfully, Dr. Reid simply continues. “Your approach and analysis was very nuanced, and somehow still very sympathetic. It’s impressive, considering how limited your references had to be.”
“Yeah.” Your voice croaks. You push your glasses back on your face. Clear your throat. “Yes, um, thanks. I’ve always found womanhood during the medieval times to be especially interesting.”
“So have I,” he nods, “I suppose it helps that my mother was a professor on medieval literature as well.”
“WhatI?”
He laughs. “Yes. Her favorite writer was Margery Kempe.”
“Oh my god, we would be best friends.” you gush, despite all your earlier reservations. “Does she still teach?”
For the first time today, his presence dims. “No, she’s, um, retired.”
“Oh, of course.” you feel a quick flush of relief. For a moment, you thought she’d died and you’d put your foot in your mouth. “I’m sure she was a brilliant professor.”
“She was.” he sounds proud as he rises from his seat, and moves over to the pile of boxes. “I have some of her old books here. Romances, mostly, but there’s some compilations of poetry and letters too.”
“I’m about to raid your boxes, Dr. Reid.”
He laughs, head poking from behind the pile to look at you. “You have full permission. In fact, I’ll call you over when I’ve fully unpacked and you can have first dibs.”
“To keep forever?”
“To borrow.”
You laugh. Goddamnit, you aren’t supposed to be laughing with him like this. Like you’re friends. Like you’re enjoying his company. You down the rest of your tea, hoping the scalding liquid shocks you back to your senses.
He emerges after a few moments, holding a copy of The Letters of Abélard and Héloïse. “This is the only one I could grab out of that mess.”
The title is familiar. Controversial too, considering the content—a love affair between a philosopher and his young pupil. “Wow, you are not easing me in.”
“You’re already teaching Dante. I knew I had to go a little deeper chronologically.” He hands the book to you. An olive branch. A tangible invitation for something other than the perfunctory politeness between colleagues.
You should decline. It feels too loaded, too soon. Like you’re agreeing to the promise of more.
The smell of aged paper flirts in the space between you, warm and welcoming. Your fingers briefly brush against his as you take the book.
“I’ll make sure to return it in pristine condition.”
One of these days, you’ll regret this inability to just say no.
But not today. Of that, you’re sure.