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While the BAU team regularly went out for drinks after a draining case, one member of the team rarely ordered anything stronger than an Arnold Palmer.
Spencer Reid liked to keep his mind sharp. Even when relaxing with his teammates, he didn't like feeling like he wasn't in control of his faculties. He enjoyed spending time with them outside of work, and eventually the "friendly" peer pressure to participate in their binge drinking ceased. They didn't need him to go shot for shot with them to enjoy having him around. It was an unspoken dynamic that had lasted years.
But 'rarely' didn't mean 'never'.
If someone asked him when he started actually drinking on these nights out, he could have told them the exact date and time. But he would have shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. If someone asked him why he changed his order from a tea drink dedicated to a golfer to a tea drink dedicated to an area of New York, he could have told them his true motivation. But he would have avoided the question and gone on about the origins of the names of various cocktails.
When?
A week after you joined the BAU. 9:06pm.
Why?
Because he needed his brain to slow down when you sat close to him and occasionally let your hand rest on his thigh.
He thought he could keep his secrets to himself by not saying anything. However, even with the moratorium on inter-team profiling, his change in behavior was witnessed up close and personal by the best profilers in the country. But they were also his friends and collectively decided to let him believe he was getting away with it. As long as there were no concerning signs of... more intense substance usage, they added his drinks to the tab no questions asked. A smirk here and there, but no questions and no teasing. Anything they could say would only serve to fluster him and he was already red as a tomato by his second Long Island.
Their usual bar was having an ABBA themed night which meant lots of dancing. Penelope only left the dance floor to take more shots and occasionally grab at Morgan's muscles. Emily and JJ tagged in and out periodically throughout the night. Hotch and Rossi had one drink, tapped their toes along to Mamma Mia, and politely called it an early night. You flitted around the bar like a butterfly. Dancing, chatting with friends you ran into, downing water from the free jug on the bar between vodka cranberries. And Spencer sat in the booth completely mesmerized.
He admired your intelligence and ability as an agent. You'd proven yourself very early on and the team was objectively lucky to have you. But beyond the skills on your resume and in the field, you were kind and sweet and pretty and...
Spencer knew he was a goner from the moment you set your bag down on the desk across from his in the bullpen.
But what the genius didn't know was that the second his eyes shot up from your bag to meet your gaze, you were a goner, too.
You would never describe yourself as a 'party girl' or even as a 'social butterfly', but after a drink or two, you found it very easy to slip onto the dance floor with Garcia or say 'hi' to the girls from your crafting group who you'd met a couple of times.
Your new team welcomed you with open arms and you, frankly, hit it out of the park on your first few cases, so that made it easier to warm up to them sans alcohol.
Even on your crazier nights, you never had more than a few drinks. Partly out of self-preservation, but, now, partly because you didn't know what a more intoxicated version of you would let slip.
On your first day at your new job, you should have been nervous about living up to expectations or imposter syndrome or using the wrong door and being escorted off of FBI property by a big man with a big gun. But the second you saw those honey eyes and floppy hair, all of those rational nerves took a back seat. Suddenly, you were second guessing the outfit you'd picked out and the way you did your hair. Oh god, did you remember to put on deodorant? Were those people online who said deodorant was a scam right and did you actually smell awful regardless of if you applied it when getting ready that morning?
You were almost relieved when instead of a handshake he offered you a polite wave and a tight-lipped smile. Who knows what skin-to-skin contact with the most handsome man you'd ever seen would do to your ability to function, let alone do you job?
Weeks later, you still felt the tingle of butterflies when he walked into a room or asked you a direct question. Hopefully, you managed to keep your burgeoning crush under wraps. Crap, who were you kidding - these people could find a reclusive serial killer from a blurry frame of CCTV footage and a footprint. You were doomed. Maybe they were too polite to mention it, being that you were so new to the team and, you assumed, everyone new to the team had at least a bit of a crush on the young doctor. It was old news - predictable, even! Nothing of note to be teased about or brought up.
Most of the time when you spoke with him, it was about a case. You never wanted to pry into your coworkers' personal lives and he didn't offer much up of his own volition. On nights out like this, you tended to admire from afar as you busied yourself with anything that would keep you from sitting in the booth too long and indulged in some liquid courage that never quite delivered on its promise.
Tonight, however, ABBA compelled you to dance like there was no tomorrow. You and Penelope tore up the dance floor screaming along to the Swedish disco music. There were even a few moments when your attention wasn't slipping back to the boy wonder sipping on his drink from the sidelines.
Eventually, Garcia and you retuned to the team's table for a brief intermission and to catch you breaths. The technical analyst, however, seemed to bounce back much quicker than you because at the same moment you slid into the seat next to Emily, she was pulling on Spencer's arm and dragging him back to the dance floor as you watched.
"Wow, I guess tonight Spencer is the dancing queen," Emily said chuckling to herself. With two very strong drinks under his belt, Spencer's dance moves were less like dance moves and more like vague motions. Penelope flailed his arms around and his lanky, intoxicated body flowed with her direction. Normally, he would've been mortified, but his eyes were lit up, his cheeks were rosy, and he had the goofiest smile on his face.
You heard the conversation going on around you, but none of the words registered in your brain as your eyes were glued to Spencer. How could someone so uncoordinated look so adorable? You sighed deeply and excused yourself to use the restroom.
With the dampened sound of Gimme, Gimme, Gimme, thumping outside the single stall bathroom, you washed your hands and looked at yourself in the mirror. Funny how sobering a bar bathroom can be. After a few deep breaths and a resolution to maintain the professional distance you'd kept between you and Spencer, you exited the bathroom and returned to the booth to find the man in question was back and slumped over, breathing heavily as Morgan pushed a tall glass of water into his hands.
"Kid, trust me, you need this," Morgan pleaded. "I know you know all the ins and outs of how alcohol affects the body and what that much liquor does to a lightweight like you." Spencer scrunched his nose up in that cute way he does and you felt your heart skip a beat. It was as if being in the bathroom momentarily muted your feelings for him the way it did the music and now that you were back in the thick of it, everything came flooding back to your senses increased by tenfold.
Spencer begrudgingly took a few sips and gave Morgan a look.
"Thank you," Morgan said sarcastically, playfully nudging Spencer's shoulder. "Pretty girl, are you gonna sit down or is the music calling you back for an encore?" You hadn't even realized that you were still just standing next to the table. Quickly, you shuffled into the booth.
"I don't think my feet will be able to carry me home if I spend another second trying to keep up with Garcia," you said with a smile. Suddenly, two arms were wrapping around your waist and a bed of curls was brushing against your neck. You looked down to see Spencer's blushing, goofy smile closer than you'd ever seen it. His eyes were closed and he looked happy as a clam despite how rigid your body had gone with the unexpected contact.
"I'll carry you home," he slurred, holding you tighter. Did you pass out in the bathroom? Hit your head on the ceramic toilet bowl? There was no way this was actually happening but the warmth of his body against yours was too intense to be a figment of your unconscious brain. Besides, you had no way of knowing that he smelled so much like sandalwood and books and coffee and lavender and yet the odor of the alcohol all around you was replaced by those scents in the most delightful way. Only when Emily snorted did you remember that all of your other coworkers were right next to you and your face flushed a deep scarlet. You laughed nervously and let an arm fall around Spencer, gently patting him a couple of times.
"Haha, sure, Spence, whatever you say." You heard (felt?) a satisfied hum come from him as he continued to hold you. Eventually, the team stopped snickering and moved on to a new topic. You felt yourself relax into Spencer's arms and started petting his hair in a soothing rhythm.
You could've sat with him like that forever, but the bar closed at 2 and it was already pushing 1:30. JJ and Emily decided to share a cab and Morgan offered to take Penelope home to make sure she survived the post-ABBA dance marathon recovery. This left you and Spencer practically alone in the bar.
"Hey," you said quietly, testing to see if he had fallen asleep or not. Either he was fully conscious already or he woke up more with ore subtlety than anyone you'd ever met because he immediately lifted his head to look at you. The goofy smile returned to his face and those puppy dog eyes peeked out under sleepy eyelids. You took a deep breath to calm your nerves before continuing. "It's time to go home. Are you okay to stand up?"
His brows furrowed and he nuzzled his head into your shoulder.
"Don't wanna," he mumbled. You let out a small giggle and he looked back up at you, his expression softened again.
"C'mon, you don't wanna sleep here. Think of the germs!"
"You'll protect me," he said assuredly. You rolled your eyes.
"Okay, I may be good at my job, but I'm not that good. You of all people should know that's not how that works."
"Don't care. The germs can have me as long as I can have you." Your breath hitched at this. He was clearly drunk and would absolutely not be saying this or acting this way if he was sober. But you know what they say about drunk words...
With all your strength, you lifted him out of the booth and let one of his arms fall over your shoulder. The two of you stumbled out of the bar and you ordered an Uber. As you waited in the cold night air, Spencer continued clinging onto you. Part of it was clearly because he was not strong on his feet at the moment, but part of it seemed to be out a desire to be close to you. A thought flickered across your mind - he wasn't going to try anything with you, was he? You trusted him as a teammate, but he was still a man who was significantly taller than you and who you were alone with on a dark street late at night. His dreamy voice interrupted your momentary spiral.
"Did you know that during the Pupa stage of life, a caterpillar completely breaks down its body tissue to reform as a butterfly? It's called metamorphosis. The word 'metamorphosis' is often used as a metaphor for significant change or growth, though never usually for something as wholly devastating as turning your whole body into goo to become a completely different creature. Kafka wrote a novella called The Metamorphosis about a salesman who woke up one day to find himself transformed into a giant insect." As he continued on his meandering lecture about butterflies and books with his arms steadily holding you, the thought vanished into thin air.
His head now above you, you looked up at his face and watched him talk. Even in his drunken haze, he still maintained that light in his eye as he recounted fact after fact. Without letting yourself overthink it, you pushed yourself up on your toes and pressed a quick kiss to Spencer's cheek. His words stuttered and his face grew impossibly redder as his smile morphed from his delighted-smarty-pants glee to a nervous, bashful glow. He continued listing facts and anecdotes until the Uber driver arrived. Once settled in the back seat with your seatbelts on, you reached across and grabbed his hand as the car drove off.