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Spencer knew coming out with Penelope on their rare day off was a mistake. He had planned to stay in all day, read a handful of his favorite books, and order takeout. Maybe take a walk if he was feeling ballsy. But Penelope’s idea of clearing her head consisted of a long, loud metro ride to the Mall.
The National Mall, to be exact, to visit the newest exhibition at the National Museum of American History. And well, Spencer had been meaning to find time to go, so he agreed. A big mistake.
“There’s also a temporary exhibit on ballet, mostly costumes I think? Not really my scene but the outfits are just so pretty, Reid. You should see them, they had photos online of-”. Garcia stopped talking when she saw you. Well, rather you and Spencer all but collapsing into each other.
The pastel colored posters you once held onto flew everywhere, and you and the young Dr. Reid ended up on the floor. Much to his dismay, Pen could barely contain her excitement — it was like a scene straight from the cheesiest rom-com she could think of.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” Reid started as he gathered the flyers for you. Helping him, you picked a few up and straightened them out. You stood up, dusting off your cardigan and adjusting your glasses. Spencer reorganized his stack of papers before handing them to you and shifting his leather bag. His own glasses sat slightly askew on his face. “Here,” He handed the flyers back, but not before sneaking a glance at what was printed on them, and at you — a perfect picture of disheveled academic beauty.
“Thank you, so much,” you accepted the papers from him and added them to your pile. “I’ve been meaning to hang these up all week, haven’t found the time. And don’t apologize, really. I wasn’t paying attention.” You finally took a good look at who you’d smashed into; It was Penelope, one of your fiber art friends, and a taller, younger brunette man who you recognized, but not enough to place a name to.
Before Spencer could notice, Garcia had scurried off through the next set of doors to wait by the metal detectors (almost like she had been hoping this would happen…), leaving the two of you alone.
Reid rocked back and forth on his feet. “So, what uh,” he clears his throat “what are the flyers for?” He asks, even though he already knows.
“Oh!” Your eyes light up. “I run a bi-weekly fiber arts craft night here on the Mall. Sometimes it's outside if the weather and bugs behave, but usually in the summer we’re in a museum classroom. That’s how I know Penelope, actually. She’s always there.” I looked up slightly at him. “Your uh, your glasses…” I nod my head up.
“Oh, uh, thanks…” he says, a soft flush of awkward embarrassment heating up his cheeks as he readjusts them. “So you’re friends with Garcia, huh,” he offers you a half-lipped smile. “Do you also knit?”
“No actually, but I do crochet…my therapist says it's good for managing my anxiety…shoot sorry,” you awkwardly overshared.
“No, it's fine. She is right though, there is a lot of peer-reviewed research that suggests activities like knitting and crocheting are net-positives for improving mental health. They’re often repetitive, and to a hyper-active mind that can be perceived as meditative or grounding…” Spencer fidgeted with his fingers.
You nod. “Do you knit? Or crochet, or sew? Or lacema-”
“I knit.” he cut you off. “Not as often as I’d like to, though.”
“You should come tonight with Penelope! We’re indoors again, August bugs…” You pull out one of the fliers and a pen from your pocket, scribbling your phone number and name on the back. “Here’s my info, hope it’s legible.” You softly smile at him. “It starts at seven, but feel free to come by whenever.”
Spencer took the flyer from you, eyes scanning over your name and number, cataloging it in his brain. “Thank you,” He says your name softly. “I’ll… we’ll be there tonight.” He offers you a genuine smile as he folded the paper in fours and put it into his bag.
“I’ll see you then…” You pause, waiting for a name you hadn’t received.
“Oh! Spencer.” He nods upward, hands stiff in his pockets.
“I’ll see you then, Spencer.” You waved awkwardly, and headed back inside the building and down a set of stairs to an employee access door.
Spencer collected himself and went inside to meet Penelope. “I told her we’d be there tonight,” he told her softly.
All Penelope could do was giggle to herself as they walked through museum security.
Spencer made sure to arrive at seven o’clock sharp (Penelope usually came later). As he walked into the museum the same pastel posters, accompanied by directional arrows, pointed him to classrooms on the lower level. When he reached the room, you were still setting up, back to the door.
You were still in your work clothes — brown corduroy pants, a museum tee, and a cream colored cardigan. Your hair, which was previously done up in a claw clip, had been let loose for the evening, moving softly as you set up a drink bar with packages of instant cider and a selection of tea bags. Spencer cleared his throat softly and you turned around.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” you took out your earbuds and shoved them into your cardigan pocket. “I probably should keep the volume lower.” You smiled and laughed half-heartedly.
He shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Headphones are a common source of prolonged exposure to loud noises. Most modern headphones can reach over 100 decibels, and studies show that long-term exposure to noises over 85 decibels lead to permanent hearing loss.” You blinked silently at his response. “But I guess every once in a while can’t be too bad.” He offered.
You smiled at him, genuinely, while you moved to a container of yarn. “...do you mind, actually? I could use some help,” you ask, a little embarrassed at your lack of preparedness. “I meant to get to this earlier, but I got caught up at work, God, I feel like such a bad host…”
Spencer scurried over to your side. “No no, I get it. I don’t mind. How do you usually organize the skeins?”
“By weight,” you both start pulling out the yarn, “and then once they’re organized by weight they’re organized by color, not in ROYGBIV but by color wheel…” you trailed off. This time it’s Spencer’s turn to offer you a smile and soft eyes at your quirk. “Sorry, I must sound insane.”
“No, it's a good system.” He stops twiddling his fingers to get to work on the yarn. “You must be familiar with color theory, then?” He asks.
“Yeah, I double majored in Art History and Anthropology for my undergrad. I know way too much about color theory.”
He stepped back to watch you organize the yarn by color. “I know a little bit about it. Admittedly none of it is from hands-on experience… I’m not really much of an artist.” He huffed out a laugh.
“I wasn’t at first, if it makes you feel better. I was more interested in the history of it all, but I had to take studio art classes, and you learn. It’s a skill you sharpen like anything else.” You set down the last skein and lay out a few old hooks and needles. “There, only…” you look up at the clock, “seven minutes past.”
You and Spencer settled down at a table, each of you pulling out your current projects as people slowly started to trickle in. After a few minutes, you looked over at what he was working on. It was a small sweater, a very small sweater in fact. The main yarn was a lovely light blue, with a small geometric pattern in white appearing as he worked the round.
He could feel your eyes on him, and he looked over, catching you staring at the project in his hands. “Oh!” He stops for a second, face turning pink as he turns inward to show you. “It’s a sweater, for my godson, Henry.” He lets you run your fingers over the knit. “The yarn is a cotton-wool blend. I was hoping that would make sure it's warm enough for him without being too itchy.”
“It's adorable…” you pout in adoration at the tiny sweater.
You both are shocked out of your conversation by the sound of a bag slamming on the table. “You would not believe how busy the 66 was, I thought I was going to miss our sacred crafting time.” Garcia looked up at the two of you as she pulled her knit from her bag. She might not be a profiler, but she had been working with them long enough to read people well. You and Spencer were turned in toward each other, a blush prominent on his face as you held his sweater in your hands. She smiled, smacking the hot pink gloss on her lips. Gathering her things, she stood up and walked to the other side of Spencer.
“You better secure a date with her by the end of the evening,” she hissed in his ear. “If not, I’m telling Morgan about the teddy bear you sleep with.”
Spencer huffed and rolled his eyes. “Garcia-” he whined.
She kissed her hand, pressed it to his cheek, and stood back up and smiled at you both. “Alright my doves, I’m going to go brag about my sequin scarf to the girls.”
You watched Penelope leave the table, and you looked over at Spencer, mild confusion and amusement on your face. “What was that about?”
“Don’t know.” He answered, too fast. “Do you want a cup of tea?” He stood up quickly, banging his knee on the table with a grimace.
You giggled softly. “Sure, Spencer. Chamomile would be great.” Something about him was awkwardly cute. Like a baby deer, all legs and big, dorky eyes.
He arrived back at the table with two mugs of steaming tea, both chamomile, you noticed. “So,” he cleared his throat, “what are you working on?” He asks, pushing one of the mugs your way.
You stopped your crochet, hooking in your stitch marker. “It’s a star blanket. I thought the ombre yarn would be perfect for it, plus it’ll look good on my couch.” You laid the blanket out on the table. “It’s a combination of double crochets and mesh stitches, each section increases according to the Fibonacci sequence…” You run your fingers over the rows of yarn. “To be clear I’m not a math nerd… “ You looked up at Spencer, “just a fan of the sequence, it’s always pleased me.”
He took a sip of his tea. “It makes sense, finding the Fibbonacci sequence to be pleasing. It’s referred to as the golden ratio for a reason — the sequence creates a perfect spiral, and it’s found throughout nature, especially in leaves. Also, individuals perceived as having a high attractiveness tend to have faces that match the ratio’s level of symmetry and follow the sequence.”
You laughed softly. “Well that’s sure as hell not me,” your mug meets your lips, “but it makes for a nice blanket.” You picked it up, returning to your stitches.
Spencer just responds with a half-smile. He looks over your face quickly, like he doesn’t already have it memorized in his eidetic brain. Soft, focused, golden. You are correct, technically. The statistical likeness for you to have a symmetrical face is low, but is doesn’t matter, he thinks. Not when you smile, or look at him with round eyes. He’s just met you and he’s already screwed.
“So, you work for the museum, right?” He asks, going back to his knit.
“Yeah, I’m one of the Collection Assistants. I handle the artifacts behind the scenes, cataloging, care and upkeep, stuff like that. I’ve been working on cataloging new intake from New York, and one of the other assistants quit suddenly last week so…” you sigh, “just me being a tryhard.”
“It sounds interesting!” he says eagerly, yet genuine. “I’ve always found the behind-the-scenes of museums to be fascinating. So much happens behind closed doors in the world of historic preservation, and most of the public doesn’t even realize it.”
You stop crocheting to look over at him. “Yeah…” You smile, feeling seen in a way you haven’t for a long time.
Before you both can notice, time slips away, and the evening comes to a close. Most other people have trickled out, and your watch beeps. You looked down to see your nine o’clock alarm. Quietly, you gather your things at the table, and move to pack up the tables.
Noticing your sudden absence from his side, Spencer jumps up, eyes scanning the room to find you. “Is there anything I can help with?” He asks, walking up to you.
“No, no, I’ve got it…” You respond, packing up the yarn.
He reached out to stop you, grabbing your wrist softly. “What do you want me to help with?” He restates himself.
You huff in defeat. “It would be nice if you took care of the tea?” You look up at him above the rims of your glasses.
After a few more minutes of packing things away into the storage closet, you walk out of the museum together. The sharp summer air hits your lungs, and Spencer looks over the parking lot.
“Mm, where’d you park?” He asks.
“Don’t drive,” you respond softly, “I take the metro.”
“If you don’t mind, I can drive you home.”
“No, no, I can manage.”
“I know.” He gulps softly, breath catching in his throat. “I want to drive you home.”
The drive to your apartment is quiet, except for the Classical station playing softly in the background.
“Are you single?” Spencer blurts out, halfway through the drive. Wonderful timing. “I-I mean, I’d like to take you out. Saturday, for dinner. If you’re free, that is, if not that’s okay, I-”.
“Saturday sounds great.” You look over to find his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, his face flushed, and eyes darting between you and the road. “I’ll add it to my calendar. You’ll let me know what time?”
He releases a shaky breath. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll uh, I’ll text you.” His lips curl into a smile as you point to the entrance of your apartment complex.
He parks. And gets out of the car, and opens your door for you. “I’ll walk you up.” He grabs your hand as you exit his car.
“Such a gentleman.” You half-joke.
You both walk in a comfortable silence through the building, to the elevator, and to your door. Unlocking your door, you stand in the doorway.
“Goodnight, Spencer,”
“Goodnight,” He gently squeezes your hand, and smiles. As you close the door he walks back to his car, legs shaking, brain in disbelief. Penelope will be telling Morgan about this, he thinks.