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Spencer double-checked himself in the mirror not once, but twice before leaving his apartment. He slipped on his tweed suit jacket, and one of his (large) hands ran through his hair again, a strand falling in front of his face.
Should I really have slicked it back? Do I look stupid? I should change my tie. How many sprays of cologne did I put on, two? No — three, I need to do another to make it even. Should I bring my gun? No, no, that’s ridiculous.
It was 5:23, and you were expecting him in exactly one hour and thirty-seven minutes. After he returned home on Tuesday, he texted you three things:
7pm. Trattoria di Sole, I’ll pick you up.
Admittedly, you had been lingering in the back of his mind since craft night. And, as each day grew closer to Saturday, you moved from the back to front and center, and now his nerves were getting the best of him.
He decided to take the train to your apartment. You lived close to the restaurant, and the thought of him behind the wheel of a car right now was mildly terrifying. He walked up out of the metro exit, and beelined to a flower stand by the side of the road.
Looking over the different arranged bouquets, he realized he did not know anything about your flower preferences. What if she doesn’t like what I pick out? Oh man, what if she’s allergic…Then, a neat bouquet of tulips catches his eyes. They’re a deep pink, tied together with a yellow ribbon in a dainty bow. He buys them, paying in cash, and starts the short walk to your building.
You live in a studio apartment in a highrise complex. It’s fairly expensive compared to your income, but it's in a great part of town, and that can’t be beat. Plus, your commute can’t be beat. Framed prints you’ve collected from different museums cover your limited wall space. Van Gogh’s Postmaster Roulin hangs in your bathroom, and your eyes lock with the painting’s through the mirror as you frantically try to get ready on time.
You’re still brushing on eyeshadow from your go-to palette when you hear your intercom buzz. You rush to the receiver, answering it.
“Hello? It’s Spencer. Sorry I’m early.”
Without responding, you let him in, and in a few minutes, there’s a knock at your door. You answer it, tube of mascara in hand.
“Hi, sorry, I didn’t want to be late, I hope it’s not a bother…” He trails off, catching your eye with a dazed look, every thought leaving his brain. His eyes trail as well, taking in the rest of you. You’re standing there in fuzzy socks, your dress for the evening (a lovely satin green number that flounces to your knee, he notices), and a sweatshirt, presumably protecting your dress from the makeup — which is still in your hand.
Your eyes catch his, before darting down to the flowers in his hand. He’s looking you up and down, and you’ve never felt a spotlight so warm. He’s arrived at your apartment no less than 13 minutes early, all done up, and with flowers. And here you are, makeup half done, a partial mess. You had lost track of time while reading a new book you’d picked up yesterday after work — a deep dive on Anne Hutchinson, a colonial woman you were interested in — and forgot to set an alarm to start getting ready.
“No, don’t apologize Spencer. I’m the one who isn’t ready, I look ridic-”
“You look great. Wonderful.”
“Don’t lie to me,” You half-laughed out, gesturing to yourself. “I’ve still got 10 minutes until I’ll be fit to walk out that door, I’ve resorted to doing my whole routine out of order and I still didn’t make it on time. Plus, you’re…” You looked down sheepishly, gesturing to him.
“I’m not lying.” He says softly, nervously, even. He hands you the bouquet. “I’m a horrible liar actually, according to other people.”
You accept the flowers with a soft pout. “You’re too sweet…” Smelling them, your shoulders soften and you exhale, lips turning to a smile. “I’ll only be a few more minutes,” you point towards the bathroom, “please, make yourself comfy. And, there’s a vase under my kitchen sink…if you don’t mind?”
Spencer juts out his bottom lip, and shakes his head. “No, not at all.” He takes the flowers back from you and walks over to your kitchen, prepping them and the vase. “Please take your time, I don’t mean to rush you!” He calls from the kitchen, checking his watch for the time.
After taking care of the flowers, he brings the vase into your sitting area, and sets it down on your coffee table. He sits down on your couch, older, worn in, secondhand, thrifted, maybe? He thinks. Looking around, he takes in as much of your tiny apartment as he can before you finish, trying to learn as much about you as possible.
Bookshelves claim a good percentage of your space, he notices, and they’re filled to the brim with books of all genres, as well as different decorative bookends and trinkets. There’s a half-way divvying your sleeping space from the rest of the studio, and he can make out the old wooden posts of your bed, olive green pillows, and a shelf with your jewelry.
Her bed isn’t made, which is a juxtaposition to how the rest of the room is organized. He thinks. She likely prefers a nest like quality to her sleep space, or maybe doesn’t see the point in making her bed every morning just to mess it up later? All of her shoes are by the door, suggesting she doesn’t wear them in the house, perhaps due to cultural and familiar upbringing? Though due to the organized nature of her space, maybe there’s the idea of ‘contaminating’ with outside germs… it’s not perfectly organized, though. More like a neat chaos. She knows where everything is and everything is in its place, but an outsider wouldn’t know that…
He’s snapped out of his trance by you calling his name. You’re standing above him, makeup done, hair pulled half-up with a black bow, fuzzy socks replaced with black flats. Your dress, your dress, a soft dark green with a high neck and cap sleeves. It’s not the dress that steals every ounce of moisture from his mouth, but you in it.
You sling a small black bag on your shoulder, and awkwardly rub your arm. “Spencer? I’m done if you’re ready to go?” you sound slightly unsure, probably brought on by his slack-jawed, painfully obvious stare.
“Y-yeah, sorry.” He gets up, and rubs his hands on the fabric of his pants. “I thought we could walk there? It’s approximately two blocks from your building. I researched the crime statistics for the area, if you ever feel unsafe I am a trained FBI field agent so I have experience in de-escalation.” He opens your front door, and watches as you walk out. “You look…really pretty, by the way.”
You smile and laugh at his word vomit, at how endearing it is, at how you mirror each other. “Thank you, Spencer, you look very nice as well. Very handsome. I’ll let you know if I feel unsafe, though that has rarely happened since I moved in..except for the apartment below mine getting broken into.” You gently hold his upper arm as you two walk through your building and eventually out the door.
The summer night air is crisp as it hits your lungs, the sound of the city echoing around the two of you. Two blocks isn’t far of a walk, but you’re glad you decided not to wear heels. Spencer’s neck and face stay a constant flushed pink, and you’re buzzing with energy. It had been a while since you’ve been on a date like this, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous. When you reach the restaurant, Spencer holds the door open for you as you step inside, trying (and succeeding) to be a perfect gentleman for you.
He leads you to a hosts’ stand, the warm lights of the restaurant flickering around you. “Hi,” he rests his hand on the edge of the stand, “I have a 7:15 reservation for two under Spencer Reid?”
The host looks between you two and the sheets on the stand. “Alright…Dr. Reid, I’ve got your table reserved here.” She grabs two small menus, “If you’ll follow me?”
You both follow her to your table, hand returning to Spencer’s bicep. You sit across from him, back to the wall as you face him and the rest of the restaurant. “So, Dr. Reid, why this place?” You set a napkin in your lap.
“Well,” he settled in his seat, “It was close to your apartment, I’ve been here before with our team, and Garcia told me you like Tuscan cuisine.” He smiled, starting to gain confidence. “She also told me you like to be able to see everything from where you’re sitting, that it helps to calm you, being able to observe everyone in the vicinity. I requested this table because it had the best view of the restaurant.”
“Spencer…” you hid part of your face from him with the menu, wanting to obscure the blush rising up your face. “This is only the…” you counted on your fingers, “third time we’ve met, and you’re already the sweetest guy I’ve met.”
“Penelope talks very highly of you, I want to do the best I can.”
Your foot brushed his ankle under the table, and you lowered the menu to rest back on the table. “So, you work with Penelope?” You take a sip of water.
“Oh, yeah, I do. I’m not a technical analyst, though.” He watches you raise an eyebrow. “I work with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, we psychologically profile serial offenders, mostly killers, to arrest them. We also provide profiles upon request for other cases around the country”
“Oh man, I knew you guys dealt with some pretty, I don’t know, gruesome? things, but I can’t imagine…”
“Yeah, I find it pretty fascinating, actually, dealing with death, learning how the mind works. There’s something about getting into their minds, it’s like the most complicated puzzle you could ever piece together.” He stopped for a beat. “Sorry, that’s got to be…”
“Offputting? Maybe a little,” you giggled, “but I’ve done a lot of research on funerary objects and I’ve excavated remains during field school, so we might be even on that one.”
Your waiter walked by and Spencer flagged them down. “Sorry, could we get a club soda with lime and a glass of Vernaccia? Thank you,”
Instead of continuing with what you were going to say, you just kind of stared at him. Somewhat impressed, somewhat taken aback. “Bold…did Pen tell you my favorite wine too? Or was that a profiler’s educated guess?”
Any boldness that previously possessed him shrivelled up at the sight of you across the table. “Sorry- yeah, she told me, but I figured you wouldn’t have ordered it for yourself.” He carefully pulled the alcohol list away from your view. “Based on our last interaction, I’m assuming you don’t often go out of your way for yourself, but you will for other people. You were hesitant to ask me for help cleaning up after Craft Night was over, and also on accepting a ride home. Also, most of your books are secondhand copies, including the one you were reading today, suggesting you wouldn’t order a high-end glass of wine for yourself. You brought your wallet with you, so you assumed you were paying for your half of the meal, likely based on past experiences.”
The hand you were resting your chin on flopped down in defeat. “Holy shit, you’re like, magic, or something.” You looked down at your lap, folding your hands together. “The best I can reciprocate with is restructuring and dating a piece of pottery.”
He shakes his head, and runs a hand through his hair. “Not magic, just psychology. I enjoy studying human behavior for the same reason you like studying human history and society. I feel if I learn these patterns, I understand how to function between them, if that makes sense?”
The waiter appears with your drinks. You swirl your wine, before taking a small sip, and your eyebrows furl. “No, yeah, I do. I study Anthropology and Archaeology because I think humans are so incredibly fascinating.”
“So,” Spencer takes a sip of his club soda, “You double majored in Art History and Anthropology for your undergrad. Where at?”
“University of Michigan. It was a ‘reach’ school for me, I didn’t believe I’d get in. I’m working on a Master’s in Museum Studies currently, the Institution is giving me a stipend for it. How about you — you’ve got a Doctorates, right?”
“Yeah, I have a Bachelor of Arts in both Psychology and Sociology from CalTech, and PhDs in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering.”
“Oh, three. Wow, uh, that’s really impressive.” You looked at him over your glasses, a smile growing on your face.
Before he could respond, your waiter came back to take your food order. A variety of bruschette was ordered, as well as a pasta each for the entrees.
“Sorry,”
“Spencer, what are you apologizing for?”
“People often think I’m trying to brag when I talk about myself. I don’t mean to come off that way. I think what you’ve accomplished is very impressive too. Not many people succeed with a double major, and even fewer go on to complete a post graduate degree, especially at your age.” This time his foot finds yours under the table, hesitant, but wanting. “You, uh, you said one of the other assistants you work with quit, how’s work been?”
You sighed, and took a bigger sip of wine. “If I could smash this plate over my head I would.”
He smiled sympathetically, and laughed. A genuine laugh.
“I’ve been the only one cataloging the intake from New York, I’ve been working on it since I mentioned it to you. Turns out colonial era documents are very meticulous.”
“Oh they're from the colonial era! That would explain the book on Hutchinson… Are they additions to the permanent collection? Or a temporary intake, like, on loan?”
Before you got too lost in conversation, the waiter arrived with your appetizer. Your eyes widened, the small selection of different bruschetta exciting you more than it normally would. Based on the menu, you figured this place would be pretty good Tuscan food, but this was authentic.
Spencer placed a plate in front of you. “I’ll apologize ahead of time — I’m not great with eating with people.”
“No no, neither am I. It’s the sound of chewing.” You gently bit into a piece, covering your mouth with your hand as you ate.
“I will try to chew quietly, then.”
You both enjoyed your food as it came out, and the sun started to set, the golden light peeking into the dimly lit restaurant. As Spencer looked over the dessert menu left on the table, you looked out the window, admiring the dying light that filled the sky.
He cleared his throat softly. “Do you like coffee? I thought tiramisu might be a good cap to end the night.” He looked at you over his own glasses before pushing them up his face to catch a better look at you. He softened at the sight of you looking out the window, lost in the sunset. His gaze intent, meaning to memorize every atom before you noticed him staring. Of course he already had you memorized, but he wanted this memory, specifically.
Eventually you felt his eyes on you, and you shifted back to face the table. “Tiramisu sounds great.” You smiled.
“You’re so unbelievably beautiful.” He blurted, at the same time no less. His fingers started to fidget.
You giggled, softly, almost embarrassed. You wanted to respond, but the words got lost on their way from your brain to your mouth. All you could do was look down and hold your hands together.
“I- I mean it. I do. And the more you talk, about your interests, your job, the more I learn about you, you become exponentially more attractive.”
Your leg starts to bounce underneath the table, and you’re scared he can hear it. Finally, you gather the courage to look up at him. If you weren’t already a puddle, his big, brown eyes would have melted you.
“Sorry, did I say something wrong? I know this is our third time seeing each other, and only our first date, but I think honesty is better for-”
“No, you said everything right.” Your voice comes out rough, flooded with emotion. “Yeah, tiramisu sounds good, maybe we can split?”
He nodded, quickly, “Yeah, yeah that sounds good.”
Spencer paid for the whole meal. He wouldn’t even let you look at the bill, something about “A gentleman wouldn’t let you worry about it”. As you walked out the restaurant, your hand returned to hold onto his upper arm. Embolden by your date, his hand rested on the small of your back, careful as he touched you.
Part way through the walk back to your apartment, he felt you start to shiver. It wasn’t that cold out, but you had a lot less clothing on than he did. He gently let go of you to shrug off his suit jacket, wrapping you in it. You look over at him, a mix of confusion and infatuation. He just shrugged, returning his hand to your back. “You’re cold.”
You unlocked the front door to your building, and he walked you up to your apartment. “Thank you for tonight, Spencer. I had a wonderful time.” You looked down as you fiddled with your keys.
“I did as well. When can I see you next? I really want to see you again, preferably soon, if that’s okay?” He slipped his jacket back on.
You nod. “I’d really like that. The National Gallery of Art has extended hours this Wednesday, meet me after work?”
His eyes lit up. “Yes, that sounds great. I’ll be there.” His heart started to race, and his eyes darted down to your lips. People normally kiss after a first date, right? I don’t want to seem too forward. I should kiss her, right? “Well, I hope you have a good rest of your night. I’ll text you when I get home!” He shoves his thoughts down.
“Spencer?” You called out softly.
“Hm?”
“Can I kiss you?” You asked, hesitantly.
“Please,”
He stepped closer to you, and you cupped his face, kissing him softly. He didn’t respond at first, but pulled back to see your face instead. He gently moved your hands to brace the back of his neck, and one of his hands held your face as he moved in to kiss you. He wasn’t as uncertain as you had been, and you could taste the coffee and rum from the tiramisu on his tongue, which was gently prodding at your bottom lip.
You broke away to take a breath, and pushed open your front door. “Come inside?”
He readjusted his glasses and nodded, mouth slighted, face flushed, and eyes wide. Spencer didn’t need to be told to follow you inside, and once he was, he slipped off his shoes to rest next to yours by the door.
“Coffee? Water? I’ve got a bottle of limoncello, if you’d like some.” You offered.
“I don’t usually drink, what is it like?” he asked, referring to the latter option.
You paused. “Uhh, strong, pretty sweet. It’s something you sip slowly over the course of like, a half hour.”
“Ah, yeah, I uh- I’ve never had it. Could I try it? Is that okay?” He lifted his legs to perch himself on your kitchen counter.
“Yeah, yeah.” You grabbed the bottle from the cabinet, along with two shot glasses. You add a small bit to one of the glasses for him.
He took it, and hesitantly took a sip. His eyebrows furled, nose scrunched and he coughed. “Yeah, strong…” He let it linger a bit, and softly smacked his lips. “I can see why people like it, if it's okay, I’ll just have coffee?” He looks up at you, messing with his hands. “B-but please, don’t feel like you can’t drink if I’m not…I just, uh, like to stay sober. Not that you won’t be!”
You chuckle, and bend in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll start a pot.” You get the coffee started, and the mug you picked out looked to Spencer like it came from the museum gift shop. As you set it down, you realized how dirty the countertop was. The countertop he was sitting on, how rude of you! You always kept your kitchen clean. You swept away the grime. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, really, I swear I’m cleaner than this. I’m gonna grab a rag from the close-”
As soon as you started to move out the kitchen, you felt his large hand gently gripping your waist.
“Wait,” he looks at you. Your glasses slipping off of your nose, makeup slightly smudged, fuzzy socks back on your feet even though your dress was still on. His mouth goes dry, the neat chaos he noticed earlier confirmed. His lips parted and eyebrows scrunched as he tried, and failed, to talk. “Kiss?” Was all he managed to say.
You froze, and nodded, dusting your hands free of the counter crumbs. He tucked your hair behind your ear with a shaky hand, and his lips met yours, soft, wanting. His grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly as you kissed back, melting into him. Your hand reached toward him, and grabbed onto his tie. Spencer hummed against your mouth, the closeness pounding in his chest, and he bit down on your lip.
You flinched, not in pain, but surprise. When you pulled away, Spencer was surprised as well.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I meant to, uh, I wanted to do that, but- maybe not so suddenly?” The coffee maker beeped, and he jumped down from the counter to pour his mug.
“It's uh, it's okay.” You moved into your living area, sitting down on the couch and taking a small sip of your limoncello. “I liked it. You’re kind of good at this.” You admitted quietly.
Spencer froze as he sat down next to you. “Oh,” He took a sip of his coffee, “That’s…good to know.” He took another sip, and stared into the brown liquid before setting it down on the table. You slid a coaster under his mug, and he raised an eyebrow. “Can I kiss you again?”
“Yeah, you can. Consider yourself past the point of need to ask.” You scootch closer to him.
He hummed, pulling you in closer. “Thank you for letting me know. I just try to be polite. Asking is important.” His mouth slots against yours again, meeting you in another gentle kiss. “I can taste it on you.” He kisses you again. “Your drink.” Another kiss. “I think it's making you more addicting.”
You giggled against his mouth. “You taste like coffee,” a chaste kiss was pressed to his lips. “That can’t mix well with lemon.”
He chuckled, the vibrations against your lips leading you to part them. He kissed you, gently still, but less innocent, and slipped his tongue into your mouth curiously. His hand moved to where your neck meets your jaw, pulling you into him, holding you close.
“Actually,” he pulls away, lips as red as his cheeks, “lemon and coffee are commonly drunk together, caffe romano, the citrus dulls the bitterness of the espresso.” He resumes kissing you. “So,” he mutters against your mouth, “this is perfect.”