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Someone Who Knows How

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You walked in, delayed from the unreliability of the metro, fingers fidgeting on your lap as you anxiously awaited the reprimand sure to come from your boss, who was sporting a stern lip.

Another finger, interlocking with yours underneath the heavy circular table stilled your heartbeat, reducing it from an ever increasing staccato, down – maybe not down to, but attempting to reach legato. The boy next to you juxtaposed your boss perfectly – his small twitching smile and tousled light hair as opposed to the furrowed brow and neatly combed opaque hair of Aaron Hotchner. The natural entrapment of Spencer Reid’s harmonious nature kept you undisturbed by your reprimand, and you readied yourself for the presentation of the case by a colourful – in appearance and personality – Penelope Garcia.

Despite your proportionate lack of anxiety compared to 15 minutes before, Spencer’s large hand remained intertwined with yours, kept under the table discretely as he confidently stated facts and statistics that correlated with the case. It remained there, as you listened to Garcia explain how 4 people, 3 women and 1 man, all of high-risk nature had been reported missing over the course of several days. It fidgeted with your rings, as Garcia continued to explain how the bodies had been left on the boundary of the woods, unceremoniously dumped with no indication of care, or remorse for the violence. You felt light traces of circles and figure of eights in your palm as the self-assured and bold voice of Derek Morgan took over from Garcia to explain how each victim had signs of extreme blunt force trauma, and sexual assault. Each movement over your hands aided you in not becoming overwhelmed by the violent acts being depicted on the screens ahead of the table.

The case sent them beyond the state line, over to California, where by the 3rd day, you discarded your blazer, instead opting for a structured white shirt, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and tan neat trousers that attempted to keep your cool. A pair of sunglasses with thin gold frames laid on your nose, sliding down from the decided instability of your makeup in the sun, shielding your eyes from the glare.

Next to you, a rare sight was observed, Spencer had ditched the cardigan, and had followed your lead and similarly moved his sleeves up from around his wrists, his own dark sunglasses perched on his face.

You were aware that Spencer was not bad-looking. You never thought he had been. However, confidently, in this moment, you could boldly state that Spencer Reid was hot.

For someone who so adamantly hated physical education, enough to grant him exceptions from the required levels of it for their job, his forearms peeking out from his sleeves painted an entirely different story. Perhaps over the last half a decade the number of hours in the field had upped his stamina, but the only mentally coherent thought you could express in your mind was a subtle desperation to see if underneath his shirt there was a similar situation.

The positively mind-numbing job of waiting besides the alley the victims were kidnapped, in case the unsub revisited, combined with the scorching heat, was your justification for the unequivocally raunchy thoughts flashing through your mind. You only hoped you weren’t outwardly indicating them. You weren’t sure quite how Spencer would react if he knew of your daydreams; you both sweltering, less because of the heat, more because his tender hands tracing across your stomach, skimming across the top of your underwear, his lips attached to your neck, moving from your shoulder, to your collarbone, across your jaw to that sweet spot just behind the ear, coaxing a gasp from your lips.

“Are you okay?” spoke the concerned voice of Spencer, a hand on your shoulder – far too close to your neck – jolting you from your own mind.


“Oh, sorry, yes I’m fine. Think the heat is just getting to me” you relayed back, cheeks ablaze as if you had just been caught red-handed.

“This is pointless. The unsub made minimal effort to hide the bodies, he knew they would be found within 48 hours, him revisiting isn’t on his agenda. I’ll call Hotch and see if we can help JJ and Prentiss with their lead from the financial records Garcia pulled” he announced, eyes flicking to you, waiting for you to turn the ignition and begin the agonizingly concentration-requiring journey across town.

You and Spencer were by far the closest out of anyone on the team, normally chatting away to each other at every given opportunity, resulting in multiple light ‘ahem’s’ from Hotch when he deemed them both veering off topic. This nature was not present in the car as you drove, him worryingly glancing at you, and your lack of conversation as you felt the air in the car becoming slightly too stuffy to breathe.

The fresh breath of air you inhaled as you reached the police station where the rest of the team were situated jolted you back to reality, each one sharing their findings from the morning to each other. A profile was quickly assembled, an arrest was made, the team all joyous from the uncannily quick case, all eager to celebrate.

The evenings celebrations took them to a bar in the city, a short walk from the average hotel they had been residing for the last few days, each person holding a drink Rossi had bought individually suited to them. Rossi, a top shelf Whiskey that he had also adamantly forced Hotch to join him with. JJ sporting a glass of white, complimented by Emily with red. Morgan with a beer in each hand, Garcia producing a highly flamboyant and highly alcoholic cocktail, completed with an umbrella perched on top. You had somehow managed to convince your strait-laced Spence to join you in an Espresso Martini, his caffeine addiction swaying him into accepting the glass, possibly helped by the lack of burning aftertaste due to Rossi’s insistence on Grey Goose vodka making an appearance, rather than the cheap Smirnoff you were used to.

1 glass followed another, which followed another, and soon there was not only swaying on the dance floor, but your vision as you erupted in giggles every time Hotch made a subtle, uncharacteristically dirty joke. Spencer was not far behind you, 3 buttons having slipped open to expose his collarbones, hair all over the place as if someone had frantically run their hands through it.

God, you wished you could run your hands through it.

That thought, which was not a thought, was supposed to remain inside your head, and not be vodka-inducidly expressed, directly to Spencer.

To his credit, you did not receive a recoil in fear, or a look of extreme discomfort. Instead, whilst the team had meandered off getting drinks, dancing, or just becoming entirely missing in the case of JJ and Emily, you were sat at the slightly hidden table, body thoroughly too close to Spencer’s as you ran your fingers through his curly locks.

Although you had had enough drinks to brazenly touch his hair, you were not so blackout drunk that you failed to see the darkening of his irises, blending with his pupils, or the slight openness of his mouth as he struggled to bring in more oxygen to counteract his rosy cheeks or the suffocating tension between the pair of you.

The tension seemed to exacerbate your current state, as you daringly made a comment that decidedly did not release the strain.

“You looked incredibly hot today”.

This was followed by your rapid realisation, and a quick stuttering sentence that followed:
“Not like, only today, obviously you always look good, but not in a weird way – like you’re not ugly –“

A laugh interrupted this vomit of communication, and a smirk adorned the face of the boy – a handful of years ago so full of stutters and shyness, now somehow entirely unbashful and flirtatious, quite potentially exaggerated by the alcohol consumed.

“You’re adorable”.

The look in his eyes, accompanied by this comment sent you spinning into embarrassment, but somehow unable to tear your vision away from the hold his eyes maintained with yours. The only exception to this tethered link, was when his eyes glanced to your lips, a contagious action that you subconsciously reciprocated. Whilst the tension between the pair of you had reached unmanageable levels, instead of the awkward breakaway and unspoken promise to never speak about this again, a sentence broke from his lips that you wholly did not expect.

“You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how”.

The sheer shock of hearing that particular quote be in admission during this moment, kept you frozen. Not only due to the implications it held, but by his utter confidence as he seemingly considered himself ‘someone who knows how’. Somehow, you managed to stutter out a meek “G-gone with the wind”, as if you repeating the source of this quote would somehow aid you in the solution to your current predicament.

In some such way, a spout of courage, sourced from either your adrenal gland or the martini you took a large gulp from, flooded your veins.

“A kiss may ruin a human life”.

Spencer had barely managed to utter the name “Oscar Wilde” before his lips found yours, heatedly kissing you, the strong arms you had admired earlier wrapping around your waist, your fingers he had paid such attention to back in Quantico threading through his hair.

The light swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip coaxed a small noise to emit from your throat, startling you into the realisation of your very public nature.

You felt his hand enclose yours, as Spencer tugged you towards the exit, stopping quickly beside the wall just outside the doors. You felt your back hit the bricks, not registering any pain, too distracted by the attachment of his lips in an all too familiar place, your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw, behind your ear. You had never felt so thankful for the small thin straps of the figure-hugging dress you had worn for this humid evening.

The very physical reminder of you earlier daydream spurred the wandering of your hands underneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the absolutely distinct structure of his abdomen, pleasantly confirming your previous suspicions. It was milliseconds after you felt the ghost of his hand up your short dress that you felt him pull away slightly.

Before you could begin to get insecure or distressed about the implications of his pulling away, he spoke:

“The hotel room is 280 feet away, accounting for both of our current intoxication levels, that’s approximately 3.73 minutes, 4.72 counting to my hotel room door”.

With a broad, mischievous grin adorning your face you teased “Spencer Reid are you trying to take me back to your hotel room”.

For the first time in many years, Dr. Spencer Reid’s math was wrong. He did not account for the motivation you both had to take them that 280 feet, and you reached his hotel room door in 3.23 minutes.